The Last Queen (40 page)

As we proceeded down the flagged streets, preceded by the clerics and lord

mayor, the people pressed at either side of the cordoned path went silent, staring in

awe at the contrived splendor of the Flemish ranks. Philip had donned flamboyant

violet and his ducal coronet. He seemed a giant, big and fair and foreign; and he‟d

ordered his men to likewise wear their most sumptuous cloth― a stark contrast to my

black velvet gown and veiled beguine Spanish hood, my hair concealed under its

curved shape.

The streets grew narrower, a labyrinth of old houses leaning like weary trees into

each other, flowered balconies snuffing out the light. It was blessedly clean. Unlike

Flanders, France, and England, here people did not toss the contents of their chamber

pots out their windows but rather used designated heaps outside the city. The

repetitive clacking of boot heels and clanking of scabbards against jeweled resounded.

All of a sudden from some unseen balcony overhead a lone voice cried: “
Viva nuestra

reina Doña Juana, hija de Isabel!
Long live our queen Juana, daughter of Isabel!”

Philip looked up furiously. Youths in the crowd lifted their voices, followed by

husbands and grandfathers, daughters, widows, and mothers, until it seemed the entire

city echoed the same cry: “
Viva Doña Juana! Viva nuestra reina!
Long live our queen!”

I paused in disbelief. I had already noticed how these hardened coastal folk, these

strangers I‟d come to rule, stared at me. I‟d wondered if they disliked the severity of

my dress, if they sensed the perceptible chasm between Philip and me. Had they heard

of my struggles in Flanders? Were they aware of my previous visit and Philip‟s

subsequent desertion? Had these simple fisherman, goat-herders, and tanners been

told of the battle between us over my throne?

Had they heard I was mad?

I couldn‟t tell by looking nor did I wish to stare. But those faces that blended into

a single, questioning visage now separated into glimpses of individuals who cheered

me with heartrending sincerity. I saw a flushed man with shining green eyes waving

his cap; a prematurely weathered woman with a wide open smile, clutching a baby to

her breast and leading a little girl by the hand; a couple with tears on their faces as

they reverentially inclined their heads. I felt their inherent respect for their monarch, but more than that I felt their love, a love they had given my mother for bringing the

kingdom together and providing them with years of peaceful prosperity, and it was so

uncomplicated, so encompassing it replenished me.

Instinctively, I drew up my veil. The revelation of my countenance brought a

cluster of widows in perpetual mourning to their knees. One of them raised a gnarled

hand and said, “
Que Su Majestad disfrute de mucha vida y triunfé!
May Your Majesty live long and triumph!”

Ignoring Philip‟s hissing protest, I moved to those kneeling widows, scions of

Spanish culture, women who bought bread every morning in the marketplace and sat

in their doorways every afternoon to gossip about the living and remember the

departed. I was about to bid them to rise when a stooped figure broke through them

to where I stood― an impoverished woman with a tattered shawl flapping from

concave shoulders.

She peered at me with lucid black eyes.

“Get that hag away!” I heard Philip bark. He strode to me, his hand closing about

my arm like a vise. I stayed the guards with a look. I smiled at the lined face. “
Si,

señora?
” I asked softly.

I thought he wanted to be touched for the scrofula or needed alms. But she did

not speak to me. Turning to Philip, she intoned, “You may come as a proud prince

today, young Habsburg. But you shall travel many more roads in Castile in death than

you ever will in life.”

Silence fell. She turned back to me, gave me a sad knowing smile that froze me

where I stood. Then she shuffled away and was swallowed by the crowd.

I looked at Philip. He was white about the mouth. As the procession resumed its

pace, he muttered, “If I ever see that witch again, I‟ll order her skewered.”

At the portals of the church, we halted. The traditional ceremony would now

ensue, and I steeled myself, for my next actions would either secure me popular

acclaim or sever forever that still-fragile bond.

The governor of Galicia steeped forward to present the symbolic keys to the city,

reciting the ancient oath that required Philip and me to swear to uphold the statues of

the Galician province. Philip nodded impatiently, as at this time he was truly lost,

seeing as Don Manuel was not at his side but relegated now to his appropriate place at

the end of the line.

My turn came. “No,” I said, and I made sure it carried into the crowd. “I cannot

swear.”

The governor stared. “No,
Su Majestad?
But it is the custom. Have we displeased

you in some way that you will not uphold the oath?”

“What is he saying?” Philip said through his teeth.

I ignored him. “No, you haven‟t displeased nor have any of these good people.

But to swear the oath is to declare myself your anointed sovereign, which I am not

until the Cortes invest me as such. Therefore, any oath sworn here today would be

invalid.”

Astonishment rippled through the crowd. I sensed at once it wasn‟t dismay but

pride. Just as I‟d hoped, my refusal was interpreted as a sign of respect for the long-

established traditions of Castile, a declaration that like my mother before me I would

rule with dignity and honor. I had to stop myself from giving my now-flushed and

enraged husband a triumphant smile, for if he hadn‟t understood the words, he

comprehended their intention clearly enough.

Philip hissed, “I don‟t know what you‟re up to, but whatever it is, you will stop it

now!”

I turned to the mayor. “I am weary,
señor
. I think I will hear Mass later. Pray, take me to my lodgings.” Motioning to my women, I turned and walked away, leaving

Philip standing there among his overdressed minions.

The battle had begun.

――――――――――――――――――――――――

TWENTY-SIX

ollowing my public refusal to swear the oath, Don Manuel and Philip found

themselves in a quandary, unsure as to how to proceed and unable to order me

F confined lest it be said I was being treated cruelly for no apparent reason. All of

La Coruña had seen that I looked, and acted, quite sane, and so every night we held

court as though nothing was amiss, though I could see in Philip‟s dark frown and

Don Manuel‟s frenetic whisperings in his ear that they were not going to concede

defeat. When the first of the Castilian nobles began to arrive with their vassals and

retainers, it became clear that if I had been chosen to make my stance as my mother‟s

legal heir and queen proprietress with words, they would make theirs with muscle.

