That Other Juana
Betrothal:
With music from the minstrels’ dulcimers and lutes the courtiers filed past the royal group to kiss hands, to offer their congratulations, and to bid Juana farewell. They moved on to view copies of the marriage contracts for Juana and her brother Juan. The bond between the Holy Roman Empire and Spain had been reinforced twice over by this double marriage. The contracts were written in Latin and French, the names of the betrothed in gold. In a border of entwined leaves was the inscription: Et qui quispiam praevalent contra unum, duo resistant ei …“ If one is prevailed against, two shall withstand him …”
The ceremony was over and most of the court dismissed. It had not been terrifying after all; in fact Juana had actually enjoyed it.
Ferdinand took Juan, one arm lightly resting across his shoulders, to the fireplace with its cheery fire. They stood together talking and laughing so at ease with each other, their mood matched by the lively crackling of the logs.
Juana looked on until her mother beckoned, ‘Come my child let us sit for a while, over here.’ Isabel lowered herself onto a divan and Juana arranged some cushions around her, one or two of these made by Isabel’s own hands in snatched moments of leisure.
‘Tell me, mother; tell me all you know about Philip, have you any further news? Remind me of his looks. Tell me, will he like me? Am I pretty enough for him?’
‘Slowly, slowly Juana, not so many questions at one time! Sit down and we shall talk.’ Isabel waited until she was sitting comfortably at her feet. ‘Philip, as you already know, is tall, is fair of features, has blue eyes, and his looks are enough to have attracted the nickname, Philippe le Beau, Philip the Handsome. You have his miniature, Juana; that says it all.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Juana closed her eyes, rocking herself gently on her cushion. She was to marry a prince called Philip the Handsome, just one year older than herself, tall and beautiful. How she wished she could be with him this minute. She saw herself in a gown of fine white silk, with a mantle of dark green. She was running in silver-slippered feet over dew-kissed lawns bearing gifts of roses and lemons, and a small golden cage of song birds. He turned to welcome her with outstretched arms.
‘Tell me more. What does he do? What does he enjoy? What is he good at?’
Isabel paused. The tales and rumours from Flanders of the young man's philandering once more raised her concerns for her young daughter. ‘I think it can be said that Philip enjoys life to the full. He has a passion for hunting, dancing and sports. He shows great talent in the game of pelota. He also loves convivial evenings spent with his many friends.’ She omitted the fact that he was an obnoxiously arrogant youth with a fiery temper that was easily roused.
‘Mother, how wonderful it must be to be someone so exceptional, so popular. And to think he is to be mine, all mine. I dance gracefully, I have a good singing voice, I play several instruments well, or so my teachers tell me. But am I pretty enough? Such a man must have a pretty wife. Am I pretty, mother?’
Isabel was alarmed. Did Juana still not realise the true nature of royal marriages? How could she not after all their discussions? It worried her to see the mind of her innocent sixteen year old continue to be filled with foolish romantic notions; the result, no doubt, of having her nose forever buried in books.
But all serious misgivings about this union had to be set aside. Her son, as the inheritor of all Spain and its dominions was central to the negotiations; but truth to tell, and it was a very painful truth, his health was not good. Spain’s security had to be maintained and its power increased. It was vital, therefore, that the contract with the Emperor Maximilian should be for the two marriages, lest that of Juan should come to nought. A match with their eldest daughter Isabel had been refused. Maria had to be held in reserve for any contingencies which might arise. Catalina, their youngest, was promised to the Prince of Wales. Unfortunately, it had to be Juana.
Juana tugged at her hand, ‘Mother, I am waiting for you to tell me if I am pretty enough. It is taking you quite a while to decide.’
‘Oh, you are pretty enough, my child,’ Queen Isabel stroked her daughter’s head. For just a moment she felt a wave of guilt at the sacrifice of this the prettiest and weakest of her lambs.
The departure:
The port of Laredo had never known so many people, animals and ships. It had never heard such noise, had never been so busy.
The view from the cabin window offered ever changing scenes of comings and goings. Young boys staggered under sacks of urgent last minute supplies. Corpulent masters hurled oaths at fidgeting oxen and their carts that refused to remain still. Against the angry groaning of winches and hoists, officers bellowed out orders to their sailors below. Curses at spillages and bursts issued from everywhere. Meandering seamen, who had found the wine jugs too early, wove their drunken way amongst barrels and chests that littered the wharf, merrily slurring tuneless shanties. Soldiers whose responsibilities had yet to begin strolled about enjoying soldiers’ hearty laughter and back slapping camaraderie.
