Falling Pomegranate Seeds: The Duty of Daughters (The Katherine of Aragon Story Book 1) (25 page)

Both lute and voice dwindled off when Beatriz entered the room, Margot and Juan sat with Catalina and Maria, the prince holding his lute as if he was about to play again.

“Come,” Catalina said, smiling in welcome. “Join us.” Gesturing to the space beside her on the bench, she turned to the princess. “Latina writes poetry too.”

Bobbing a curtsey to the three of them, Beatriz laughed. “I don’t think my poor verses compare with Princess. I’ve heard enough to recognise the better poet.”

Margot smiled impishly, and her blue eyes twinkled. “You flatter me. But don’t you agree any poetry sounds good when set to music?” She took her husband’s arm and looked up at him. “This poem is still far from finished. I only have to scribble out a few words and my lord husband must make it a song.”

The prince kissed her cheek and then, more lingeringly, her mouth. “And why not? Finished or not, your words are music to my ears.”

Bestowing another kiss on him, Margot threaded her arm through his. “My sweet lord, you distract me from my task.” Holding his face between her hands, the girl kissed him again. Her body seemed to melt into him. She sighed, and playfully pushed him away. “I must not forget your mother sent me here for a purpose. My sister Catalina must become fluent in French, and who better to teach her than I, once called Queen of France?”

The prince scowled. “Do you regret the loss of that title?”

Nestling into him again, Margot pealed with laughter. “You’re jealous? How can I regret it when I am your queen, my King of Granada?” She took his face between her hands and showered it with kisses. “I love you, Juan. Love you, love you, love you.” Her arms winding around his neck, she kissed his mouth. Prince Juan enclosed her in his arms and kissed her back, deep and long.

Catalina picked up a letter on the table. Ignoring her brother and sister-in-law, now whispering love words to one another, she stared at the parchment. “Elizabeth of England advises I come to England speaking flawless French. ’Tis the second most spoken language at their court. My mother asked my good sister to help me.”

Beatriz looked at the embrace-locked two young lovers and laughed. “If the princess really wants to teach you, I think she best leave your brother elsewhere.”

But as the months sped by, Margot rarely taught Catalina her French without the presence of Prince Juan. Despite her constant love games with her husband, she still managed to tutor Catalina, helping her improve her French. By the end of four months, Catalina’s grasp of the language was one the English would find difficult to fault.

Beatriz was pleased to see this time also teaching Maria to lose her jealousy of Margot. The girl’s sweetness, her impish sense of humour, her intelligence that sparred and grew equally with the prince’s, helped the child let go of her dreams – whatever those dreams may have been – but seemed to let go of childhood too. The girl appeared to have learned one of life’s lessons: to accept with good grace what she could not change. To be happy that others could be truly happy – even when their happiness was not hers.

···

At Alcántara, close to the Portugal border, the queen and her court celebrated Isabel’s wedding to the Portuguese king. Just a year older than his wife, King Manuel treated Isabel tenderly, gazing at her like one love-struck. The queen told Beatriz that the king had fallen in love with Isabel when he met her during her marriage to his cousin. After Alfonso’s death, he never gave up hope that she would agree to marry him. His unhidden love gave the queen hope that Isabel might yet find again happiness as a wife.

My dear one,

Princess Isabel will soon be Queen of Portugal. Her final days with her mother come hard on the heels of another farewell, one causing Queen Isabel less pain, if not less worry. Prince Juan and his now pregnant wife have been cut loose from his mother’s court to set up their own in the city I call home: Salamanca. If only the desire for greater independence was the only reason for this decision. Alas, Prince Juan has been once more struck down by a serious malady. Whilst he is mercifully recovered from his illness, the queen wishes him in the care of his former tutor. Diego de Deza is a man both trusted by the queen and her son, a man who Prince Juan can never mislead about when he sickens and knows how to deal with the prince in such times.

Thus, on the slow, long journey to Alcántara, the royal courts detoured to Salamanca and we remained there for two weeks. The queen and king were greeted with joy, the citizens of Salamanca happy and proud they chose their city for Prince Juan’s court. The city’s celebrations showed no sign of abating when the king and queen and their courts farewelled Prince Juan and his
wife...

