That Other Juana Read online

  That Other Juana

  QUEEN JUANA I OF SPAIN

  (JUANA LA LOCA)

  Linda Carlino

  MARRIAGE

  Chapter 1

  Juana’s head was a confusion of the hopes and fears of a young girl just turned sixteen. The pulse in her throat tugged at her breath.

  She left her room to hurry along the first floor gallery her ladies and her slave girl Zayda close behind. Her thoughts were on the council chamber. The courtiers and guards with their exchanged glances, their sympathetic head shaking went unnoticed. The pleasing scent of lavender, her favourite perfume, rising from the freshly waxed oak floor and the heavy chests held no charm today.

  She knew why the queen, her mother, had sent for her. Of course she knew. She had longed for and yet feared the arrival of this moment ever since the contract was signed only a short while ago, yet she had still dared to hope that this moment might not be for some years.

  But on this cold January morning of 1496, a day she felt would be engraved on her heart for ever; she had been summoned to a formal audience. There was no doubting its purpose. It could be nothing other than to inform her that all the marriage negotiations were concluded and a date set for her departure.

  A painful tightness crushed her ribs. It was as if she had received her death sentence. Gone were all the harboured, delicious dreams of a handsome prince, sad and joyless, yearning to see her beautiful face that he might be returned to happiness.

  ‘Zayda, I will be exiled from Spain – banished.’ Choked words tumbled between gasps. ‘How can I possibly live in a country so far away? It is too far and too dangerous a voyage to get there. I know I will be separated from everything I hold so dear. I will never see my family again. I know it. I will be lost and forgotten.’

  She stopped close to the corner where the stairs rose from the courtyard below and gulped in the icy winter air that crept stealthily upwards. She brushed at her green velvet skirt, her fingers fidgety and nervous.

  Zayda took her hands in hers to steady them. ‘Courage, my lady, courage,’ she urged her beautiful mistress.

  And Juana was beautiful, in every way: in appearance, in the grace of her movement, in the music of her voice. She was of medium height, slim, and perfectly proportioned. Her oval face was crowned with luxuriant copper-gold tresses. Hazel eyes that sparkled readily with intelligence, a joy of life, with warmth and love glistened today with threatening tears. A mouth more accustomed to smiles and laughter was pinched with fear.

  Her ladies waited a few feet away.

  ‘What am I to do?’ Juana pleaded with them. ‘I am scared. Can you promise me that I will be happy in Flanders, and if so for how long? And if not, what then?’

  ‘My lady, no one can know. We must put our trust in God.’

  ‘I hope He will take pity on me. My sister Isabel says she wants to retire to a convent. Do you think I should tell my mother that I intend to become a nun too? Impossible! That is not the life for me. I say my prayers, go to confession and mass, and that is more than enough for me!’

  Shocked gasps from her ladies stopped her. ‘I only said that because Flanders really is so very far away. You would say exactly the same if you were me! But how dare I stand here tarrying! My parents will not be slow to accuse me of reluctance or disobedience.’

  Juana raised the heavy skirts of her dress, bobbed and made a hasty sign of the cross before the triptych tucked in the corner then made her way towards the Rich Salon to be told of her future. Her ladies followed pausing for only the briefest of seconds to cross themselves.

  She had known for a year of the proposed union and of all the various negotiations surrounding her marriage to the Archduke Philip, son of the Holy Roman Emperor. Naively she had supposed that it would be several years before the actual wedding took place, but it became apparent all too soon that this was not to be. There had been constant comings and goings of ambassadors throughout the year. The wedding by proxy earlier in the month and her signature declaring her bound by all the clauses in the wedding contract screamed the imminence of her departure. Then there were all those rumours of the special fleet being assembled in the north.

  She now stood before the doors of the Rich Salon. What awaited her on the other side? All she did know was that she had no choice, there was no alternative.

  Her ladies busied themselves carefully tucking wayward strands of auburn hair back under the green ribbon that crossed the crown of her head; checking the neatness of the single coiled braid that reached down her back to her waist; fussing over her bodice; turning back the voluminous sleeves to reveal their red satin linings; smoothing the folds of her skirts into place.