Juana, delighting in the hubbub and determined not to miss any of the activity, ran from one window to the next pressing close to the glass. Her cabin at the stern of this newly built galleon stood so high it made an excellent vantage point and by using the windows on all three sides she could see quite a distance both to left and to right.
The royal party had arrived in Laredo several weeks ago but could do nothing until they had a fair wind, and this was finally promised for tomorrow, August the twenty second, 1496, hence the frenzied activity out there.
She took a few timid steps out onto the deck and grasped the rail to steady herself. Zayda placed a shawl about her shoulders.
The morning rain had given way to afternoon sunshine. A breeze toyed with flags, and pennants were curling and snaking, their colours cutting across the forest of masts and rigging that rose, fell and rocked gently in the languid swell. Juana continued to be amazed at the number of vessels. The admiral had told her that there were more than a hundred, and twenty of them were newly built this year. They all looked new with their sparkling fresh paint and varnish. The gentle deep groans of the timbers and the higher pitched moans of the hawsers were rudely interrupted by the angry screaming of ill-tempered gulls. Everything was crying and tugging to be free, impatient to seek adventure.
She breathed in all the sights, sounds and smells, the strangeness of it all.
A neighing and a clattering of hooves made her look back to the quay. Juan's horses, his gift to Philip, were being taken aboard a ship moored nearby. Their hooded unseeing eyes made them nervous and they fought against being moved. Servants cajoled and encouraged them on to the unsteady ramp with pats, strokes and kind words, while others held firm on strong tethering ropes. Other horses neighed out their fear as they were unceremoniously winched aboard in slings.
‘Poor beasts. I commiserate with them Zayda, that is exactly how I feel. I am being taken blindfold onto unsure ground; but what can we do? We must do as we are bid.’ Her eyes searched beyond the horses anxious to find her mother who ought to be on her way by now. ‘My mother is unfeeling. Here am I ready to be despatched to extend Spain’s influence westward, while she sits at her desk writing letters to England to seal the fate of my sister Catalina. It is all so callous.’
‘Not so, my lady. It is the way of things with royalty. Indeed any person of substance would not countenance anything other than an arranged marriage.’
‘It would be marvellous all the same if, instead of writing to England, she is writing to Flanders saying she has recognised her error in supposing I would make a suitable bride.’
‘Where would all your tales of love be then? Consigned to a fire, unwanted? And what of Philip’s letter almost in pieces with the number of times it has been opened and read, the words smudged by moist lips endlessly caressing them?’
‘Dear Zayda, of course you are right.’ She began to sing,
‘this girl who is in love
no longer cares to sleep alone…’
‘How wicked of you, ma’am!’
Betrayal:
Juana passed from the sun drenched gardens, through the orangery, and into an unfamiliar corridor.
‘This way, my lady?’
‘Why not, Maria?’ Juana replied not caring where her steps took her. She was in a world of bliss, a never ending bliss, and had been since her return to Brussels in May.
In her year’s absence Philip had apparently forgotten her beauty and vivacity and he was completely intoxicated by her loveliness. He called her his “young bride” and “my Juana”. Her wonderful, god like husband loved her. Their days were a euphoria of romantic chivalry. There were tournaments, with Philip wearing her yellow and green favours, and always unseating the opposing rider. The banquets and balls were better than any she could remember. And their nights together were of unrivalled passion and ecstasy.
She froze. ‘Go!’ she whispered her command. She had heard voices. A sickening suspicion raced through her; an ice cold, searing hot suspicion of something she didn’t want to put a name to.
As soon as she was alone she tiptoed forward and listened again leaning in the direction of a nearby door. It was Philip’s voice. She moved closer her head resting against the panelling.
‘Reasons of state insist that I be with her, your uncle must have explained. But Beatrice, my darling Beatrice, I have still been such a fool to neglect you so cruelly. Please say that I am forgiven.’
‘I forgive you, my lord.’
‘Not “my lord”; say “I forgive you, Philip”.’
‘I forgive you, Philip.’
