The Scroll of Seduction Page 22

  I sat down on a chair afterward, the scissors on my lap. Madame de Hallewin untied my victim. All the ladies rushed out. Who will dare? I will dare. Then I gathered up the curls from the floor and scattered them all over Philippe’s pillow.

  WHEN PHILIPPE ARRIVED I WAS CALM, EMPTY. HE CHARGED AS IF he were riding a furious steed, rushing to defeat his opponent in a tournament. He grabbed me by the hair and began to slap and hit me, insulting me and calling me names. He would never make love to me again. He detested me. How dare I? People were right to say I’d lost my wits, I was mad. The redhead (he said her name, I can’t recall it) deserved nothing but love; the love he gave her and would keep giving her, regardless of how I tried to stop him. Who will dare? I will dare, I shouted. Oh, do you? he asked, raising his hand once more. This time I turned, but his hand still glanced the edge of my right cheek. I lost my balance and fell to the floor, but he dragged me up by my gown, forcing me to stand once more. His eyes were wild with fury, his hands brutal. In the end, I became frightened. I had the presence of mind to realize that, as with wild animals, the most prudent thing was to keep perfectly still. I stood motionless in the middle of the room, my hands crossed over my skirt, my head bowed. Whatever he did, he could not touch my soul. At least that was what I thought at the time. My tranquility infuriated him. He shook me by the shoulders, but I was as limp as a lifeless doll, having gone to a space he could not touch with his hands. I think he realized, because finally he ceased his attack and left, slamming the door. When I tried to leave my rooms, I found that the door was locked from the outside. I spent all night banging on it, hurling objects against it, anything that would crash and then fall to the floor and break into a thousand pieces, anything I could lay my hands on. Philippe would be made to hear my riot. Whenever he didn’t spend the night with me, he slept in the chambers just below mine. I wanted to make noise to communicate my fury, the degree of my inconformity and rage. Wrapped in my ire, my body aching from his blows, I stayed awake all night. The following day, Philippe sent Theodore de Leyden to my rooms. Still stinging from the events of the day before, I was pacing back and forth, contemplating the detritus left behind from my indignation. When Theodore walked in, I dropped into a chair, relieved that it was he who had arrived. I could not allow Philippe to lock me up and just keep quiet, without protest, I said by way of justification. It was indefensible that he should lock me in my rooms. That was why I had determined not to let him get any sleep. Theodore looked at me as he picked up pieces of jugs and mirrors, placing them delicately on the round table in the corner, as if he’d decided to make a mosaic. When I stopped speaking, he came up and smiled softly, paternally. He sat down beside me, arranging his baggy trousers. He had the habit of playing with his rings while he thought.

  “WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE DONE, LUCÍA?”

  “I don’t understand Philippe. His cruelty is beyond my comprehension. I mean, I don’t understand my father either, but at least my mother had the option of divorcing him. I admire Juana. She had no options, but she decided to rebel, to confront the situation and not keep her mouth shut. That must have been almost unheard of back then, so good for her, that’s what I think.”

  “Well, Theodore de Leyden suggested more subtle tactics. Perhaps more along the lines of what Isis recommended to your mother. You couldn’t fight desire with rage, he said. You had to fight it with more desire. Philippe was not indifferent to Juana’s feminine charms. So rather than behave boorishly and give him more reason to justify his infidelity, she should brandish the most intimate weapons of her sex. Theodore was of the opinion that if she cast the nets of her seduction, if she caught his attention with perfumes and used love to heal the wounds of their separation, her husband would be unable to resist. And what better revenge than regaining his love so that all and sundry could see that Philippe still loved her? Thanks to Theodore, the Moorish slaves Juana had brought on her voyage from Laredo came back on the scene, the same women who had consoled her during those two months she spent waiting for the stormy seas to subside.