···

God have mercy, the stop of one heartbeat turns joy into sorrow in a blink of an eye. That day Queen Isabel, the unending celebrations for her daughter’s wedding proving too much for her failing health, dozed in bed. As was often her custom when the queen sickened, Beatriz brought Catalina and Maria to the queen’s chamber after their morning of study, and they took turns reading to Queen Isabel, or playing chess or sewing together. Beatriz was not certain if the queen really desired their company, but Catalina always found a way to comfort her mother.

Whilst the queen slept, Beatriz read her book and Catalina and Maria embroidered, talking softly to one another. Their conversation stopped when the king entered the chamber, hurrying to Queen Isabel’s side, oddly followed by Cisneros, the queen’s confessor, and Guadalupe, her most favoured physician.

“Isabel.”

The queen awoke, starting at her husband’s voice. Catalina and Maria gazed at one another. Beatriz could see they, like her, wondered what was afoot.

Queen Isabel half rose from her pillows. She rubbed her eyes, straightening with difficulty. Her eyes widening at sight of her confessor, she turned to her husband. “What is it?”

The king almost spat the hateful words: “A messenger’s come from our son’s wife... Margot... She says Juan’s dying!”

Catalina dropped her sewing onto the floor. Beatriz stared at it, mocked by the almost finished summer’s garden, the silks chosen for their bright beauty to celebrate abundant life. Beatriz picked it up, pricking her finger on an unseen needle. The sharp, sudden pain brought tears to her eyes – or was it from hearing the king’s words? They pierced her heart far more than a simple needle.

“Ferdinand,” Queen Isabel cleared her throat, “there’s some mistake.”

The king shook his head, his shoulders slumping in defeat. Sitting on the edge of her bed he gazed at his wife. “The messenger also brought word from Juan’s physician. He says the same.”

Queen Isabel opened and shut her mouth. For a moment she seemed deprived of all speech. “How can this be so, Ferdinand?” she asked at last. “Juan was well when we left him.”

King Ferdinand laid his broad hand over his wife’s. Like a claw of an old woman, the queen’s hand curled and trembled beneath his. The king sighed, took his hand away, rubbing at the top of his leg hose with the heel of his palm. “For not long after, my Isabel. Our son refused to listen to the entreaties of his physician. He begged Juan not to further exhaust himself by following day revels with night-long banquets. Knowing our son, Juan probably didn’t want to disappoint both the city and his wife, but it proved too much for him. The physician says he has done everything, but Juan’s fever gets no better. Our son is too weak to fight.”

The queen moaned. Her hands flailed out, her body writhing with no true purpose. She sounded and looked mad.

“Help me up – I must go to him.” She attempted to right herself, pain distorting her face. Shutting her mouth and eyes, she slipped back upon the pillows and her moan became one of anguish. Beads of sweat ran down her forehead, over her closed eyes, dripping over the straight, thin line of mouth and slackening chin.

On the other side of her huge bed, the physician picked up her hand, checking her pulse. With considered gentleness, he placed her hand back on the bed and shook his head at the king. He gazed back at the queen with grave worry. “Your Highness, you’re far too ill for travel. Going to the prince would only place your life in great jeopardy. I cannot in good conscience allow it.”

From the shadows, Cardinal Cisneros stepped forward. He stood by the physician’s side. “My queen, think what’s right for your kingdom.”

Queen Isabel’s agonised eyes flew open at the priest’s words. Anger sparked a fiery renewal of her familiar majesty.

“Always I think what’s right for my kingdom. That and only that has been my first concern from the time I first became queen.” Raising her hand, she brushed tears from her eyes. “Sweet Jesus I am a mother, too.” The queen glared at her physician. “And pray tell me, little man, what gives you the right to say what I can or cannot do?”

The king dismissed the recoiling physician. He reached for the queen’s hand. “Hearing his beloved mother is at her death door because she hurried to his side will not aid our son. I beg you, listen to reason and heed what I say. You’re too ill to leave here, but I will go and act for us both in this, just as we have done for one another in the past. I can reach our son’s side with greater speed if you remain here. With my best riders I make this vow to you. I will reach our son in less than a day.”