  Zayda smiled, ‘My thoughts are with you to give you strength, even when I am not beside you.’

  Juana jumped as the doors snapped open. The time had come. Her breath now came in short and painful sobs. She willed herself to enter the room, to take the first steps into a bewildering future.

  The salon was a blaze of red and white and gold; from the walls to the painted cornices and the painted carvings on the ceiling. Rich tapestries added to the splendour. Down the entire length of this council chamber stood the grandees, prelates and ambassadors; almost the entire court was in attendance.

  Juana was completely overawed. After several steps she stopped; her legs unable to carry her further.

  Beyond this brilliant gathering of invited witnesses Queen Isabel and King Ferdinand were seated on thrones under a scarlet velvet canopy bearing the shield of Spain, its coat of arms proudly declaring the power of the united houses. The monarchs were dressed, not in the everyday simple attire they preferred, but in gold brocades, red satins and silks.

  Juana shot a nervous glance in their direction before lowering her head, desperate to avoid so many inquisitive eyes. As she studied the floor tiles it all became suddenly very clear. This was to be a farewell audience. She pouted, quietly grumbling her disappointment that this certainly didn’t compare in any way with the extravagant displays of tournaments and banquets arranged for her sister. It was all so unfair! How much easier it would have been to lose herself amongst a throng of merry-makers than to have to stand alone subjected to the scrutiny of so many.

  Queen Isabel looked down the length of the chamber and wondered how long her daughter intended to remain standing there looking so out of place. It was beginning to annoy her that Juana should be overwhelmed by this occasion. Regrettably Juana had as yet developed no regal bearing and was still so easily daunted. This child with the bowed head, the fidgeting fingers at her girdle, was surely not the same girl with the stubborn chin, the wilful daughter she so recently had cause to severely reprimand?

  Juana's lack of dignity wasn’t Isabel’s only concern. There was the question of her increasing tendency to shun company, (alarmingly similar to her grandmother’s and one which sadly led to her mind becoming confused); hopefully it was nothing more than another symptom of a rebellious phase and not uncommon in girls of a similar age.

  Finally Juana raised her head; she curtsied to her parents and began the long walk towards the thrones. From the corner of her eye she saw some friends including her favourite, her Latin tutor. Their warm smiles offered encouragement and she held her head high, until she saw Cisneros standing close to her mother. He was the newly appointed Archbishop of Toledo and Primate of all Spain. Juana was terrified of him. He was much more than the leader of the Church, he was a powerful man of piercing intellect and tireless zeal for the faith. This priest was able to influence, persuade and guide the queen, even daring to address her as his equal. Remarkably, the queen was never offended by his audacity; proof enough of his power, proof enough to make Juana quake in her shoes even before daring to look at his long cadave
rous face with its deeply set eyes. She was well aware that Cisneros had seen deep into her soul and had found her wanting.

  Her lips began to tremble. She knelt quickly at the feet of her parents, lowering her head lest anyone witness the welling tears. She pressed her jewelled medallion of the Virgin, a gift from her mother, close to her thumping breast.

  Isabel and Ferdinand rose and together descended the three steps to greet her. They were both in their mid-forties. Years of unremitting struggle to forge a new nation had taken their toll, especially on Isabel who had also had the burden of the rigours of six pregnancies. She was no longer the tall, slim, graceful young woman who had charmed Ferdinand. Her fair complexion had turned sallow, her long face with its firm jaw had become puffed and slack. The chestnut tresses had dulled and were now always covered with a fine veil; for today's audience a small crown nestled on top.

  Ferdinand had been more fortunate. His face, bronzed and weathered in the fields of battle, was still strong and handsome. His continued riding and hunting had helped him maintain his firm, muscular frame.

  Together they took Juana’s hands to raise her up. She saw their smiles and was convinced they were of self-congratulation at having successfully completed the marriage contracts for both herself and her brother Juan. The bond between the Holy Roman Empire and Spain had been reinforced twice over by this double marriage, tightening the circle around the enemy, France, thwarting any expansionist ambitions.