Juana covered her ears and turned away to escape the stinging treachery of words that belonged to her, words spoken when she and Philip first met. She should have left but it was impossible. Nor could she throw open the door to put an end to this infamy. She was driven by something, compelled, to hear more.
‘… tomorrow night, most definitely. And by that time I will know of the final arrangements for our week’s hunting and where we shall stay.’
‘Do you promise?’
‘My word of honour. Dear God, if only we had met years ago, how different our lives would have been.’
‘It is silly to look to the past, Philip, to what cannot be changed. Instead, let us be grateful to my Uncle Charles, Prince Chimay for bringing me here when he did.’
There was a silence. There was no doubting they were in each other’s arms. Juana crumpled against the wall. This was Chimay’s niece! Why had she been sent for? By whom? When? How many knew of this, and for how long? Why had no one told her? What was she to do? She felt sick; her world, that gloriously happy world, had crashed, irreparably broken.
Somehow she pushed herself free from the wall. Trance like she moved back along the corridor Philip’s teasing voice echoing in her ears, his rich laughing voice speaking of a love note he would hide somewhere in the garden for “beloved Beatrice”.
An iron will carried Juana past courtiers and their hurtful gossip all the way back to her apartments where she collapsed to her knees, sobbing.
Zayda rushed to her side. ‘My lady, whatever can have happened?’
‘Ask Maria,’ Juana sobbed.
Maria said nothing.
‘Tell her, Maria, you must know, probably have known for some time.’ Juana continued, rocking backwards and forwards in her grief.
‘I was unsure. It was best for me to say nothing when I was uncertain; and I was warned not to.’
‘By whom?’
‘Madam Halewyn.’
So it was Halewyn as well as Chimay. Who else was in this conspiracy? ‘And you would follow her instructions to further betray me?’
‘My lady I humbly beg your pardon, she assured me it was nothing, that the affair would be over soon enough, that it would do you more harm than good to hear of it.’
‘The liar, this is no affair! Philip is in love; he loves her, prefers her to me! I heard him say so!’ Juana howled.
‘No, no, no, my lady, this cannot be. I am so sorry.’
‘Who is she?’
‘A widowed baroness. Chimay brought her here to recover from her husband’s death some months ago.’
‘And Philip wrote to me begging me to return. He said he missed me, wanted me. Lies, all lies! My mother was right; it was the heiress of Spain he wanted to return to Flanders, not his wife. While I quarrelled so bitterly with my mother he was in the arms of Chimay’s niece. What am I to do, Zayda? I am lost.’
‘Never!’ Zayda knelt down by her side and took her hands. ‘You are not lost. You and I will find a way to win this battle. Remember your brother’s words about Juana the fighter.’
‘They cannot work this time.’
‘They have not failed you yet. And I have many ways of helping.’
‘I must be in the garden tomorrow. I have to be there, there will be a letter.’
‘Of that later, my lady. First you must sleep and gather your strength for the challenge that awaits you. I have the necessary philtres and potions. I will go for them immediately.’ She shot a furious glance at Maria before leaving. ‘It is barbarous that anyone, anyone at all, should dare insult the Princess Juana like this.’
* * *
There was enough sun to make sitting outdoors quite comfortable, while the shadows from the trees and bushes in the arbour protected Juana and Maria from its rays.
Juana broke the silence, ‘No more sewing today, my fingers are too unsteady.’ She took a final look at her embroidery. It was Philip’s motto with her romantic response QUI VOULDRA – MOI TOUT SEUL. A bitter laugh escaped her, ‘“Who wants me only me”. How wonderful if that were true.’
She rose from the bench and brushed her sleeves. Maria returned the sewing to its basket before seeking out stray strands from amongst the patterns of Juana’s brocade skirts.
‘A short stroll, ma’am?’
They wandered along the pathway edged with box, a row of white roses beyond. Juana drew their velvet petals towards her to drink in their perfume. ‘The white rose of York. The old witch finally died. Madam la Grande is one less to mock or whisper against me.’
Their skirts brushed over stone flags as they sauntered towards a cluster of red roses clinging to a wall and basking in the sunshine.
‘These are my favourites, ma’am. Such a deep red, so soft to the touch and with a far superior perfume.’
