The Last Queen (46 page)

dozens so he can hold his feasts.”

I chuckled. “It‟s all he has to offer. Either he feeds the nobles or they‟ll eat him.”

“Let us pray the admiral brings His Majesty back soon before the
flamencos
eat

Castile.”

I put my finger to my lips. “Beatriz, hush. Someone‟s coming.” We were alone.

My half-sister, Joanna, had made a vague excuse to absent himself this evening and I

didn‟t bother to query further. I could scarcely bear her falsely obsequious manner

and cat-eye stare. I might have dismissed her entirely from service had I not deemed it

wiser to keep her and her husband the constable at my side.

I heard the sound of footsteps outside my door. It flung open and Joanna rushed

in. Her coiffed hair was disheveled; her jewels and lavish gown proof that she had

indeed been feasting with the court tonight. Without warning, she gasped, “Your

Highness must come at once. They are bringing the archduke here from the castle!

He― he has fallen gravely ill!”

――――――――――――

I STEPPED INTO EERILY QUIET APARTMENTS. Philip lay in his banqueting costume

on the red brocade bed, his silver tissue doublet open to his naval, exposing his fine

linen chemise, drenched in sweat. This sight of him gave me pause. I despised him

more than I had despised anyone in my life but he‟d always been a dynamic man,

always in motion. The only times I‟d seen him still was when he slept, either after a

night of love-making or drunken excess.

I saw Villena and Benavente standing in the antechamber. Joanna joined them,

her face white as she clung to her grim one-eyed husband. They must have brought

Philip here, but I could see in their stance they would flee as soon as I turned my

back. Though the plague hadn‟t spread north yet, the mere whisper of it swept all

semblance of loyalty aside.

A physician in an black robe bent over the bed. When he heard my approach, he

turned to me. The resignation in his eyes made my heart pause. “What is wrong with

him?” I asked in a thread of a voice, and I realized that despite my lack of volume I

sounded perfectly calm.

He sighed. “I was told His Highness complained of some stomach pain in the

afternoon and retired to his rooms to rest. He later sent word that he would attend

the banquet tonight, where he collapsed. At first I thought he had drunk too much

wine or that his roast had gone bad, but now that I‟ve examined him I‟m inclined to

think whatever it is he‟s been fighting it for some time.

I looked at Philip. He was moaning in his delirium. “He‟s been healthy all of his

life,” I heard myself say. “I‟ve never known him to have so much as a cold.”

The physician motioned. “Your Highness, if you would?” I jerked forward. I

smelled human waste as he parted Philip‟s chemise. The linen was plastered to his

skin; as the physician peeled back the cloth, I covered my mouth. Philip‟s neck was

swollen, the skin tinged with a blistery, virulent rash that seemed to spread to his chest even as I watched. Even the palms of his hands bore the blisters. He had also soiled

himself, and his breeches had been removed.

“Is it―?” I couldn‟t speak the word aloud.

He shook his head. “If it is the plague, I‟ve never seen it manifest like this before.

This swelling and discoloration are more consistent with a some type of water fever.”

Water fever. Besançon had contracted a water fever.

“Your Highness I believe we should send for an expert. Such ailments are beyond

my limited wisdom. I know of one in Salamanca, versed in such maladies: Dr. de

Santillana.”

“Yes,” I whispered. “Do it. And before you go, tell them I‟ll need some warm

water and cloths.”

――――――――――――

I DID NOT LEAVE HIS SIDE.

Some no doubt said I was a fool for love, a woman so far gone I surrendered

even last shreds of my pride for never was my madness more apparent than in that

hour when I agreed to tend my mortal enemy, when any sane person would have

walked away and let him die.

But they had never known love. They h ad never felt its wildfire and brimstone.

Philip was my enemy, but I had loved him once. I would not let him suffer alone like

a beast. I would not have it said one day to our children that I denied their father in

his hour of need.

I was a queen. I knew the meaning of honor.

