Falling Pomegranate Seeds: The Duty of Daughters (The Katherine of Aragon Story Book 1) (3 page)

If you can’t bite, don’t show your
teeth.
~ Castilian proverb

“C
ould we not go and see my brother?” Catalina asked. Beatriz sighed. Their imminent departure had disturbed today’s lesson, again and again. All morning, servants came and went, emptying the library of the queen’s most precious books. Bad weather slammed the door shut on any hope of being allowed outside this morning. The girls had struggled for the last hour to complete their reading in the midst of what seemed the confusion of an overturned beehive. No wonder Catalina wished to escape from the hectic bustle of a court making ready to move once again.

Putting down her quill, Beatriz gestured her defeat. Without any more discussion, Catalina pulled Maria in the direction of a far more secret door, hidden underneath a huge wall tapestry at the side of the room’s fireplace, with Beatriz following close behind. The secret door opened to a secret passage going from one wing of royal apartments to the other – not only to ease the way for the king to come to his wife, but also to aid a safe and quick escape for the royal family. For years now the prince had possessed his own establishment, practising the art of ruling within the security of his mother’s court. While the king was with the army, the prince occupied his father’s apartments.

One guttering torch, set high in a blackened sconce, lit dimly the short passageway to the spiral staircase at the end of the corridor. First to bound over the last, shortened step upon the staircase, designed to trip and announce an unknowing assassin, Catalina pushed open the hidden door to the prince’s bedchamber.

A sudden burst of light from a nearby window illuminated Princes Juan and Ahmed playing chess together. Ahmed, the nine-year-old son of Boabdil, Moor king of Granada, had been held as a hostage for his father’s freedom and good behaviour since the age of two. Lovingly called Infantico
by Queen Isabel, he was treated like a member of the royal family and raised as a Christian, and a loyal Castillan.

Catalina called out her greeting and the two princes turned. Ahmed’s dark, huge eyes flashed in welcome, his smile stretching across his plump face. Only his thickly lashed, dark brown eyes showed his Moorish ancestry, for his skin was as pale as all of Queen Isabel’s family. Blond-haired like Prince Juan, the boys could have been mistaken for brothers. Prince Juan frowned. “Sister, pray tell me that you asked permission of our mother to visit me?” The prince coughed.

Catalina coloured, biting her bottom lip. Her brother sighed. Rising from his stool, he paced over to his chamber’s door and opened it. He stuck his head into the next room. “Miguel,” he called. “Tell the queen the infanta Catalina is here with me.” Shutting the door he turned back to his sister. “Thank God, I hadn’t sent Miguel on another errand, and he was alone. He is one of the few who knows of the secret way between these chambers and our mother’s. Anyone else would have wondered how the three of you slipped by the guard.”

Ahmed chuckled. “‘Twas the way I used today, too.”

Prince Juan returned to the stool and grinned. “With my royal mother’s permission – something my small sister often forgets to seek in her eagerness to visit me.” Crossing long leg over long leg, his tapered fingers tugged at the sag of his red hose. Juan lifted his gaze to his sister. “Or have you come for another reason?”

Beatriz curtseyed. “I beg your forgiveness, my prince. It was my place, not your sister’s, to ask the queen’s permission. I’m afraid all the disruptions today caused me to forget.”

Catalina glanced around the room and almost skipped towards an unused stool. Sitting on it, she placed her hands before her, fingertips touching fingertips, studying her brother. She smiled her most enchanting smile. “We could not study, could we Latina? Even in the library we were made to feel in the way. Is it then wrong to want to see my brother?”

Prince Juan laughed. “Moving court does not trouble me. My men refuse to let such trivial matters concern me.” He studied the unfinished chess game. “All I need to do is sit and play with Ahmed until I’m wanted again.”

Ahmed pushed forward one of his pieces and picked up one of the prince’s pawns. “I’m winning this game.”

Prince Juan screwed up his face and rolled his eyes. “Not for the first time. My father is right. I dream too much.”

Catalina bounded off her stool. “Can I play against Ahmed next?”

Rising from the chess table, Prince Juan gazed towards his harp. He coughed again – and took a deep breath, as if fighting it. The prince was unwell so often Beatriz kept a well-stocked supply of soothing mixtures of horehound, honey and lemon for his coughs. But hating his times of weakness, Prince Juan worked hard at hiding any sign of illness from everyone, especially his parents.

The prince wiped his mouth. “Take over the game, Uno Piqueño. I have a tune in my head I cannot silence.” He dipped his head to Prince Ahmed. “Do you mind? Catalina will give you a better game than me, especially today.”