  Juana was to marry Philip and her brother would wed Philip's sister Margaret. With the treaties that these marriage contracts brought and others with England making steady progress, (these contingent upon the marriage of another daughter, Catalina, to the son of King Henry VII), France would find herself completely surrounded.

  King Ferdinand spoke, ‘Sweet daughter, all the necessary arrangements for your wedding are now complete. All waiting and uncertainty are at an end. You are to marry in October. Then you will become the wife of Philip, Archduke of Austria, Duke of Burgundy, Count of …’

  It took all her strength not to scream back at him that she knew all this, that it was unimportant. What she wanted to know, but dreaded knowing, was when must she leave. Words from a song repeated themselves in her ear as if to taunt,

  They say that I must marry,

  I do not want a husband, no.

  Polite applause filling the room and Queen Isabel’s voice, seemingly from somewhere far away, interrupted her thoughts.

  ‘You are to leave for Flanders in July.’

  Juana panicked; it could not be July, that was too soon!

  ‘Such an adventure for you; and it will be upon us in no time at all. We must choose some faithful servants to accompany you. We will also have to determine which priests would be most suitable for your confession and spiritual support.’

  She would be leaving in a few months and with servants and priests of her mother’s choosing, her own preferences ignored. Hot tears began to sting her eyes. She considered running away, hiding somewhere; or perhaps even throwing herself at the mercy of her parents, begging to be allowed to remain here, at home, in the bosom of her family.

  Words finally formed saving her from such embarrassments. ‘Your royal highnesses, I shall do my best to please you, to be worthy …’ She was choking, her whole body aching with despair.

  Everyone’s attention was suddenly focused on the doors. They swung open to reveal a young man of seventeen years. It was Juan, a fair skinned and sickly looking youth, who for the whole of his childhood needed to have doctors in constant attendance. He was the special child in the family, the one so very dear to Isabel. Was this because he was the only son God had granted her? Or was it because as an infant he had had such a tenuous hold on life? Was it because of his determination to overcome his disabilities? Perhaps it was his kind words and deeds. It may have been a combination of all these things. Whatever the reason Isabel saw him as her angel and always addressed him so.

  Juana watched her slight, fair haired brother walk slowly towards the dais, his long gown of red velvet and his studied walk disguising his rickety limp. She loved him and wished she could be like him, finding pleasure in so much around him and drawing friendship from everyone he met. He always sought to please and was always cheerful.

  Isabel and Ferdinand, disciplined diplomats expert at showing no emotion, could not disguise their joy in their son.

  ‘Your m-majesties,’ Juan knelt on the cushions placed at their feet. He rose and first kissed the hand of his mother then that of his father.

  ‘Dearest son, our beloved prince, we have good news. The Archduchess of Austria will be coming here in the latter part of this year. She will sail with the returning fleet that will have escorted your sister to her new home.’

  Juan was delighted, his eyes shone, and he nodded his head, looking about him inviting all the court to share in his happiness. ‘G-Gentlemen, l-ladies, is this not w-wonderful. It will not be too long before we have my wife Margaret here among us. How f-fortunate we are to have s-such a prize.’

  His audience bowed. Very few had understood him; the words coming from his scarred and twisted mouth were virtually unintelligible and it was impossible for most people to make any sense of his mumblings.

  Ferdinand nodded a command and trumpets and sackbuts heralded in a procession of standard bearers to take up their positions on either side of the two thrones and on the steps to the dais. First was Isabel’s device of five bound gold arrows on a field of green, this was followed by Ferdinand’s gold yokes on a black field. Next were the Knight Commanders of the three Military Orders, wearing white capes and carrying banners showing their distinctive crosses. Last came the royal coat of arms; quartered to represent Castile, Leon, Aragón, and Sicily, with the added stylised pomegranate of the recently reconquered Granada.

  A pause, then 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, 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 …”

  v v v

  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 fro
m 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.