‘The red rose of love; its blood coloured petals at once fiery and velvety soft.’ She cupped one in her hand. ‘The lovely Beatrice will find the note,’ she snapped off its head, ‘I will find her,’ a second head was snapped off, ‘and then we shall see what we shall see.’ The petals were ripped and tossed away.
They retraced their steps to the arbour to wait.
Within minutes Juana heard hurried footsteps. She could see perfectly without needing to move an inch from her concealed vantage point. A young lady ran towards one of the decorative urns set close to a myrtle arch and pushed her hand deep inside, drawing out a folded piece of paper. Juana watched the broad beaming smile of delight as the note was raised to her lips.
‘Dear God in Heaven, You have granted her everything: beauty, a trim figure, pretty hands with slender fingers, tresses of gold, a noble birth; and now my husband.’
Juana looked on, drowning in her anguish, as the note was unfolded, greedily read then tucked inside her bodice. ‘Yes, put it next to the milk white breasts that Philip knows so well,’ she screamed pouncing on her quarry, roughly snatching the note. ‘I will have that. What does he say?’ Her hands shook, the pulse in her throat strangled, ‘My dearest Beatrice …’
Beatrice tore it from her grasp, hurriedly tore it and pushed the pieces into her mouth.
Juana grappled with her, snarling, ‘Go ahead, I hope you choke. You harlot, how dare you steal my husband. Keep away from him, do you hear?’ She pushed and pulled starting with her clothes then finding her hair.
Somehow Juana got her to the ground and sat astride her. Then her sewing scissors were in her hand. She began to cut and hack at the golden curls ignoring the terrified eyes staring at her and the open mouth unable to utter a sound. The frenzied scissors scratched and tore at flesh as well as hair and blood streamed from each new wound.
Her task completed Juana stood up to consider her work.
‘You may go, baroness, this lesson will serve as a reminder to stay well away from Philip.
Maria had not moved. She was like stone unable to go to the aid of either lady. She remained as if paralysed as Beatrice struggled to her feet to go stumbling blindly over the flagstones. She stood motionless watching as Juana left the garden as serenely as she would a ballroom floor.
‘Maria, I think it would be marvellous to have one of Zayda’s special baths. The perfumed oils will work their usual magic on Philip.’
A Matter Of Pride
Still in command?
“I am afraid to have to report that Spain is so seriously in debt to the foreign bankers that at this point not one, no, not one of them will exchange gold for our promissory notes; and if this were not all …”
Carlos exploded, “Those blasted Germans! Oh, they are only too ready to have someone protect them; but by God, when it suits them they can be too damned reluctant to part with the wherewithal to pay for that protection! God knows I have always given them their damned money in the end; and with a pretty hefty interest too. Yes, they have always got their pound of flesh. They have never been the ones mortgaged up to the hilt. For how many years have I poured Spanish gold back into their coffers? Paying over forty per cent interest, I would have you know! Humph! Bankers: the Fuggers, et al. I suspect the poisonous talk of some of those damned German princes behind this. Downright insulting. But I shall not lose my temper. I need time to think.”
“Have you been to Valladolid to speak with the Princess Juana?” Quijada enquired. He knew full well he had, hadn’t he just said that the princess had spoken of the child, but he had to ask.
“I have. But more grave news awaited me there. Something is sorely amiss in Seville. Let me explain. When the princess, acting on behalf of Felipe, sought loans for the Spanish troops, the response from Seville was that there was no gold. I mean, I ask you, no gold? My lord, I do not seek to cause your majesty any alarm …”
Carlos’s face had turned purple; strangled gurglings of rage forced their way from between lips rigid with anger. “I do not believe this! How dare they!” He held his hand to his throat.
Gomez rose to his feet, alarmed. Quijada leapt up, sending his stool clattering to the floor. Gaztelu rushed for a goblet of barley water.
“Sire, shall I send for DoctorMathys? For some medication perhaps?” Quijada was concerned.
“No, dammit!” Carlos fumed, “I shall soon recover. This is anger, not an illness you fools!” He threw the contents of the goblet into his mouth before furiously spitting the whole lot back. “Get rid of that horse piss, Gaztelu, and bring me a beer. Gentlemen help yourselves to some refreshment. We must think.”
The right man for the job?
"First I want to hear the good news from Valladolid. Get me some more beer for this thirst.”