Prince Ahmed gestured to the empty seat across from him. “Come, Uno Piqueño. Let’s see if you can gain victory.”

Watching Catalina consider her move, Beatriz put her hands in the deep pockets of her gown and drew them out again in disappointment. Staring down at empty hands, she sighed. Usually, she had small books in her pockets to read at times like these. Now she prepared for boredom. Maria too shifted from foot to foot, but then Prince Juan turned and spoke. “Maria. My guitar is still unpacked. Take it up, cousin, and sit by me. I need your help with my song.”

Happiness lighting up her face, Maria grabbed the guitar next to Juan. She gazed at him with joy, with worship, as if unable to believe he trusted her with one of his most loved musical instruments, let alone believe he asked her aid to make music. The prince had played guitar for years and Maria only for the last nine months since companioning Catalina.

Knowing the gentle prince would not expect her to ask permission in his private rooms, Beatriz settled on a stool, words of Aristotle coming to mind:

... shall we rather suppose that music tends to be productive of virtue, having a power, as the gymnastic exercises have to form the body in a certain way, to influence the manners so as to accustom its professors to rejoice rightly? Or shall we say, that it is of any service in the conduct of life, and an assistant to prudence? for this also is a third property which has been attributed to
it.

Beatriz turned to the window, and began planning her next lesson for the girls.

···

Later that day Prince Ahmed plopped down next to Beatriz on the stone seat built as part of the protruding oriel window. The boy gazed down at the steep, rocky cliff-face that defended one side of the queen’s alcázar just as surely as did her soldiers, maybe more so, as it was difficult to imagine any – friend or foe – surmounting the sheer, inhospitable cliffs. Ahmed turned, commanding, “Tell me of my mother.”

Her mind distracted by wondering how long it would take the royal court to reach their next palace, Beatriz laughed, shut the book she was reading and placed it on her lap. “Again, my prince?”

“Pray, one more time,” Ahmed flashed a wide smile of perfect white teeth. “Until I ask the next time.”

Beatriz settled against the cushions, preparing to tell the oft-told story. “She was a daughter of a famous general who spent his fortune in defence of your father’s kingdom. In gratitude, your father, my prince, showered a constant stream of titles upon him: Alcaide of Loja, Lord of Xagra, Mayor of the Alhambra and Sheriff of the Kingdom of Granada. With such a renowned father, it is not then not too surprising your mother became the wife of the king.” She smiled a little, knowing she had reached Ahmed’s favourite part. “I saw her once with you... Your mother held you in her arms before surrendering you for your father’s freedom. The veil on her face did not hide her unforgettable eyes. How piteous they looked when she passed you, her infant son, to the queen’s chamberlain.”

Ahmed yanked the sleeve of his white shirt. Edged with lace and bordered with embroidery, every stitch of it came from the queen’s own hands. “Would she remember me, do you think?”

Beatriz stared at him. She hooded her eyes, compassion flooding her heart. “A good mother never forgets the child she bore into the world. My prince, never doubt that your mother is a good mother. She did not need to come and hand you over at the queen’s court. Only when Queen Isabel promised she would care for you like her own children did she let you go. One day, you’ll know from your mother’s own lips how little she forgot you.”

Furious, Ahmed bounded up from the cushions and stood over her. “Why doesn’t she write and tell me that now? My father writes to me but my mother, never.”

Beatriz bent towards him. “My prince, your father always writes a message from your mother.”

Sitting again beside her, Ahmed’s lower lip trembled. “A few words – that the king, my father, includes for her.”

Gathering her thoughts, Beatriz gazed at the book on her lap before eyeing Ahmed again. “Your mother would write if she was able. Do not fall into the mistake of believing what you see at Queen Isabel’s court is the same elsewhere. Dear prince, not all women know how to write.”

Ahmed’s thick brows puckered in confusion. “Time after time you’ve told me my mother is intelligent. And my grandmother too. I can easily read, why not them?”

“Many know how to read without knowing how to write. ‘Tis a far harder skill to learn, my prince. Do not think harshly of your mother when countless men have also not learnt to wield a pen.” Beatriz opened the book. “Do you know what I have here?”

Ahmed peered at the cover page. “
Garden of Noble Maidens
,” he read without hesitation.

