The Scroll of Seduction Read online

  Manuel and his aunt came to school the following Thursday afternoon. Mother Luisa Magdalena wanted to meet them. It was protocol, in cases like mine. I was called to the parlor, the elegant room with polished parquet floors and heavy wood furniture where formal visitors were received. It was the same room where I’d said good-bye to my grandparents, tearlessly, when I first arrived. When I got there, Águeda and Manuel stood and greeted me politely, paternally. They both played their roles perfectly. With the information he’d gleaned through our conversations, Manuel pretended to be a close friend of my grandparents, whom he said he’d gotten to know on their trips to Spain over the past few years. He said he had offered to give me Spanish history lessons some time ago, but that several things had come up and, unfortunately, he’d forgotten all about it. Luckily, one day he bumped into me on the street, and when I’d told him my interest in learning more about the city and its historic monuments, he’d recalled his promise and realized how far away my family was. At any rate, he and his aunt would be happy to have me stay with them on weekends, so I could experience a different environment and have someplace to go. It was a shame that I’d had no surrogate family until this point, but it was never too late. There was still time, even though this was my last year of high school, for me to leave Madrid having had other experiences and made new friends.

  Mother Luisa was surprised that I had never mentioned our bumping into each other before. I contradicted her. Didn’t she remember me telling her about that historian who was studying Juana of Castile? Her expression acknowledged that she did, and I made the most of it, stating that I’d only just realized that being seventeen warranted a degree of freedom that I might not have been ready for at thirteen. And when I had run into Manuel and his aunt and they had invited me, I was motivated to ask my grandparents for permission. She seemed satisfied with this explanation.

  With her habitual shrewdness and intelligence, the nun prolonged the conversation a little longer. While aunt and nephew were engaged in gaining her favor, she weighed them up with her eyes. Finally, the combination of pedigree, kindness, and the Rojases’ solidarity–along with my grandparents’ telegram, of course–produced the desired effect. After all, Mother Luisa Magdalena was a kindhearted, modern woman; and besides, she liked me.

  “See them out, Lucía,” Mother Luisa said. “I have to get back to the infirmary.”

  I led them down the tiled hallway.

  “Águeda, thank you so much for coming along,” I gushed.

  “It’s the least I could do.” She smiled. “Manuel was right when he said my presence would help calm the nuns and make your request seem more respectable. Even with your grandparents’ permission and all the rest of it, I’m not sure if they would have let you go just with him. And with you in the house, it means I’ll get to have Manuel back on weekends. Lately he spends them all in his apartment. I’ll make up a room for you. It’s a big house, as you know. We don’t use a third of the space we have. It will be like a breath of fresh air, having a young person there. Plus, Manuel can carry on with his story of the queen’s life,” she concluded, obviously pleased with herself.

  “You see, Lucía? By broadening the horizons of what you believed possible, your reality has changed. It all turned out perfectly,” Manuel said.

  SATURDAY, I THREW A FEW CLOTHES, MY PAJAMAS, AND A TOOTHBRUSH into my backpack and left school with Manuel and Águeda, who had come to pick me up.

  Walking down the street between the two of them on the way to the car that first time, I experienced some trepidation as I left the convent behind. I was going to spend the night at the Denia mansion surrounded by objects that had belonged to Juana, in the care of her jailers’ descendents.

  CHAPTER 11

  Águeda led me to a large bedroom with a balcony overlooking the garden. I helped her draw back the heavy, damask curtains to let the soft midday light filter in between the branches of the chestnut tree. The room had high ceilings, and the tapestry on the walls was in excellent condition, though it must have been very old. It was somewhere between mustard and ocher in color, silky soft, its panels framed in maroon molding. The bed was a bronze four-poster, and the room also had a delicate-looking divan upholstered in the same bloodred damask as the curtains, and two small, blue sofas. It was a feminine room, with a beautiful Oriental rug on the floor and a fireplace. I walked over to the window, which overlooked the motionless fountain below.

  “This is a beautiful room, Águeda, thank you.”

  “This is where my sister used to sleep,” she said.