I removed his soiled clothing and bathed his feverish body with my own hands. It

was no longer the body I remembered, taut with youth and vigor. That gorgeous

sculpture of white muscle had turned flaccid, corrupted by vice and wine and his own

relentless demons; but at the touch of my fingers, his skin seemed to remember me

and respond.

I then called for Doña Josefa and Beatriz. Together we dressed him in a fresh

linen bed-gown and eased him under the covers. No one else made an appearance.

Only Don Manuel expressed concern, albeit via a courier who stayed only long

enough to hand me his missive. Word had gotten out of Philip‟s collapse and fear of

the plague ran through Burgos, with many fleeing with whatever they could carry. I

found it telling that even my half-sister, Joanna, forsook her preoccupation with my

state, promptly leaving for her country outside in the city, where the constable no

doubt joined her. In less than twenty-four hours, Philip went from aspiring king to

abandoned victim

Within the
casa,
the silence was broken only by his whimpers as he fought the

fever. The physician‟s name was Dr. Parra, a simple medic with no experience in

treating royalty. His pale face showed his overriding anxiety that his exalted patient

might die.

Beatriz kept me fed and Doña Josefa tended to the washing of linens and the fire.

I often found myself alone in that room, seated on a stool by the bed, swabbing

Philip‟s brow with rose water. It was as though a wall of glass enclosed me. I was not

afraid, not even for the unborn child in my womb. I knew with a curious certainty

that whatever afflicted my husband would not harm me.

On the fourth day, Dr. de Santillana arrived.

A corpulent man with fleshy jowls, he hummed over Philip. After poking and

prodding his swollen glands, scrutinizing his white-coated tongue and the rings of his

bloodshot irises, Santillana made an uncomfortable moue and turned away to

discourse with Dr. Parra. I went across to the chamber where the doctors stood.

“Well? What is it?

Santillana glanced past me to the bed. Philip reclined on mounded pillows, his

eyes closed, his face so white it blended with the linen.

“Your Highness,” said Santillana, “might we step outside?”

I wondered at the need for privacy, seeing as Philip had not regained

consciousness. Still, I led the doctors into the indoor patio. Sunlight flashed off the

colored paving stones and center fountain, where water trickled from the mossy

sprout. I blinked, adjusting my vision, which had grown accustomed to the gloom of

the sick chamber.

It was a lovely day, I thought faintly.

I sat on a nearby stone bench, folding my hands in my lap, utterly serene. I must

have looked it as well, for Santillana and Parra exchanged a puzzled glace before the

portly expert blew out his breath in a worried puff. “Your Highness I don‟t quite

know how to begin.”

“Just say it. Whatever it is, I want to know.”

“Well, it is not a water fever as we first thought.”

“Then, what? The plague?” Water fever or plague, it didn‟t matter. I just needed

to know if he would survive. Everything depended on it.

“No, not the plague.” Santillana let out a troubled sigh. “Your Highness, I believe

your husband has the pox.”

“The pox?” I stared, completely taken aback. “Are you saying he has the French

malady?”

“Unfortunately, I am. It is rarely seen in Spain. I myself have never treated a case

of it. However, His Highness‟s symptoms match those described by colleagues who

have.”

“But you‟ve not treated it yourself, so you can‟t be certain.” I collected myself in

the ensuing silence. For a moment, the world had spun out of control. I recalled that

Philip had consorted with that French harlot, whom I had assaulted in Flanders. She‟d

had a sore on her mouth. Had she infected him? And if so, had he given it to me? I

thought he mustn‟t have, for surely I would have fallen ill by now or at the very least

failed to conceive.

Santillana sighed. “If it is the pox, he will recover. The disease produces terrible

symptoms at first and then it disappears. I‟d say this is the first stage. The infection

can hide for years afterward.” He raised somber eyes. “Your Highness must know

that I‟ve not heard of any man, or woman, who escaped the disease‟s ravages. Though

they may completely recover and regain their strength, in the end they all go insane,

though of course His Highness may have many years ahead of him, with the proper

care.”

