The Last Queen (47 page)

His forehead creased at my touch. I set the goblet I‟d prepared in his hand, in

which the last of the herbs melted in the warm wine. A shadow darkened his face.

“Drink,” I whispered.

I forced the lethal mixture though his broken mouth. Some of it seeped down his

chin. I wiped it with my sleeve. “It‟s almost over,” I said, and I took his hand once

more. “Almost over.”

A few seconds later, he gasped. I felt his fingers tighten in mine, then go limp.

Everything came to creaking halt. We were frozen in time, painted figures on a

façade. The quiet pressed in around me. With the illusory weightlessness of a dream,

I experienced the scarce warmth fleeing his flesh. I stared at his face. Had it not been

for his stony pallor, he might have been asleep. He looked young again. Death had

restored to him the lost beauty of our halcyon days: a tangle of gilded hair on his

brow and his long fair eyelashes― the envy of many women at court― resting like

poised butterflies. Looking at him, I lost all sense of the past. I lost awareness of

myself, of the child in me, of my heavy aching belly.

And of what I had done to save my kingdom.

All I had was this moment beside my husband‟s corpse and, in my mind, the

words of a prophecy uttered only five months ago:
You may come as a proud prince today,
young Habsburg. But you shal travel many more roads in Castile in death than you ever will in life.

――――――――――――――――――――――――

y husband, the man I‟d wed for politics; whom I loved for four years and

hated for five; bedded countless times and wept countless tears over; born

M five children and conceived a sixth; battled, plotted and fought against: my

husband was dead.

Did I mourn him? The answer is simple, and private. I had done what was

required to save my realm, and his death did not turn me into a deranged, bereft

widow. Our love was a ravaged memory; his corpse only confirmed it. Now I faced a

choice that could free me or condemn me forever, a means of escape that could seem

to prove I was indeed as mad as he had claimed.

But I had my reason, incomprehensible at it may have seemed.

――――――――――――

I WAITED. IT DIDN‟T TAKE LONG. A MERE HOUR AFTER PHILIP died, the Flemish,

Cisneros and his band of clerics, and the nobles descended on the Casa de Cordón

like locusts. Beatriz, Doña Josefa, and I had barely finished bathing and dressing the

corpse when the lords came stampeding into the room to assume charge of the

situation.

I swayed on my feet with an exhaustion and didn‟t try to fight them. I allowed

myself to be taken back to my rooms, while the Flemish wailed and Cisneros let the

embalmers in, after which the body was wrapped in linen for conveyance to the

monastery of Miraflores outside Burgos, where the monks would hold vigil for

Philip‟s immortal soul. Proclamations were posted throughout Castile announcing the

untimely death of Philip of Habsburg, posthumously titled “prince-consort of our

heiress apparent Queen Juana” ―which I suppose, glossed over the political

incertitude.

As for me, I was a twenty-seven-year-old widow and six months pregnant.

Outwardly, I showed no signs of distress. I donned black out of respect, but

otherwise was content to take my meals with my women and remain in my rooms,

pondering my next move, as I knew the
grandes
did.

Overnight, the world had changed. With Philip dead, I was most definitely their

queen, but I did not delude myself that I held any more power than I had when Philip

was alive. Indeed, it was barely a month after his dead that my half-sister, Joanna,

returned to the casa swathed head-to-toe in black. She immediately set herself to

infiltrating my household, despite Beatriz‟s overt scowl. To my disgust, other noble

wives followed― a veritable legion determined to barricade me behind a wall of

feminine solicitude. I knew this was Cisneros‟s doing, part of his plot to keep me

estranged. He did not want me running loose while he cajoled the nobility to the

negotiating table. I tolerated the invasion for the moment because the faithful Lopez,

whom Philip had tortured in Flanders, had also come in haste to join my household,

and Soraya showed up one day without warning, haggard and thin and bearing the

marks of the whips and violations Philip‟s men had subjected her to, yet resolute as

ever to be at my side.