  “Manuel’s mother?”

  She nodded, caught up in her memories momentarily. Then she recovered.

  “I left you some clean towels and other things in the bathroom.”

  “Thank you so much,” I said. “You are so very kind.”

  “It’s nothing, child,” she replied, pausing for a moment to look around once more, not bustling as she had been since the moment we arrived. She smoothed her hair down. “Why don’t you lie down and rest for a while? If you need anything, just give me a call.”

  Manuel had gone out to meet Genaro, so I stretched out on the bed and looked around the room. I decided to spend half an hour not thinking about anything. I’d just pretend I was in a four-star hotel and forget about Juana and the Denias for a while.

  I MUST HAVE FALLEN ASLEEP. MANUEL KNOCKED ON MY DOOR AT about two o’clock. I was so used to my tiny cell at the convent that it startled me to wake up in what felt like a cathedral. I was cold and shivering.

  Águeda had prepared lunch for us, Manuel said, poking his head in the doorway. They’d be waiting for me in the kitchen; I could come down as soon as I was awake enough.

  “After lunch I’ll tell you about Juana and Philippe’s first trip to Spain.”

  I washed my face in the immaculate bathroom, which had a porcelain and bronze claw-foot bathtub. The edges of the mirror above the sink were dappled, and there were patches where time had worn away the mercury. I looked at my sleepy face and felt comforted by my reflection. I was the person I knew best in that house.

  Lunch was short and frugal: Serrano ham, olives, Manchego cheese, and bread. Águeda asked a few questions about my family and my time at boarding school. I usually found it easier, with older people, to talk about my parents, grandparents, or other relatives. Águeda, however, managed to steer the conversation so that I found myself discussing my intellectual concerns, my love of reading and writing, my trips to the Prado, and my opinion of Mother Luisa Magdalena. I was grateful for it.

  When it came time for coffee after the meal, I could tell Manuel was growing impatient.

  “If you’ll excuse us, Aunt Águeda, Lucía and I will have coffee in the library.”

  “Whatever you like. Don’t worry about me.”

  She wouldn’t let us help clear the table and sent us off with the coffee tray to the magnificent library, which I had never seen before.

  It was a rectangular room, with a small reading nook beside the fireplace where a fire was burning. The far wall had built-in, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and the side walls had bookcases running from one end to the other. There must have been hundreds and hundreds of volumes, and some, judging by their appearance, were probably ancient and priceless. Two well-worn, green leather sofas sat before the fireplace, and the rest of the furniture was comprised of a few tables stacked with art books, a desk and typewriter, and several long, tube-shaped antique cane holders. The slight messiness of all those books and objects piled up all over the place, compared to the orderliness of the rest of the house, made me want to take off my shoes and curl up in a chair.

  “Welcome to the inner sanctum, Lucía. A bona fide library: the best thing this family has.”

  “You must love studying in here.” I smiled, looking around the stunning room. There were several sixteenth or seventeenth century portraits hanging by the fireplace: three men and four women.

  “I do.” He sighed. “It’s such an ideal place for re
flection that the voices in these books come to life. I can almost hear Plato and Kant giving speeches from their respective shelves. Paraphrasing the Bible, the spirit of knowledge floats in this air. I can feel it.”

  He motioned to me to come sit by him on the leather sofa. His cheeks were flushed from the wine we’d had at lunch. Cheerful and relaxed, he looked younger and more handsome.

  I sat down, and he put his arm around me. I wanted to feel at ease, to pretend this was my house, but the scenario was so new that I was a little awestruck. Suddenly I was particularly aware of the fact that I hardly knew Manuel.

  “I know you don’t know much about me,” he said, surprising me with his intuition. “I know I just sort of burst in on your life. You’re so young. I realized that just now, while we were having lunch. It made me think about my own adolescence and how insecure I was. You remind me of me at your age: lonely. We were both orphaned at a young age. Maybe that’s why our minds are so in tune, you know?”

  “It’s only natural for me to feel lonely in the convent, I think. But why are you so alone? How come you never got married?”