Beatriz grinned. “Well done, my prince, and from the Latin too. I would not expect you to know the story behind this book, but the queen received the first copy as a gift for her seventeenth birthday. By then, she had lost her younger brother and it seemed more likely that our queen might succeed her brother, the king. An Augustinian friar wrote this book for her, to guide her, so he said. It speaks of all the attributes expected of a maiden – chastity, modesty, watching her tongue and humility. The friar also writes that women descend from Eve, the original sinner. He wrote this book as a reminder to Queen Isabel, a reminder of women’s inferiority. My prince, our queen is perceived by many men as the best of the worst, a woman who must also strive to be an example to other women. And so she has done – from the time she first became queen. So many women at court – and I count myself amongst their number – reap the benefit of being ruled by one of our sex.

“Many men of your father’s faith also do not question women’s inferiority. One day, Prince Ahmed, you might fully understand why your mother never writes.”

An ounce of mother is worth a ton of
priest
~ Castilian proverb

T
he huge andas shook, shuddered, and jerked. Pitched almost off her seat, Beatriz bit her tongue, swallowing back the metallic wash of blood. Outside, the oxen master yelled and cracked his whip. Pity filled her heart for the poor beasts pulling the heavy andas
along this ill-made road that jarred her very bones, the scream of protesting oxen cutting into her as if she was whipped, too. But she already felt whipped. The queen’s court at Sevilla would include the presence of the king. Listening to the loud voice of Josepha’s husband commanding the queen’s escort today, she squirmed again, unable to find any comfort from the hard seats or the beautiful brocaded cushions, made mostly for display.

Queen Isabel sat across from her, little disturbed by the constant jar and rock of the journey, hand overtop the other in her lap. Josepha de Salinas and the infanta Catalina dozed close on her left and right. Just like Beatriz, little Maria, seated next to Catalina, shifted her position yet again, unable to find the same escape.

Heads close together, Queen Isabel and her eldest daughter murmured with Dońa Beatriz Bobadilla, one of the queen’s dearest friends, speaking too softly for Beatriz to make out any more than a few disconnected words. Juana twisted beside them, her heart-shaped face dark and scowling. She peeked through the thick curtains, allowing in a sliver of piercing light. Juana’s eyes glowed catlike. Her jaw jutted out and another furrow appeared between her dark brows. When her mouth twisted like her body, Beatriz dropped her gaze and clasped her hands tight together. She well knew the signs. Very soon Juana’s hot-blooded temper would break, unable to withstand the long hours of both heat and confinement.

Strong wind slapped the untied leather on the outer walls of the andas, while the shell breathed in and out as if alive, buckling and expanding with every hot gust of wind. The air stifled rather than offered any relief. Juana leaned across her sister. “Please, Mother, can we not open them further?”

The queen turned to Juana with a frown. Her eyes stern, she shook her head. “There is a time and place to show ourselves, but not while we dress to avoid the heat of the day. And hija, do not interrupt while I am speaking to others.”

Tears of frustration fired Juana’s eyes. She slumped back in her seat, wringing her hands. Her eyes raked the back of the andas. The strong wind pulled at the unsecured opening, revealing a momentary glance of the outside world. The hot sun already seared the earth and the very air itself, assaulting the winding road and the long cavalcade before them in a dazzle of blinding light. Juana’s voice almost whined when she spoke again. “Mother, please, I beg you, I cannot bear to be thus enclosed. Please, when we next stop, can I not ride a mule?”

Jutting out her own chin, Queen Isabel stared at her daughter. Seemingly defeated, Juana cowered in her seat.

“Learn to bear, hija, learn to bear.” The queen clamped her lips shut as if biting back harsher words.

Juana grabbed her mother’s arm, in one last desperate attempt. “But Mother –”

Queen Isabel shook her off. “Must I always repeat myself with you? Don’t be foolish, girl! I have already told you that when we near Sevilla all of us will make ready to change into one of our new gowns for Isabel’s wedding celebrations and ride together into the city.” The queen’s face softened. “My Juana, can you not be patient until then?”

In answer, Juana shifted in frustration and swung out a leg that connected with Maria’s knee. The child yelped, her gaze crossing swords with Juana. But Juana already seethed with repressed fury. Maria dropped her eyes, wisely choosing a hasty retreat, and made herself smaller against the wall of the andas.

Offering her little cousin a glance of sympathy, the queen turned a face to Juana as hard and unyielding as their wooden seats. Paling, Juana muttered a quick, under-breath apology to Maria.

Queen Isabel drew a cushion behind her and settled back against the thick padding of the andas. She inhaled and let out a deep breath. “Shall I tell a story to pass the time?”