As I embraced her, I wept my first tears since Philip‟s death.

With Soraya back in my service and Beatriz at my side night and day, I bided my time,

until one afternoon when Archbishop Cisneros and the Marquis of Villena barged

into my rooms.

“It is imperative that we act before the situation worsens,” Cisneros declaimed.

He‟d surged into startling life, with even a hint of sparse color to punctuate his hollow cheeks. “Castile has lacked guidance for too long., If Your Highness will read this list”

―he set a paper on the crowded table before me― “you will see every appointment is

in order and the lords cited herein most eager to serve as your councilors.”

I faced them impassively. I‟d been expecting something of this nature from him.

Indeed, with Philip dead, I‟d assumed it would only be a matter of time before some

new alliance was forged with the
grandes.
The admiral believed Cisneros was my

father‟s supporter and had worked secretly to undermine Philip, but I suspected I‟d

been right about him all along. He was no better than any noble in his lust for power.

I‟d made an enemy of him during my last trip, when I confronted him at La Mota. He

would not be a friend to me now, not until my father showed up and put him in his

proper place.

“This talk of a council is premature, my lords. I will address this, and other

matters pertaining to my estate, at a more appropriate time.” I couldn‟t resist a small

smile. “Are we not, after all, still in mourning for my late husband?”

“The thirty days are past,” Villena said with his suave air. “This matter concerns

the very future of Castile. Surely Your Highness doesn‟t wish to deprive her people of

proper governance at a time like this?”

“This realm has lacked for proper governance since my mother died,” I said dryly.

“I hardly think a few more weeks will make any difference.”

His mouth worked. I could see he was doing his best to control his temper, to try

and divine my reasons for delaying. When he next spoke, it was with a deceptive

softness that chilled me to the bone. “my lord archbishop, the lords, and I believe

Burgos is no longer an appropriate place for Your Highness. After having suffered

such a tragedy here, we humbly suggest you honor our offer of assistance and move

your household to―”

I held up my hand, hiding with that peremptory gesture the stab of alarm that

went through me. “You forget with whom you speak, my lord. I am your queen. I

alone will decide when and where I shall move my household.”

I watched his face turn scarlet and let the seconds pass, one by one, until I felt the

air curdle like sour milk. “I must be invested and crowned,” I said. “The decision of

the Cortes to recognize me in Valladolid was delayed by the plague, but with my

husband the archduke gone there can be no further debate as to my rightful claim. My

mother willed this realm to me, and I will rule it. In the meantime I have some

requests of my own.”

Cisneros‟s face darkened. “What requests, if you please?” He asked through his

teeth.

“All appointments made by my late husband must be annulled. They were

undertaken illegally, without my consent. The traitor Don Manuel and his
flamencos
are to be found and arrested. I understand they have fled into hiding with a significant

amount of gold plate and jewels stolen from my husband‟s apartment in the castle. I

command you, my lord archbishop, as head of the church, to issue my decree and

you, my lord marquis, to enforce it. Anyone who dares give shelter to or hide Don

Manuel faces immediate arrest and execution.”

It was my first command as queen, and Villena‟s reaction was predictable, his

voice throbbing with barely controlled rage. “Though loved Don Manuel is not, I am

no mercenary to hunt him down. Your Highness has perhaps spent too many years

watching the Flemish scrape to the French.”

I elected not to remind him that only a few weeks ago, he‟d apparently scraped to

Philip with quite the same lack of compunction. But his hypocrisy was expected. In

fact, none of these so-called lords sought to support me. They might hold differing

opinions as to who should ultimately rule in Castile, were probably at this very

moment scheming against each other behind their backs, but on one thing they were

unanimous: I must not be crowned. Either my son Fernando or, if worse came to

worse, my son Charles. But not me, never me. They had lived too long under my

mother‟s whip to abide another woman on the throne. With Philip‟s death, I had

simply exchanged one set of enemies for another. Only this time, I had a woman.