  “I know myself. I am married: to my books, to history, to this house. That’s all I need. I’ve chosen a solitary life. It’s just a reality I accept. It doesn’t bother me.”

  “Being alone doesn’t bother me either,” I said, uncomfortable with the way the conversation was going. “So did you bring Juana’s dress from your apartment?”

  “Of course.”

  He smiled sadly, as if wishing I weren’t in such a rush. But after all, he said, the whole idea of spending the weekend together was to make headway with Juana’s story. He got up and took the dress from a small closet beside the shelves at the far end of the library. “You should probably just put it on here,” he said. “You won’t get cold if you change in front of the fire.”

  We were starting our little game all over again. I felt a warmth that started in my belly and began to spread through me.

  “Are you sure Águeda won’t walk in?”

  “Positive.”

  I took off my clothes and draped them over the sofa by Manuel. He sat watching me, and he took his time before getting the dress and slipping it over my head, as was our routine.

  “It seems a shame for you to wear clothes at all. You look so beautiful in the firelight.”

  I sat on the sofa. Manuel pulled over one of the high-backed chairs and sat behind me, scooting closer until his lips were right beside my ear, and then he began to whisper.

  YOUR DAUGHTER ISABEL WAS BORN ON JULY 16, 1501. THERE IS NO longer any reason for you and Philippe to delay your trip to Spain. Before leaving, your father-in-law convinced you to agree to the engagement between Charles and Claudia, Louis XII’s daughter. The arranged marriage will ratify the treaty signed in Lyon by Maximilian I, Philippe, and Louis XII, strengthening ties between Austria, the Low Countries, and France. You agreed on the condition that Philippe would find no further obstacles to delay your trip to Spain.

  IN ORDER TO HELP PREPARE ME FOR THE VOYAGE, MY MOTHER finally sent an advisor, Juan Rodríguez de Fonseca, the bishop of Córdoba; he is shrewd and intelligent. The bishop has made me feel less alone and helped me figure out the complexity of the interests at stake, which I already suspected but until now had not understood. My decisions have not been unwise. Bishop Fonseca assures me that my prudence and strength of character in the Flemish court have been well praised in my parents’ court. He says that even the Spanish ambassador, Gutierre Gómez de Fuensalida, when he returned from Flanders, told the king and queen that I was an honorable daughter to them, and that given my age I was without equal. I was greatly pleased by this news. Both the bishop and Fuensalida are of the opinion that Philippe’s advisors are gluttons, drunkards, and loudmouths who are given to slander. These weaknesses–in addition to their fear of losing their influence over Philippe once he is in Spain–are what led to the repeated deferral of our trip. The bishop blames them for having convinced Philippe to abandon the idea of making the voyage by sea and opting, instead, to travel overland and thus through France. These Flemish courtiers cannot resist the idea of being received by the court of Louis XII with all of the French pomp and ceremony. So fond are they of delightful banquets, exciting jousts and hunts, and the splendor of courtly ceremonies that the opportunity could not be passed up. And, of course, I cannot entirely condemn Philippe’s ambition, as he will supposedly soon become sovereign of a kingdom that will combine his father’s empire with the realms of my throne, as well as his Burgundian possessions. It is not unreasonable for him to aspire to good relations with France given the circumstances. Even I have come to wonder if, once Philippe and I rule Spain, the tensions with France might cease and we might find some lasting peace for all concerned. I would be proud to put an end to old quarrels without resorting to new wars.

  Bishop Fonseca, however, says that his greatest worry is that Philippe might decide to rule Spain from Brussels as if it were a province, that he might not even be willing to move to Valladolid. If this were the case, I would have to be prepared to confront my husband and forbid such an absurdity. My parents trust that I will tip the balance in favor of Spain. They have no idea how arrogant and hardheaded my husband is, or to what degree his advisors have effectively stripped me of influence and cast me aside.