A rushing sound filled my ears. Philip had the French pox. He would recover in

time. He would regain his strength. He would continue to wreak havoc for years

before he went completely mad; and if I didn‟t appreciate the iron in this it was

because I envisioned something even more horrific― a future in which I‟d be

disposed of and a mad king ruled Castile, rousing the
grandes
to bring chaos and ruin to the kingdom my parents had built; a future in which there would be nothing left to

bequeath our sons but ashes and death.

I flashed back on a haunted room in Arévalo, heard again my mother‟s voice as

she faced an angry, uncomprehending fifteen-year-old girl:
I couldn’t risk it. My duty was
to protect Castile, above all else. Castile had to come first.

Of all the wrongs Philip had inflicted on me, none moved my hand as this one.

“Years?” I repeated, and I was surprised I sounded as calm as I had a moment

ago.

“Indeed. If my diagnosis is correct, he should soon show improvement. His

Highness has been sick for, how many days now?” Santillana turned to Parra; as the

doctor opened his mouth to reply, a blood-curdling call came from the bedchamber.

“Where is everyone?”

I turned, moved in a nightmarish haze back into the room. I came to a halt. The

doctors nearly collided into me from behind. Philip sat upright, looking like a

resurrected cadaver.

He fixed burning eyes on me. “I‟m hungry. Get me something to eat. Now.”

――――――――――――

I HAD SOME OXTAIL BROTH brought and spooned into his mouth as he scowled.

He muttered he would never eat anything at a banquet again. At some point, his eyes

caught mine and I saw his suspicious disbelief that I‟d been with him throughout his

ordeal. The doctors pronounced him on the mend. Santillana hastily took his leave,

refusing any payment, relieved he diagnosed a prolonged death and not one he need

attend.

I was left with Parra and an empty house that would soon fill up again once word

got out that Philip was recovering. I had very little time.

I wiped the residue of broth from his lips and took the empty bowl to the tray.

“There now,” I said. “If you like, I‟ll bring a little more soup later. But for now, you

should rest awhile, yes?”

He eyed me. “Why would you care?”

I paused, the tray in my hands. “I am your wife. Is there anything else you need?”

I heard myself say as if from far away. “A warm claret, perhaps, to help you sleep?”

The moment hung between us. I was shocked by my steady grip on the tray, the

impassive way I met his stare, as though I were behaving in the most normal manner

imaginable. If nothing else, my very ability to project the demeanor of an efficient

wife at her husband‟s sickbed proved how monstrously he had warped my heart.

“No? Very well. I‟ll be in the next room. Please do try and get some sleep.”

I started for the door, my steps leaden, my heart capsizing in my chest. Then, just

as I set the tray on the sideboard and reached for the latch to open it, I heard him

grumble, “If that doctor you brought in doesn‟t forbid it, I suppose a bit of wine

couldn‟t hurt.”

――――――――――――

THE RATTLE WAS AUDIBLE NOW, HIS BREATHING SO SHALLOW IT scarcely lifted his

chest. For the past two days, he had shouted out inchoate words before slipping into a

silence so profound it was like finality itself. The fever raged again. This time, nothing could vanquish it.

“Your Highness must rest,” Parra said. I could see he too was exhausted, baffled

by the abrupt turn in Philip‟s condition, by this new assault that churned my

husband‟s bowels to bloody water and raised evil pustules on his flesh, as though he

festered from within.

“No.” I gave him a weary smile. “But I would welcome a glass of water.”

He bowed his head and left me.

Philip‟s mouth was ajar, that awful gurgle deep in his throat reminding me of the

sound stone-filled udders made when children played ball on the plaza cobblestones. I

took his hand in mine. When my fingers grazed his skin, I felt the heat emanating

from his pores, though the skin itself was cold, unexpectedly hard to the touch.

Though he had taught me the meaning of loneliness and betrayal, I wanted him to feel

he was not alone.

I would show him a compassion he had never shown me.