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Betrothal:


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 for Juana and her brother Juan. The bond between the Holy Roman Empire and Spain had been reinforced twice over by this double marriage. The contracts were 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 …”

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 from 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.


The departure:

The port of Laredo had never known so many people, animals and ships. It had never heard such noise, had never been so busy.
The view from the cabin window offered ever changing scenes of comings and goings. Young boys staggered under sacks of urgent last minute supplies. Corpulent masters hurled oaths at fidgeting oxen and their carts that refused to remain still. Against the angry groaning of winches and hoists, officers bellowed out orders to their sailors below. Curses at spillages and bursts issued from everywhere. Meandering seamen, who had found the wine jugs too early, wove their drunken way amongst barrels and chests that littered the wharf, merrily slurring tuneless shanties. Soldiers whose responsibilities had yet to begin strolled about enjoying soldiers’ hearty laughter and back slapping camaraderie.
Juana, delighting in the hubbub and determined not to miss any of the activity, ran from one window to the next pressing close to the glass. Her cabin at the stern of this newly built galleon stood so high it made an excellent vantage point and by using the windows on all three sides she could see quite a distance both to left and to right.
The royal party had arrived in Laredo several weeks ago but could do nothing until they had a fair wind, and this was finally promised for tomorrow, August the twenty second, 1496, hence the frenzied activity out there.
She took a few timid steps out onto the deck and grasped the rail to steady herself. Zayda placed a shawl about her shoulders.
The morning rain had given way to afternoon sunshine. A breeze toyed with flags, and pennants were curling and snaking, their colours cutting across the forest of masts and rigging that rose, fell and rocked gently in the languid swell. Juana continued to be amazed at the number of vessels. The admiral had told her that there were more than a hundred, and twenty of them were newly built this year. They all looked new with their sparkling fresh paint and varnish. The gentle deep groans of the timbers and the higher pitched moans of the hawsers were rudely interrupted by the angry screaming of ill-tempered gulls. Everything was crying and tugging to be free, impatient to seek adventure.
She breathed in all the sights, sounds and smells, the strangeness of it all.
A neighing and a clattering of hooves made her look back to the quay. Juan's horses, his gift to Philip, were being taken aboard a ship moored nearby. Their hooded unseeing eyes made them nervous and they fought against being moved. Servants cajoled and encouraged them on to the unsteady ramp with pats, strokes and kind words, while others held firm on strong tethering ropes. Other horses neighed out their fear as they were unceremoniously winched aboard in slings.
‘Poor beasts. I commiserate with them Zayda, that is exactly how I feel. I am being taken blindfold onto unsure ground; but what can we do? We must do as we are bid.’ Her eyes searched beyond the horses anxious to find her mother who ought to be on her way by now. ‘My mother is unfeeling. Here am I ready to be despatched to extend Spain’s influence westward, while she sits at her desk writing letters to England to seal the fate of my sister Catalina. It is all so callous.’
‘Not so, my lady. It is the way of things with royalty. Indeed any person of substance would not countenance anything other than an arranged marriage.’
‘It would be marvellous all the same if, instead of writing to England, she is writing to Flanders saying she has recognised her error in supposing I would make a suitable bride.’
‘Where would all your tales of love be then? Consigned to a fire, unwanted? And what of Philip’s letter almost in pieces with the number of times it has been opened and read, the words smudged by moist lips endlessly caressing them?’
‘Dear Zayda, of course you are right.’ She began to sing,
‘this girl who is in love
no longer cares to sleep alone…’
‘How wicked of you, ma’am!’

Betrayal:

Juana passed from the sun drenched gardens, through the orangery, and into an unfamiliar corridor.
‘This way, my lady?’
‘Why not, Maria?’ Juana replied not caring where her steps took her. She was in a world of bliss, a never ending bliss, and had been since her return to Brussels in May.
In her year’s absence Philip had apparently forgotten her beauty and vivacity and he was completely intoxicated by her loveliness. He called her his “young bride” and “my Juana”. Her wonderful, god like husband loved her. Their days were a euphoria of romantic chivalry. There were tournaments, with Philip wearing her yellow and green favours, and always unseating the opposing rider. The banquets and balls were better than any she could remember. And their nights together were of unrivalled passion and ecstasy.
She froze. ‘Go!’ she whispered her command. She had heard voices. A sickening suspicion raced through her; an ice cold, searing hot suspicion of something she didn’t want to put a name to.
As soon as she was alone she tiptoed forward and listened again leaning in the direction of a nearby door. It was Philip’s voice. She moved closer her head resting against the panelling.
‘Reasons of state insist that I be with her, your uncle must have explained. But Beatrice, my darling Beatrice, I have still been such a fool to neglect you so cruelly. Please say that I am forgiven.’
‘I forgive you, my lord.’
‘Not “my lord”; say “I forgive you, Philip”.’
‘I forgive you, Philip.’
Juana covered her ears and turned away to escape the stinging treachery of words that belonged to her, words spoken when she and Philip first met. She should have left but it was impossible. Nor could she throw open the door to put an end to this infamy. She was driven by something, compelled, to hear more.
‘… tomorrow night, most definitely. And by that time I will know of the final arrangements for our week’s hunting and where we shall stay.’
‘Do you promise?’
‘My word of honour. Dear God, if only we had met years ago, how different our lives would have been.’
‘It is silly to look to the past, Philip, to what cannot be changed. Instead, let us be grateful to my Uncle Charles, Prince Chimay for bringing me here when he did.’
There was a silence. There was no doubting they were in each other’s arms. Juana crumpled against the wall. This was Chimay’s niece! Why had she been sent for? By whom? When? How many knew of this, and for how long? Why had no one told her? What was she to do? She felt sick; her world, that gloriously happy world, had crashed, irreparably broken.
Somehow she pushed herself free from the wall. Trance like she moved back along the corridor Philip’s teasing voice echoing in her ears, his rich laughing voice speaking of a love note he would hide somewhere in the garden for “beloved Beatrice”.
An iron will carried Juana past courtiers and their hurtful gossip all the way back to her apartments where she collapsed to her knees, sobbing.
Zayda rushed to her side. ‘My lady, whatever can have happened?’
‘Ask Maria,’ Juana sobbed.
Maria said nothing.
‘Tell her, Maria, you must know, probably have known for some time.’ Juana continued, rocking backwards and forwards in her grief.
‘I was unsure. It was best for me to say nothing when I was uncertain; and I was warned not to.’
‘By whom?’
‘Madam Halewyn.’
So it was Halewyn as well as Chimay. Who else was in this conspiracy? ‘And you would follow her instructions to further betray me?’
‘My lady I humbly beg your pardon, she assured me it was nothing, that the affair would be over soon enough, that it would do you more harm than good to hear of it.’
‘The liar, this is no affair! Philip is in love; he loves her, prefers her to me! I heard him say so!’ Juana howled.
‘No, no, no, my lady, this cannot be. I am so sorry.’
‘Who is she?’
‘A widowed baroness. Chimay brought her here to recover from her husband’s death some months ago.’
‘And Philip wrote to me begging me to return. He said he missed me, wanted me. Lies, all lies! My mother was right; it was the heiress of Spain he wanted to return to Flanders, not his wife. While I quarrelled so bitterly with my mother he was in the arms of Chimay’s niece. What am I to do, Zayda? I am lost.’
‘Never!’ Zayda knelt down by her side and took her hands. ‘You are not lost. You and I will find a way to win this battle. Remember your brother’s words about Juana the fighter.’
‘They cannot work this time.’
‘They have not failed you yet. And I have many ways of helping.’
‘I must be in the garden tomorrow. I have to be there, there will be a letter.’
‘Of that later, my lady. First you must sleep and gather your strength for the challenge that awaits you. I have the necessary philtres and potions. I will go for them immediately.’ She shot a furious glance at Maria before leaving. ‘It is barbarous that anyone, anyone at all, should dare insult the Princess Juana like this.’

There was enough sun to make sitting outdoors quite comfortable, while the shadows from the trees and bushes in the arbour protected Juana and Maria from its rays.
Juana broke the silence, ‘No more sewing today, my fingers are too unsteady.’ She took a final look at her embroidery. It was Philip’s motto with her romantic response QUI VOULDRA – MOI TOUT SEUL. A bitter laugh escaped her, ‘“Who wants me only me”. How wonderful if that were true.’
She rose from the bench and brushed her sleeves. Maria returned the sewing to its basket before seeking out stray strands from amongst the patterns of Juana’s brocade skirts.
‘A short stroll, ma’am?’
They wandered along the pathway edged with box, a row of white roses beyond. Juana drew their velvet petals towards her to drink in their perfume. ‘The white rose of York. The old witch finally died. Madam la Grande is one less to mock or whisper against me.’
Their skirts brushed over stone flags as they sauntered towards a cluster of red roses clinging to a wall and basking in the sunshine.
‘These are my favourites, ma’am. Such a deep red, so soft to the touch and with a far superior perfume.’
‘The red rose of love; its blood coloured petals at once fiery and velvety soft.’ She cupped one in her hand. ‘The lovely Beatrice will find the note,’ she snapped off its head, ‘I will find her,’ a second head was snapped off, ‘and then we shall see what we shall see.’ The petals were ripped and tossed away.
They retraced their steps to the arbour to wait.

Within minutes Juana heard hurried footsteps. She could see perfectly without needing to move an inch from her concealed vantage point. A young lady ran towards one of the decorative urns set close to a myrtle arch and pushed her hand deep inside, drawing out a folded piece of paper. Juana watched the broad beaming smile of delight as the note was raised to her lips.
‘Dear God in Heaven, You have granted her everything: beauty, a trim figure, pretty hands with slender fingers, tresses of gold, a noble birth; and now my husband.’
Juana looked on, drowning in her anguish, as the note was unfolded, greedily read then tucked inside her bodice. ‘Yes, put it next to the milk white breasts that Philip knows so well,’ she screamed pouncing on her quarry, roughly snatching the note. ‘I will have that. What does he say?’ Her hands shook, the pulse in her throat strangled, ‘My dearest Beatrice …’
Beatrice tore it from her grasp, hurriedly tore it and pushed the pieces into her mouth.
Juana grappled with her, snarling, ‘Go ahead, I hope you choke. You harlot, how dare you steal my husband. Keep away from him, do you hear?’ She pushed and pulled starting with her clothes then finding her hair.
Somehow Juana got her to the ground and sat astride her. Then her sewing scissors were in her hand. She began to cut and hack at the golden curls ignoring the terrified eyes staring at her and the open mouth unable to utter a sound. The frenzied scissors scratched and tore at flesh as well as hair and blood streamed from each new wound.
Her task completed Juana stood up to consider her work.
‘You may go, baroness, this lesson will serve as a reminder to stay well away from Philip.
Maria had not moved. She was like stone unable to go to the aid of either lady. She remained as if paralysed as Beatrice struggled to her feet to go stumbling blindly over the flagstones. She stood motionless watching as Juana left the garden as serenely as she would a ballroom floor.
‘Maria, I think it would be marvellous to have one of Zayda’s special baths. The perfumed oils will work their usual magic on Philip.’