Excepting for those still dozing, everyone seemed to sit straighter, the groans of creaking timber, the snap and whip of untied leather, the continual crazed rocking of the andas, the early afternoon heat that caused them to drip with sweat, all forgotten. Juana and Isabel turned to their mother, identical eyes wide, delighted and full of yearning.

“Oh, Mother, please,” murmured Isabel.

Catalina stirred in her seat, sleepy and annoyed, half-opening her eyes. “Are we stopping again?”

“The queen is going to tell us a story,” her small companion answered. All the girls wide-awake now, the sisters riveted their gaze on their mother, reminding Beatriz of the long-necked swans swimming last summer in the river near the royal residence.

The queen laughed, teasing humour returned a vivid beauty to her eyes. “Has it been that long, my hijas?” Her mouth thinned into a straight line. “Organising your sister’s wedding has taken much of my time.” She straightened her shoulders. “But you must realise an event like this takes days and days of careful preparation to ensure all is done properly, and as it should be. Your father and I both want Isabel’s day to be glorious. We’ve engaged the services of the finest musicians in the land and commanded the making of many fine jewelled gowns for our beautiful girls to wear.” She smiled for Isabel alone. “This is the wedding of our first born. We will show the Portuguese how much we treasure you.”

Isabel kissed the queen’s hand. “As I treasure you, Mother.”

Juana leaned across Isabel. When Juana’s older sister frowned in response, Beatriz found herself thinking, not for the first time, how much Princess Isabel resembled her mother. Not only in appearance but in spirit.

“What of the story?” whined Juana. “Please don’t forget the story.”

The queen considered Juana, her face becoming more lined and full of worry. “And what story shall it be? A true one or a fable? Perchance a story from the good bible?”

“A true one.” Juana glanced aside at Isabel. “Our sister is leaving us. Mother, could you not tell us again the story about how you rescued Isabel when she was a child?”

Princess Isabel beamed, and Catalina stirred in excitement. “Mother, yes, that one! Please!” the child said.

The queen patted Juana’s hand. “Good. You make my heart happy that you ask for this story, my Juana. It shows you’ve put aside your jealousy of your sister.” She glanced at her eldest daughter. “Very soon, Isabel will be counting on you to take her place.”

Imparting a gentle smile to her sister, Isabel nodded. “Juana will do this well. Father will see my sister better when I am no longer here. She only needs this chance to come into her own and show him how truly able she is.”

Queen Isabel pursed her lips, the lines of age deepening around them. Her eyes fixed on the tapestry that backed the wall of the andras before her. As if caught up in the scene showing Saint Michael fighting the dragon, she seemed oblivious to her waiting daughters. At last, she gave a short laugh. “Your father may not be so observant, but I know well the abilities of my hijas.” She reached across Isabel and clasped Juana’s hand. “My passionate, beautiful Juana, in a family of great hearts, you truly have the greatest heart of all. I know it has been hard for you to grow up in Isabel’s shadow. I do not wish to ever speak against your father, but he has had little time to know you as I do. He lives a hard and dangerous life as a soldier. That must remain his focus while we fight our Holy War.

“With Isabel gone, he will see you more clearly and look more to you with approval. Try to keep your emotions under control, my Juana. Nothing annoys your father more than to see his hijas forgetful of who they are. Never forget you’re a royal daughter twice over.”

Intertwining her hands tight in her lap, Juana blinked away tears. She grimaced in pain – or perchance for other causes. She spoke in a barely heard whisper. “My mother, I pray every day for my lord father to look more kindly upon me.”

The queen’s eyes darkened. Before she shut them, for several heartbeats, Beatriz saw a door opening to deep wells of pain and grief.

“I know you do, child.” She sighed. “Isabel’s marriage gives our hearts reason for joy. As for your father, he is only harsh because he wants what is best for our kingdoms, and the best for all our children. Let’s begin this story.”

Queen Isabel smiled at Catalina. “Isabel was then little older than our Uno Piqueño,” the queen laughed grimly. “If you think today is hot, my children, it compares little to the heat we endured then. None escaped it. It scorched the land in the hottest summer in living memory. In the middle of that awful summer, word came to me that Isabel was imprisoned at Segovia –”

Princess Isabel laughed. “Not right, Mother?”

The queen glanced at Isabel with a merry glint. “Pray, mine own young Mother-in-Law, are all my girls interrupting me today?” Beatriz turned away a smile, hearing the queen use her often used nickname for her eldest daughter.

Her laughter ringing out like bells, Isabel lounged against the andas and waved her hand. “My esteemed and most prudent queen, forgive me. Pray, lady mother, go on.”