Regla clutched his Psalter to his breast. “You are so right, your majesty, I do indeed have good news for you. News to gladden your heart, your very soul. Canon Ponce has been detained by the Inquisition in Seville.”
“Ponce? Ponce? But damn it man, I chose him as canon. What the devil has he been up to?”
“Reading and espousing the works of Luther and Calvin!” Regla’s face contorted in pained anguish at the full horror of it all.
Quijada, ever the sceptic, asked, “The books were in his possession?”
“No; he had given them to a family friend to hide. You see the deviousness of the enemy, my lord!”
Quijada would not be deterred, “And the friend surrendered the books?”
“No; the friend did not!” Regla’s smile was pure triumph. “It was her son who delivered them in person to the Inquisitor, denouncing his mother for her heresy!”
Quijada threw up his arms in despair, looking at Gaztelu and receiving his full support. He turned to Carlos, “Sire, did I not warn you that there would be those waiting for such an opportunity to further their own cause. I have no doubt the son in question was too impatient to wait for his inheritance.”
“Silence, Quijada!” Carlos snapped back. “I will have none of it! Ponce, a man I trusted, has betrayed the Faith; that is enough for me! He must go to the stake; an example must be made. Any other news?”
“In Valladolid an even greater catch has been landed, all arrested at a meeting called by their leader, Cazalla.” His words came slowly, deliberately, as he savoured every one; he revelled in the joy of reporting the downfall of someone he had never liked and had recently grown to hate.
“Give me strength! Another of my personal choices, returning my trust with treachery! At great cost to my health I have spent my life fighting God’s enemies; the infidel and the Lutherans. Finally I come here to Spain to retire in a country where God’s word was sacred; and what do I find? I find that the bastards have followed me here!”
Quijada made another effort, “This all sounds so much worse than it is; a gross exaggeration of the facts. Regla is talking about a mere handful of reformers, nothing more. Moderation is called for, some time given to considering …”
“Be quiet! I was too lenient with Luther, should have had him burnt; that was where I went wrong. But I will show the way now, by God I will. Spain will lead the world by example.” He shuffled restlessly in his chair, his words degenerated to a garbled babble, his face purple with fury, “The heretics shall burn and the news will spread throughout Europe. Yes, this is more like it; nipping the damned worm in the bud before any further damage can be done!” Now he could compensate for his weakness in the past, his lack of resolve. God would be avenged. “Gaztelu, you will write to the regent and to King Felipe informing them of our good news. Valdes is proving himself an excellent and rigorous Inquisitor. Finally got the right man!”
Chattels
“Brother, her grievances have more to do with later events rather than those years of abandonment. There was that first occasion when instead of being the one chosen as Felipe’s betrothed she was passed over in favour of her younger cousin.” Leonor plucked at her handkerchief.
“Why should she have been expecting to be chosen, for God’s sake? I determine what is to be. In that particular instance a marriage to strengthen the bonds between Portugal and Spain was vitally important, but not with your daughter! No, it had to be with her cousin, because she was the child of the reigning monarchs and not the …”
“Not the little leftover orphan,” Leonor whimpered. “If, from the very beginning, I had been allowed to choose for myself none of this would have happened.”
Carlos threw his hands in the air in despair, “We are surely not going to go through this again? I am head of the family. I decide. End of story!”
“You allowed our sister Maria to make her own decisions. Yes, you permitted her to refuse all suggestions of marriage.”
Carlos pointed at Maria, “I knew it. You are at the root of all this nonsense.”
“Not guilty, brother,” was the stern reply. “My only crime, if crime it be, is in being so different from my sister. It appears that she always bent, apparently willingly, before strength whereas I always met force with force.” She turned to Leonor, “You never had the spirit for the fight and now you regret it. Is that not so?”
“Oh, but I did. I tried. Oh, how I tried. Brother, had you allowed me to marry Count Frederik everything would have been so very different. My life would have taken such a happier course. Maria, how often have I told you how I glowed in the warmth of his love? I was impatient to be in his company; longed to have him touch my hand, to set my heart and head afire.”
“All this again! God give me patience! The man was only a count and you were a princess. I would accept nothing less than a king or a prince for you,” Carlos tried to brush away the subject with a dismissive wafting of his hands as if to rid himself of a bothersome fly.