  THE MOORISH WOMEN KNEW ALL ABOUT LOVE POTIONS AND SPELLS. They wouldn’t betray or scorn me. I put Fatima in charge of the group. Born in Algeciras, she was tall and brawny. She had strong hands and few qualms about speaking her mind. I liked her Andalusian accent, and I found the traits of her character comforting, for she had lived fully and seen enough not to be scandalized by anything. Besides, Philippe would take no interest in her because she had a manly build. Contrary to what one might guess from her personality, Fatima was very delicate in everything she did, whether washing my hair or giving me massages with citrus-scented oils. She called for a copper tub to be brought to my room so that I could soak in long baths. But no matter how moist and silky my skin became, inside I was a cracked, parched desert. I am dried up and dried out, I thought, and when I closed my eyes I could see my mother’s musty skin and imagined her as Beatriz described her in her letters, prostrate with fevers and thirsty day and night. “The queen is very ill. You should prepare yourself, and think that soon you shall inherit these realms.” With my eyes closed, I tried to picture myself ruling not just Castile and Aragon but the new territories discovered by Admiral Christopher Columbus. I could recall the admiral on his visit to my parents after his first journey. He had returned to Spain on January 4, 1493, but he did not arrive in Barcelona until April. In the plaza before Santa Clara Church, he approached the golden canopy where we stood, accompanied by six half-naked savages he’d brought from the New World, their bodies painted in red-black designs, their hair adorned with bones and feathers. Others in their procession carried cages with colorful birds that looked more like flowers than animals. I recalled the tray of gold pieces shaped like monkeys and lizards that he offered my parents, the scent of the tobacco leaves and the never-before-seen cocoa beans, which we now used to make chocolate. Perhaps during my reign I would organize an expedition so that Philippe and I could travel to see the crystal-clear seas they had called the Caribbean and the jungles full of unfamiliar animals. The idea of those lands, surrounded by water, inhabited by primitive peoples, noble savages who possess an innocence we have lost, is so seductive. The descriptions of those who have been in the Indies have let my dreams and fantasies run wild.

  The baths and perfumes, combined with my endearments, had the desired effect. Philippe and I made up. The passion we shared together before that cursed year I spent alone in Spain was the memory I clung to with my eyes squinted shut when we made love. But often I felt we were not alone in bed. Other bodies, like specters, slipped in between the sheets. Copper curls, feminine faces, peeked out like ghosts from behind the curtains. I caught the whiff of unknown smells and imagined that Philippe, his hands on my breasts, was dreaming of other contours, and that he fed his pleasure by evoking what he did on the nights I was absent. As we panted in unison, without his noticing, I scrutinized his face in search of memories he kept concealed behind closed eyes. At those moments, I yearned to stab my fingers into his eyeballs, to wrench the visions from his sockets. I pretended to moan in pleasure, but I was consumed by jealousy and whimpered, instead, from rage and impotence. My love had turned into an anguished need to possess him, to ensure that, whatever the price, my lover was mine and mine alone.

  Good God, what shall I do? What shall I do with all the anguish I hold inside, the unremitting pain that this love brings me? I am constantly suspicious of Philippe. I want to maintain my dignity, but all I do is berate and interrogate, denigrating myself before him. But I have to know. There is nothing so pathetic, so pitiful, or so painful as being the deceived wife. It is not just the love I profess but my pride that leads me to stalk him. I cannot allow him to betray me, nor what is worse, to successfully deceive me. Ever since I returned I have had the strange feeling that Philippe has a double. I cannot accept that the man I love and the one who abuses his authority, lies to me, laughs in my face, and makes me out to be a lunatic are the same person. When the false Philippe approaches, I shiver. I f
ear his harsh words and eyes, which would drill through my heart with impunity if they could.