Beatriz‟s advice had served me well:
There are two kinds of women inviolate in Spain: an
expectant mother and a recent widow.
I was now both. I‟d hoped to forestall my plan until the admiral returned with my father but I could not wait anymore. I had no idea when

they might arrive. I had to act.

I lifted my chin. “Moreover, I want word dispatched to my sister-in-law the

archduchess Margaret to send my daughters to me as soon as passage is safe. My son

Charles, naturally, is now archduke of Flanders and will be obliged to remain there.

But I gave birth to my son Fernando here in Spain and I‟ve not yet set eyes on him.

He too must be brought to me from Aragón. And you may issue my summons to the

Cortes to assemble in Toledo, where I shall also see my husband‟s body interred in

the cathedral.”

They greeted my announcement with an astounded hush. I had pondered it for

days, ruminating over its outcome, wondering if it would free or ensnare me. For the

moment I saw I had caught them off guard. Villena‟s fists clenched. Cisneros

considered me for a long moment before he said, “Does Your Highness wish to

personally escort the archduke‟s catafalque?”

“It is not my wish,” I replied, “but rather my duty. Or would you rather we left his

remains here? It‟s hardly a suitable resting place for a prince of his stature.”

Cisneros‟s gaze narrowed. No doubt, he
had
intended on leaving Philip‟s body

here. He had let the embalmers cut it apart to send his heart and brain to Brussels in a

silver casket, according to Habsburg custom. What did he care where the rest of it

ended up? Under any circumstance I too would have left him undisturbed in

Miraflores, save for the fact that a queen escorting her husband‟s bier afforded me a

shield like no others to get out of Burgos.

“It is a rather unorthodox request,” said Cisneros. “Unprecedented, even.”

“It‟s out of the question!” added Villena. “Your Highness cannot pretend to

convey a corpse all the way to Toledo in the dead of winter.”

“My mother‟s body was taken all the way to Granada in winter without undue

hardship,” I replied, even as I realized that Villena had guessed my purpose. He knew

that not only did I seek to protect myself with Philip‟s coffin but the people would see

me as I passed through Castile. By putting my tragedy on display, I would reap the

sympathy of my subjects.

“Indeed,” added Cisneros suddenly, and I caught a furtive gleam in his eyes. “And

when, pray, does Your Highness wish to undertake this journey?”

“As soon as possible,” I said, thinking quickly. “Have a cart collect the coffin and

assemble the funeral cortege. You and the other lords must of course remain here to

oversee my dictates. I don‟t require you for this endeavor.” I paused, aiming my next

words at Villena. “My lord, you and the admiral hold equal power in the Cortes, yes?

Since you deem the hunting down of Spain‟s foes beneath you, would you do me the

honor of establishing Don Fadriqué‟s whereabouts? We cannot convene in Toledo

without him.”

“He will,” interjected Cisneros, before Villena could reply. “You may trust in us,

Your Highness.” With a bow, he herded the marquis out like a unruly child.

As soon as they left through the front door, Beatriz came in through the back.

She had listened to everything through a peephole drilled in the wainscoting. She now

stood in the doorway, regarding me with troubled eyes. “
Princesa,
” she said, “what do you intend?”

“What else?” I met her stare. “Cisneros thinks I don‟t have ears or eyes. He thinks

I don‟t know he only lets me undertake this journey so he can use it to spread more of

his lies. Already, the legend Philip created for me grows. He would spread it far and

wide, maybe all the way to Naples. With any luck, it will finally summon my father

and the admiral to my side.”

“Legend?” said Beatriz. “What legend?”

I smiled. “Why, that I‟m mad, of course. Mad with grief.
Juana la loca.
Joanna the mad.”

――――――――――――

FROM THE FROZEN FIELDS OUTSIDE BURGOS, I EMBARKED ON MY voyage to

Toledo, Philip‟s coffin draped with its cloth of estate loaded onto a sturdy cart.