Leonor would not let go, “You will never understand. I never wished for a king or a prince. All I ever wanted was Frederik. How often did I plead? But you forbade him to ever look at me again. And who did you chose for me while flames of passion burned in my breast? You chose an ugly old hunch backed cripple, dragging himself through his remaining days dribbling as he went. He was the one I had to receive in my bridal bed.”
“You refuse to accept that the negotiations failed through no fault of mine. I had intended you to wed his son. You cannot blame me for the father deciding to have you for himself,” Carlos blustered.
“Oh yes she can. And I certainly do!” Maria boomed. “If only I had been with you sister. Carlos you know well enough you could have insisted that my sister marry Prince John of Portugal. Be honest, it suited you to have her wed a king rather than a prince.”
“Your tongue has had too much liberty for too long. You speak too freely. However, madam, as you say it suited me to have my sister marry the king; political expediency.”
Maria shook her head, “Such impatience, you would not have had to wait long for the prince to become king. There was nothing to be gained except, of course, an immediate loan.”
“I refuse to discuss this further.”
“So my sister did as she was told, married the old man, and even provided him with a child.”
“Children,” Leonor interrupted. “I provided Emanuel with two children, the first, a boy, was dead within months, sad little mite, and then my Maria was born.” A long pause then she raised her eyes from the handkerchief she had been tugging at nervously on her lap. They twinkled, and a mischievous smile started to play on her lips, “But I did find a lover, someone to bring warmth and joy to my day and passion to my bed at night.”
Only the ticking of a clock broke through the shocked silence.
Samuel and José at their post by the door glanced quickly at each other thinking how many extra drinks this piece of gossip would bring their way.
Gaztelu and Quijada pursed their lips and stroked their chins also exchanging glances at this quite sensational revelation.
Maria gave her sister a congratulatory look then turned a challenging eye on her brother.
Carlos shattered the quiet, “Good God in His Heaven! I refuse to believe my ears. My sister, the daughter of a queen, the sister of an emperor, a queen herself … that, that, that she would dare to cuckold her husband! This is dishonour, madam! We are speaking of lascivious behaviour; lechery! You, my sister, are no more than a whore!”
“Now that does amuse me, brother,” Maria did not disguise her contempt. “When a man seeks consolation in welcoming arms between warm sheets, no one turns a hair. If a woman chooses the same avenue for comfort she is immediately condemned as a whore.” She admonished him further, “Now listen to me. You got what you wanted when Leonor was crowned Queen of Portugal; you received a massive loan. The fact that she had a lover should be of no consequence whatsoever.”
“This is monstrous,” Carlos’s words spluttered from a face purple with rage. “To be discussing whoring, with no sense of guilt, no shame. You are no better than soldiers round the beer table boasting of deeds in brothels. Tell me, who was the bastard who dared …”
“The one who dared, brother, was none other than myself. I was the one to reach out to grasp some moments of love and laughter, of tenderness. And, yes, I allowed my burning desire full freedom during those three years. No one until today has ever known I had a lover. So far as I know, no one knows his name, and it shall never escape my lips. And before you use any more insulting words about an affair which I refuse to have sullied, I will remind you it would not have come to pass had I been allowed to marry Frederik.”
“Do not try to offer lame excuses for such sinful behaviour. May God forgive you. I never thought I would live to see the day when I could be so shamed by the actions of anyone in my family. Disgusting …”
Wives & Other Women
The wedding feast
There was no other way to describe it, it was a din: astonishing; uncouth; unacceptable. Mary, heady with so many glorious emotions, was blissfully unaware of Philip's discomfort.
It was a royal wedding feast the like of which had not been witnessed for many a year. The bride and groom wore white satin with sleeves paned with cloth of silver beaded with pearls and diamonds. A broad gold chain resplendent with rubies and emeralds reached from Mary’s shoulders down to her waist. Philip also wore a gold chain bearing a gold pendent lamb, the Golden Fleece, the insignia of the knights of Flanders.
English noblemen supported the canopy over the royal couple. Philip had insisted that the honour would be theirs alone and not to be shared with the Spaniards, another of his several attempts to charm the hostile natives.
Seated at the two long tables stretching away from their high table down the entire length of the hall were the many guests, each and every one of them having laid out a small fortune to provide themselves with the best of satins, brocades and damasks of every hue.