Lopez had warned me during his visit that the
grandes
sought their own benefit. I was therefore not surprised that those who came sought to reap the rewards of my

husband‟s and Don Manuel‟s largess. Still, their presence obliged Philip to seat me at

his side, where I bestowed each one with a gracious smile, particularly when the

Marquis of Villena, who‟d greeted us at the border during our first trip to Spain and

now actively campaigned against my father in Castile, arrived with his ally, red-haired

and ruddy-faced Benavente. I found it hard to believe that less than three years ago I

had dined with these same gentlemen after crossing the Pyrenees. I had also noted

Benavente seemed discomfited when I asked pointedly for news of my son the infante

Fernando, whom I had left in my mother‟s care. He mumbled the child was well and

had been removed to Aragón by my father, following my mother‟s death.

Don Manuel hastily translated for Philip. At the mention of our son, whom he

hadn‟t met, he sat upright from his insouciant slouch and barked in garbled Spanish,

“Then the king of Aragón has done me a grave insult, for the infante is not his son!”

I kept quiet, as did Villena and Benavente. I was relieved my son was safe.

Though it meant I might not see him for some time, for my father had no doubt

ordered him moved to Aragón for his safety, at least Philip could not try to use him as

a weapon. He knew the succession devised by my mother cited our sons as heirs after

me; it wouldn‟t serve his interests to have a Spanish-born prince in my father‟s

keeping and his outburst revealed as much.

The admiral did not make an appearance. When I asked of him, Villena replied

he‟d not been at court since he accompanied my mother‟s coffin to her tomb in

Granada. Whether or not his grief had kept him away, the admiral‟s absence made

clear his position. Nevertheless, those who were here, crowding our lodgings and

depleting our supplies, precipitated Don Manuel and Philip‟s decision to order our

departure.

Then it came to pass that two weeks later I emerged from my chambers with

Beatriz and Soraya at my side, into a sun0drenched courtyard where the lords of Spain

and my husband‟s army waited. I took care to hid my consternation as I confronted

the lords on their stallions, surrounded by their men. I felt a near-overwhelming fury

at their impudence. That they had dared flout my parents‟ edict that no nobleman

could assemble his retainers to arms without prior leave proved they now felt

themselves above the law.

Beatriz whispered, “Look at them, the traitors. Have they no shame?”

I did look. In fact, I did not take my gaze from them. This display of their might

was not only for my benefit but also for Philip‟s, had he been wise enough to

recognize it. The
grandes
as much as declared aloud that they held no power higher than their own , anticipating that hour when they could reclaim their feudal rights and

plunge us into lawlessness and chaos.

All of a sudden, I saw someone I had not expected. He sat slightly apart from

Villena and Benavente, a massive broad-shouldered man astride a dappled Arabian

that seemed almost too small to hold him. He wore a hooded cape, and before he

could away I glimpsed the scar sealing his right eye shut. It was my father‟s son-in-law

the constable husband to my bastard half-sister Joanna, the last man I thought to see.

Why had he not presented himself formally? And what was he doing here, hiding

among the ranks like a common criminal? Had my father sent him to watch over me?

Did Philip or Don Manuel even know he was here?

A quick glance at my husband told me he did not. But the constable knew I had

seen him, and he returned my stare without any visible reaction before that unsettling

single eye dropped to the loose drapery of my cloak, as if he could divine my secret.

I turned away from him and went to the mare awaiting me. Soraya and Beatriz

loaded our valises into a cart. Mounting his destrier, Philip raised his hand.

The vast retinue surged on the road.

I glanced over my shoulder. Philip‟s army stretched far behind like a serpent of

steel, the nobles with their men augmenting the ranks. I had not seen such a massive

assembly since my parents had taken to the crusade against the Moors. I fought back

as stab of crippling fear as I turned resolutely back to the road. I could not let this

show of power intimidate me.

Soon I would reach Castile, where I would reunite with my father and make my

stand.

――――――――――――

THOUGH IT WAS ONLY MID-SPRING, THE HEAT WAS INTENSE. Every day, the sun

mounted into a cloudless sky and bleached the very land of its color. As we crossed

the rugged
cordillera
that separated the Galician provinces from Castile, the fallow vales of the north surrenders to arid escarpments where stunted pines barely took root and

hawks circled endlessly with their eerie cries. If it was this hot here, Castile would be an inferno, I though with a grim smile. Such heat had not sat well with the Flemish

the last time we were in Spain. Traveling under such arduous conditions could only

rouse dissention.

I was right. Within days, fracas erupted between Don Manuel and our proud

lords, none of whom appreciated the upstart ambassador who clung to Philip like a

jealous lapdog and barred their passage to him as if he were already a king anointed.

During his time abroad amid the excessive protocol of the Imperial and French

courts, Don Manuel had clearly forgotten that in Spain our nobles were equally proud

of their blood and accustomed to approaching their sovereign without undue

ceremony. His assiduous protection of Philip‟s person, and Philip‟s willingness to let

him act as a personal advisor and guard, did not endear the ambassador to the lords,

several of whom were overheard threatening to put a dagger into Don Manuel‟s gut.

One evening as my women and I spread dried lavender on the carpeted floor of

my tent to keep our environs free of louses, we heard shouting coming from Philip‟s

encampment. I sent Beatriz to investigate. She returned with a broad smile.

“The Marquis of Villena is furious with Don Manuel. It seems that in exchange

for his support, the marquis was promised restoration of a castle in the south, which