  But I must not fill my heart with grave predictions. I pray my country will seduce Philippe. We will see who wins this round. Suddenly the palace is in upheaval with the preparations for our departure. Philippe’s mood has improved, and he once again holds my court and me in his favor. My retinue has received gifts and favors and has grown to include seven Spanish ladies and thirty-four Burgundians. The Viscount of Ghent, Hughes de Melun, will be my gentleman of honor on the journey. To celebrate the birth of Isabel, my husband has showered me with jewels and clothes. He takes pleasure in the idea of my beauty outshining the pale French ladies and, as if excited by the prospect, has once again begun to scavenge my body like an insatiable bull in search of love and kisses. At times I think happiness is beginning to creep back into my household, but after making love I have nightmares filled with lonely, silent labyrinths. I should be happy, I tell Beatriz, my faithful Beatriz. My children are beautiful, my womb is fertile, but the floors of these palaces full of light and tapestries are riddled with scorpions, and there are daggers and treachery hiding in the cracks of the Burgundian walls. I am not the same innocent girl who once believed in happiness and knew nothing of trickery. My heart has aged quickly and, if it were up to me, I would run far away with Philippe and lick off his horrid ogre’s skin, that dragon’s crust that bears no resemblance to the noble, joyful man I know. His malicious, calculating courtiers are the ones who goad him into raging against me, who cause his irritation. But I know the naked Philippe that they can’t perceive. I know the little boy who curls up against me and seeks in my breasts the smell of the mother he lost. I know the man who navigates through my body and my soul with his sails spread out. And that is who I see beneath his crimson rage. It is for him I submit and keep my silence, because love can see beyond tears.

  My parents wanted us to bring Charles to Spain, but Philippe refused outright, so my three children left for Malines, where they will stay with their great-grandmother and their Aunt Marguerite. I won’t see them again for months. I had to wean Isabel at just three months and hand her over to a wet nurse. My darling blond baby! When I look at her it’s like looking at my older sister. Charles was eighteen months old, and he clung to my skirts and wailed up a storm when the Prince of Chimay lifted him from my arms to put him in the carriage. Only Leonor managed to remain calm, though I saw her lip begin to tremble as she tried to hold back the tears when I hugged her good-bye.

  I would go insane in this palace without my children if it weren’t for the tailors and seamstresses, coiffeurs and silversmiths running in and out at every minute, bringing me velvets, silks, and brocades, shoes and wigs to select for the journey. There will be more tha
n a hundred wagons to transport our luggage. Bishop Fonseca, God bless him, gives me advice constantly. He warns me to be watchful and make certain I do not allow myself to be pushed around by the Valois with their clever games and deceits. As the son of a French woman and a Burgundian archduke, Philippe will undoubtedly be received as a French peer–a noble, but also one of the king’s vassals. I, on the other hand, am heir to the realms of Castile and Aragon and a future queen, and cannot accept that vassalage; I must act wisely so as not to hinder either my husband’s interests or my own.

  IT WAS AS IF ALL OF BRUSSELS CAME OUT TO BID US FAREWELL. OUR entourage was magnificent as we began our journey to Valenciennes on the way to Bayonne beneath autumnal, overcast skies. Riding beside my carriage, Philippe lights up the day with his radiant beauty. He shines like the sun, so what need have I of the one in the sky? We wave to the people crowding the streets as we pass. The villagers and settlers admire us reverentially; they are in awe of our beauty, our youth, and the smiles we exchange, in which any man or woman can see a bond more essential and human than that of crowned heads. The archbishop of Besançon, François de Busleyden, is in the carriage ahead of mine. Philippe, when not riding beside me, trots along with him, and they immerse themselves in long conversations that make me as wary as mine with Philippe must make the archbishop. No one in the entire Flemish court hates me as much as that old man. Nor do I hate another as much as him. In the entire kingdom, we are the two who love Philippe the most, which is why we fight to possess him and would like nothing better than for the other to fall out of favor. Besançon’s hand peeks out from between the curtains and he points to someplace off in the distance. His fingers are long and delicate, feminine, as is a part of his soul. Regrettably, he possesses all of the vices and none of the virtues of my sex, but Philippe is blind to his warped mind. The man has been by his side since he was a child. Philippe regards him through the veil of filial love and does not possess the distance required to see him for what he is.