The hall with its vaulted ceiling, flags, and banners recording campaigns and deeds of chivalry, and with, until today, an overwhelming aura of chill austerity, was a riot of colours and noises: reds, greens, blues, gold, fought for attention; laughter and raucous voices battled for supremacy; musicians with lutes, virginals, viols, sackbuts seemed but to entertain themselves in the midst of the uproar.
But this uproar, this pandemonium, was alien to Spanish royalty, where the etiquette of meals demanded more formality. For Philip even that held no appeal and, given the opportunity, would always prefer to dine alone. His finer sensitivities were being tested. Today was further proof, if further proof were needed, of his conviction that the English were barbarians.
Mary touched his hand reminding him of her presence. His eyes met hers then moved quickly to rest on her blushing cheeks, experiencing for a moment a wave of sympathy for his bride, this gauche sixteen‑approaching‑forty‑year‑old queen of England; his dear and well‑beloved aunt.
The tables with their snow‑white damask covers and set with gold and silver plate groaned under a vast array of culinary wonders, the pride of several cooks hired for the occasion.
‘We cannot tempt you to one of the fish dishes, my lord? Haddock in ale, or perhaps this cold pike in gelatine? Both are truly delicious, or perhaps some …?’
‘My lady I never, ever, eat fish,’ nor, he told himself, did he wish to discuss his dietary predilections.
‘But on Fridays and fast days?’
‘His Holiness the Pope has granted me dispensation,’ he expected that to put an end to the topic.
The dishes and their leftovers were removed and the stained table covers replaced in readiness for the next course as pastry coats of arms, sugar crowns and other spectacular subtleties for their entertainment were brought in; each one receiving rapturous applause.
Philip turned away from the commotion determined not to criticise. ‘You looked quite charming in church with your hair tumbling like a bronze river over your shoulders.’ What he had seen was, in fact, a vision of his beloved Isabel's wonderful curls cascading over her naked shoulders, arms, and breasts. He closed his eyes the more to savour the image once again.
‘Oh, my lord, had I thought for a single moment you were watching me, why I would have been quite overcome.’ She reddened, giggled before hastily looking away, her wrinkled hand held to her mouth hiding those dreaded gaps.
He rejoined her, reluctantly torn from his reverie, ‘You were too intent on your prayers to be aware of my attentions.’ He considered he had given the words a touching degree of tenderness for this sad creature at his side.
‘My lord, I have so many reasons for giving my thanks to God. He directed the Holy Father to forgive me for my grievous faults: denying my mother's marriage; declaring that I was no more than a bastard; acknowledging that he, the Pope, had no authority and was no better than a pretender. Oh, Philip, I signed three times on that detestable document. Three times I betrayed everything most dear to me; three times I denied the truth.’
Philip had had to listen patiently to this crie de coeur every time they had met, ‘Dear lady, everyone knows you to be entirely innocent in this. You were alone and afraid. But you should not dwell on such thoughts, especially not today. I will not have those pretty cheeks drained of their glorious colour, nor will I have a trace of a frown on so delicate a brow.’
Mary's heart leapt. His voice was the music, his words the psalms her soul had so longed for. ‘And I also had to offer my thanks to God for granting me such a husband. I had prayed to Him for someone from my Spanish family; had thought it would be my cousin, then your dear name was mentioned. You can have no idea how my spirits were dashed when I was told you were already wed. Then my joy was rekindled discovering that the contract had not been completed. Today I gave thanks for you as my husband, coming to me with your support and bringing that of Spain. My lord, my heart no longer thunders with anxiety, but with a joy it has never known.’
‘And all bound by this simple gold band.’
‘Such has been the custom of all English maidens, great or small, when they marry; and before God I am no better than any of them.’
‘An endearing sentiment.’ He gave her hand a paternal pat of blessing.
‘And your gift to me of three handfuls of gold.’
‘We Spanish have customs, too. The arras, those gold coins are my pledge that I will hold and keep you secure.’
‘I almost laughed when Strelly opened her purse and hurriedly scooped it in, fearing for some reason you might want it back; we had been so poor for so long.’ Mary chuckled happily; remembering Strelly’s faux pas. ‘I swear I do not know if it is the wine, of which only a drop has passed my lips, but my cheeks burn so …’
‘And most charmingly. What have we here?’ He released her fingers to watch the arrival of roast quail, larks, and many another tiny bird. These were followed by chickens, ducks, and finally swans, magnificently displayed on their silver and gold salvers. Next came venison, lamb, beef, all on enormous chargers borne shoulder high. Loud cheering saluted every marvel as it appeared.