Queen Isabel eyed her husband. As if passing all her remaining strength to him, she wilted against her pillows, her trembling hand spreading over the lower half of her face before dropping it to the bed’s coverlet. The queen lifted her chin again, inhaling a ragged breath. “God speed, husband. God speed. Tell my son I love him. Tell him I pray only for good news of his recovery.” She averted her face, tears trickling from her closed eyes. “Pray God strengthen me...” She spoke in a whisper, her quiet words pulsating in the room’s uneasy, unearthly silence. “For I do not think I could withstand the loss of our boy. God – please God, if you love me, do not take him from me... do not take Juan, do not take my son.”

Dear Francisco,

I do not even want to put this down on paper. If I do – I deny all hope of rumour, and rather confront truth: word from Salamanca tells us that Prince Juan is dying. Receiving the message from his son’s physicians, King Ferdinand rode to the city that very day. We hear he rode all through the night and into the next day. The court waits, tottering on a dagger’s point, for news.

One day. Two days. Three. Four. Five. Six. The long days drag from waking to sleeping – if any of us are fortunate to find sleep. All close to the queen live in hope of a messenger from Salamanca, living in fear of that message. When the messenger comes, the court hears the prince is better, and then worse, then better, but none tells the queen what we all pray to hear: that Prince Juan overcomes his illness and is well again.

It is now two agonising weeks since the king left for Salamanca. Two weeks of sorrow and helplessness. The queen is distraught. Princess Isabel, now the Queen of Portugal, walked like a sleep walker into her new marriage. Joyless, she wedded the King of Portugal loving life not at all, resigned to fulfil her duty. But I think only with her body – the queen’s eldest daughter turns her gaze so much to the Kingdom of Heaven she cuts herself adrift from the mortal world.

Queen Isabel masked a brave face for her daughter’s sake. She left her sickbed, calling upon all her powers of persuasion, convincing Isabel the right course of action meant she must go with her new husband as planned and wait in Portugal for news of her brother. Farewelled by the queen’s court one more time in her life, Isabel departed yesterday for her husband’s kingdom, not knowing whether her beloved brother would live or die. Her eldest daughter gone, Queen Isabel lives now for her husband’s
messages.

My little infanta no longer enjoys her daily lessons. All she wants is the comfort she finds in the chapel when she prays with her mother…

For days, the entirety of Beatriz’s life seemed that of dark, shuttered rooms and the strong smell of melting beeswax in the chapel. But closed shutters did not shut out the sounds of the day. Sunlight peeped into the chamber through every crack. Pulsing air caused the lit candles to wisp with smoke. The crisp smell of autumn awoke in Beatriz the desire to come away from the dark oppressive air that lingered everywhere. One day Catalina refused to consider doing anything other than pray. Unable to stay indoors for one more moment, Beatriz asked for release and took herself into one of the most beautiful courtyards of Alcántara. Once there she sat by the pool, staring into the water, feeling as if swept into a maelstrom. A sudden breeze blew loose strands of hair into her eyes, forcing her to push it away.

An uncertain pale face wavered in the pool, breaking apart when another gust of wind blew across the rippling surface. Beatriz turned to see Maria beside her. No longer a child but still far from womanhood, Maria looked more and more like her beautiful mother. Beatriz sighed. And when time fulfilled that promise? What then? Passing time would only steal beauty away again. Time was as indefinable as the water passing through her trailing fingers. Unable yet to trust her voice, Beatriz brushed away her tears. Sorrow seemed to drub with every heartbeat – a painful cadence echoing loudly in her ears.

A dragonfly flashed its shimmering, rainbow wings over the silver, now still water. In the tree growing in the corner of the garden, a bird trilled a short burst of song. Another bird answered, and then another, until the air throbbed with birdsong. Comfort settled upon her like the sun’s mantle of autumn warmth. Her heart swelled feeling, somehow, seemingly, that this comfort came from the prince.

Beatriz saw him in her mind’s eye – lean and straight, fair and handsome, smiling his teasing and quirky smile at his sisters and Maria, who he always treated as another sister. She remembered the first time she had ever seen him playing upon his harp in his mother’s chamber. Barely a youth he was already a skilled harpist. Whenever he plucked the strings of his harp or guitar – whether as a boy, a youth or a man – he wove his passion for music into the melodies he played, melodies he composed from his loving, noble heart. They were memories that would stay with her forever. Not even death possessed the power to rob them from her.