  I was quite taken with Fatima’s ablutions. So much so that I convinced Philippe too to let himself be perfumed and rubbed with oils. But before long, my pleasure began to make him uncomfortable. He was jealous that I could find my slaves hands so sweet, their touch so restful. In truth they pleasured me with more than just baths and massages. Those women had silky soft hands and knew all the secrets of the body. Several of them were quite beautiful, and seeing them naked and feeling their breasts brush against me as they washed my hair excited every sort of devilish temptation I held inside. They were not content just to massage and oil my body nor rub sugar to slough away my rough skin; they used their tongues to wash it away. The first time Almudena licked my sex, I was dozing lightly. I pretended not to awaken and to dreamily enjoy the softness of her tongue. She was a woman, so she knew exactly how much pressure to exert in order to make me melt from the inside out, to exhaust me and bring me to the sweetest, most exquisite pleasure that humans have ever known. Those slave women working above me made me float in fabulous, prolonged ecstasy, which I would later recount to Philippe when we got into bed together. He would be aroused by my descriptions of Melina’s kisses, of the way Fatima licked my nipples, fingers, and toes. And what I told him as a harmless game, to feed our passion, was also my form of revenge, my way of showing him that I too found pleasure in other places. I provoked his jealousy, which was my aim, but it was a pyrrhic victory. He began to berate me, to call me perverse and say I acted against nature. I was committing the sin of the island of Lesbos. I must not carry on with those practices, he said, and he forbade it. Theodore and my slaves would be forced to leave the palace.

  When I refused to dismiss Fatima, Almudena, and particularly Theodore, Philippe sent Pedro de Rada, my chamber quartermaster, to warn me that until they were sent away, my husband would not visit me again. It was an ultimatum: him or them. My choice. He got my unwavering response: I had his messenger thrown out of my rooms. In retaliation, Philippe ordered that I be kept behind locked doors once more.

  Months later I found out that because my parents were worried about rumors that I was mistreated, Philippe had ordered Martín de Moxica to keep a record of everything he reported about my behavior, to compile a logbook. Among other things, Moxica had jotted down–as if it were a crime–that I bathed several times a day, often washed my hair, and that my rooms smelled so strongly of musk it was hard to breathe. Finally, Philippe sent this dossier to my parents, intending to prove that I was losing not only my wits but also my ability to discern good from evil.

  It was Philippe’s evil twin who thought nothing of getting rid of Theodore as well as twelve of my servants, my Moorish slaves among them. He would not even allow Madame de Hallewin to stay by my side. In her stead, he sent a pro-French lady who detests me, the Viscountess of Furnes, Alienor de Poitiers. He sent my confessor back to Spain and outright refuses to give me any money for my expenses as he ought, claiming that he has not received the incomes due him as prince of Asturias. Perhaps, indeed, I am mad, but Philippe and this horrid man cannot be the same person. No one else realizes that there is deceit underfoot, because no one else knows the real Philippe as I do. And that is why I have elected to stay in bed. Alienor de Poitiers shall not be the one to make me eat, or dress. If I am to be denied my attendants, then no one shall lay a hand on me. I will die of hunger if this is my only means of getting the Philippe I love to come back and take charge of our household.

  “IN LATIN AMERICA WE SAY: A SAINT ABROAD AND A DEVIL AT HOME. Juana saw the play of light and shadows in Philippe’s behavior.

  “But Philippe was just behaving normally for a man of his time. It was Juana, on the other hand, whose jealousy and torment and inability to feign indifference–her total transparency, which was so unusual for a woman of her station back then–turned her into the weakest link,” Manuel said. “It was easier for her contemporaries to write her off than to try to understand her, not only because it was simpler but also because there was political gain to be had from it.”

  “Her husband’s contrariety was probably reason enough to confound her and make her doubt her sanity. And if you add to that the uncertainty and disquiet Juana had been experiencing, what with her parents trying to separate her from her spouse, plus Philippe’s infidelity, plus the isolation forced on her…Poor thing. It’s no wonder she thought Philippe had a double.”