Her gaze again on Saint Michael and his uplifted sword, Queen Isabel’s eyes darkened as if with memories. “Even at six, my Isabel acted old for her years – much like our Uno Piqueño here.” She shrugged. “Isabel was yet my only living child. For seven years, before the birth of Juan, she wore the mantle of my successor. She needed to grow up fast. Your father and I made certain of that. Your sister did not panic at the sound of near battle. Despite her young years, her quick thinking ensured she and her attendants escaped to the inner tower of the alcázar, fleeing from the clutches of men who soon captured Don Pedro de Bobadilla. He was left in charge of Segovia whilst my dear amiga and her husband Cabrera spent time at my court.” The queen smiled aside at Dońa Beatriz Bobadilla. “‘Twas one of the few times I ever saw you weep, hearing of the imprisonment of your good father.”

Glancing aside at Queen Isabel, Dońa Beatriz shrugged. “My queen, I foolishly allowed myself to become distressed. You soon had the situation in hand.”

The queen nodded and returned to her story. “The messenger told us Isabel and her people were in safe-keeping. But for how long? It was only a matter of time before these disgruntled rebels realised that they could gain a greater hostage for their bargaining if they turned their attention to Isabel.

“Thank the good God, I was then a young and hardy woman, used to spending days in the saddle. Without wasting any more precious time, I mounted my best horse, leaving orders for Cabrera and Dońa Beatriz to follow with a troop of cavalry. Only two companions did I take, two men I judged could aid me best – the Count of Benavente, a man well-proven in battle and wisdom, and Cardinal Mendoza, whose advice had rarely led me astray. We left Tordesillas as the sun reached its zenith and rode and rode. The only time we stopped was to give ourselves a chance to speak of the best course of action once we arrived at Segovia.

“At night we journeyed without torch-bearers, but a full moon helped us find our way through mountain passes. Refusing to give way to sleep, we rode until the break of dawn and well into the next morning.

“My heart lifted at the first sight of the Roman aqueducts, and then I saw the alcázar, shadowing its beauty high over the city. I spurred my horse to greater speed, leaving both the count and the cardinal in the wake of my dust. The poor cardinal,” Queen Isabel gave a short laugh. “I yelled at him, ‘Dig your heels in! Use your whip, make the horse gallop!’ A ghost of a man by this time, the cardinal struggled to keep himself upon his mount. But this mission was far too urgent to stop or give him any pity. That could wait. The sun attained its zenith again by the time I reached the city gates. I held my head high, drawing to myself every iota of my being when I said to the rebels: ‘Tell those cavaliers and citizens that I am Queen of Castilla, and this city is mine.’ Without showing fear, I rode through the gates. None dared shut me out. None dared doubt I came to take back what rightly belonged to me. Si, what was mine. I spurred my poor, exhausted horse one more time, galloping straight to the tower where my Isabel took refuge.

“As good fortune had it, a large number of loyal citizens had added their numbers to her bodyguard. They opened the gates with joy. When I took Isabel into my arms, I praised God for keeping her safe and vowed out loud, whenever possible, Isabel and all my children, yet unborn, would stay protected by my side. But our tears of relief needed to wait for another time. Events in this rebellious city had not come to an end.

“Outside, the people bayed for blood, howling their hatred and demands. Fearing the fury of the mob, the good cardinal and Count Benavente wished for me to bar myself safe within the tower.

“But they spoke to a queen hearing well the voice of her unhappy people. My heart told me they wouldn’t hurt me, that their hatred wasn’t for me. I showed no fear standing at the tower window, my little Isabel holding my hand.” The queen’s eyes met her daughter’s. “How proud I felt of my girl. Without showing any trepidation, I asked my people what they wanted. Voices called as one: ‘Remove Cabrera!’” At the name of Dońa Beatriz Bobadilla’s husband, Queen Isabel smiled reassuringly at her friend. “I told the crowd I’d give the city into the keeping of a servant, loyal to me, but who would also honour them. I wanted no further dealings with those involved in leading the insurrection, only those faithful to my rule.

“‘Long live the queen!’ echoed between the towers, and I knew victory was mine. The rebel leaders escaped with their lives and peace was restored without further bloodshed.

“For a time, I relieved Cabrera from his post and stayed in Segovia for two months, attending to the complaints of the city. Most of the problems stemmed from a long list of misunderstandings.” Queen Isabel shrugged. “Perchance a little over-eagerness to be firm with the city on the part of my loyal Cabrera –”