Philip winced, allowed a few more drops of ale to be poured into his goblet, regretting he had forgone the pleasure of wine but rather hoping that his choice had been noticed by the critics about him.
He added this further self‑denial to his mental list of sacrifices: there wasn’t one soldier accompanying him, excepting the many in the guise of servants, and not one of his company was part of the official entourage; since their arrival in this barbaric land he and his courtiers had eaten and drunk the disgusting fare that had been served up on every occasion; they had all adapted to life without the traditional afternoon siesta and to retiring early at night; he had even permitted the Anglicising of his name. All this was to win the hearts of Englishmen and ensure that one day the English crown would sit on his head. He would not complain. It was his duty as his father's son to make England a firm ally; to bring it back to the True Faith; and, of course, to extend the power of the Hapsburgs.
‘The cooks are to be commended for their imagination,’ he dipped his greasy fingertips in the lemon‑water and dried them on the proffered towel.
The table coverings were removed once again. A fanfare introduced quite a different subtlety this time. Four tumblers dressed as royal pages leapt, rolled, somersaulted their way to the centre of the floor, two, who were dwarves, via the lower tables cartwheeling along them managing to snatch up titbits on the way. Their routine completed they threw themselves down on bended knee to receive their royal bride.
‘Why, it is Little Jane, Jane the Fool!’ Mary laughed and chuckled at her dwarf, the small, plump woman who had come waddling into their midst, her painted red cheeks shining like two rosy apples. The auburn wig was outrageously large and almost fell over her eyes. The chaplet of white flowers set askew minded one of an inebriate as did her hauling in of her wedding veil, done with about as much ceremony as a fisherman with his nets. Everyone laughed.
Little Jane and the wig with its chaplet and veil were, for a moment, separated, revealing a newly shaven head, they were then reunited causing even greater laughter. She responded by throwing her bouquet over her shoulder vaguely in the direction of one of the tables. Now she looked about her, put her hands on her hips and scowled.
‘Where's my Felleepay? Felleepay, where are you? You must be here somewhere.’
She went about the room followed by hoots of laughter as she inspected the gentlemen, grabbing them by the chin, tugging at their beards, twisting their heads close to hers, peering at them closely before pushing them aside in mock disgust, making indistinct but obviously bawdy comments on the gentlemen's physiques.
She and her coarse cackling approached Philip and Mary. She stopped in mock amazement. There was total silence. Her screech of horror at finding her husband Felleepay sat next to the queen sent the whole audience into gales of laughter.
Now the furious miniature bride hurried her wobbling bundle of flesh to Mary's side demanding this impostor remove herself immediately, insisting she should think a thousand shames for having usurped the position of such a one as she. The noise found a new level.
Philip made an excellent attempt at laughter but resolved there and then to write to his sister Juana asking her to give him her dwarf, Magdalena Ruiz. She would have played this role to perfection; very drunk but no bawdy jokes as she searched for her groom, instead a fury flying like arrows from her sharp tongue; and if that didn’t intimidate and entertain then her two fierce little marmoset monkeys certainly would. Now he did laugh remembering her tantrum when he told her everyone was going hunting at El Pardo when she wanted to go to Aranjuez. All three feet of her barred his way and she declared he would have to kill her in order to pass.
Still laughing Philip joined with the rest in tossing coins to the entertainers.
Desserts were served; fig and raisin tarts, cherry potage, fruits from the countryside.
Later came the dancing, the floor rapidly filling with other dancers, amongst them Feria and Mistress Jane Dormer; the Spanish duke had rushed to her side intent on being the first to ask.
Philip invited Mary to join him in a saraband. Her feet floated above the oaken boards, her head in clouds of happiness. She glanced at the young man at her side, delighting in those pale blue eyes, that fair complexion, those lips so full and … this was the husband who had come to love and protect her, to make those decisions she had found too difficult to make on her own, to win back for her the hearts of her people. God had granted her an added favour; He had given her a man to love, to awaken in her such passions that in the cold and bitter world of her past had never existed.
In a few hours time, as soon as darkness fell, Philip would come to her bedchamber.