  “He didn’t want her to have any contact with people who made her feel like herself; making her think she was losing her mind was all part of the plan, and there were times when she probably preferred to believe that it wasn’t reality that was so cruel but her own mind playing tricks on her, though to me that seems even worse. Tragically, the idea that she was mad was politically useful both to Philippe and to Ferdinand, as a means of justifying their ambitions. On November 23, 1504, three days before Queen Isabella died–and no doubt using Martín de Moxica’s dossier as proof, since by that time Philippe had sent it to him–Ferdinand played another one of his ruses. He convinced Isabella to add a last-minute clause to her will. It goes without saying that since she was already on her deathbed, she was in no condition to put up a fight. And this clause stated that if Juana were absent from Castile, or if she were incapacitated to rule, then King Ferdinand would govern on her behalf. So, really, he took the documents Philippe had sent him in the hopes of being granted greater command when he ascended to the throne and used them for his own ends: checkmate.”

  WHEN THEY FOUND OUT, PHILIPPE AND PARTICULARLY GUTIERRE Gómez de Fuensalida, the Spanish ambassador, realized they’d fallen into a trap. Gómez de Fuensalida had switched camps and was now supporting the man he assumed would be the future king when Isabella died. He had become Philippe’s most faithful advisor, standing in for François de Busleyden, the archbishop of Besançon. Forced to change strategies to ensure that Ferdinand had no way to strip Philippe of power, the prince and his counselor then decided to claim that Juana was, after all, sane so as to make light of the rumors they themselves had made sure to spread. But it was too late. After the queen died, Ferdinand convened the Cortes of Castile in January 1505 and read out Martín de Moxica’s lengthy account of Juana’s behavior. Immediately, the Cortes declared him governor of all her kingdoms. So Philippe realized that only by taking Juana to Spain and presenting her as a queen that was fit to rule could he oppose Ferdinand effectively.

  “WHEN DID ISABELLA DIE?”

  “On November 26, 1504, but Philippe and Juana didn’t get to Spain until April 27, 1506. Philippe couldn’t leave the Low Countries until he put down a rebellion in Guelders, and Juana was pregnant again, giving birth to her third daughter, Mary, on September 15, 1505. If you do the math, she must have gotten pregnant in December 1504. Philippe came back to her the moment Isabella died. He’d refused to see her ever since the incident with the Moorish slaves.”

  “The real Philippe would have consoled her.” I grinned.

  “Maybe Juana was right. Philippe oscillated between his passion and his ambition. Historians debate whether Philippe’s behavior was controlled largely by his advisors. He was very easily influenced. Personally, I think they both swayed between love and hate.”

  CHAPTER 16

  On my way back to school I dozed off on the metro. I didn’t know whether to blame my lethargy on the arrival of winter’s grayness or on the fact that it was so hard for me to return to reality and leave behind the sixteenth century world in which Juana threw fits of jealousy, attempted reconciliation, and ended up ever more isolated.

  I remembered that when I was a girl, and the lights came on at the end of a movie, it was almost impossible for me to leave behind the protagonist’s borrowed identity. And it was that person who was transformed into an adolescent leaving the matinee for the tropical sun, who saw the world through my eyes.

  And that was how I felt with Juana. Manuel was right when he guessed that I’d be able to
penetrate her inner world with no trouble. She wandered the avenues of my mind with her passions and her turmoils, and I knew that when our paths crossed, I would embrace her, anxious to transcend the centuries that separated us like folds in the cloth of time. I did not doubt her sanity. In fact, I thought it was her very lucidity that had betrayed her. Juana believed she was free to act as she wished, not within limits imposed on her by her father, her mother, and everyone else. And not following conventions meant running considerable risks. What fascinated me about her, what made me want to know her better, was her nerve, her willingness to shatter the preconceptions held by Philippe, by the courtiers, by everybody. Because of her actions, she ended up alone, condemned to an impotent clarity. Her quest for independence backfired on her, and Philippe, who was better at dealing with people than she, was able to isolate her right from the start, cementing loyalty–even from the Spanish–with gifts and promises.