Falling Pomegranate Seeds: The Duty of Daughters (The Katherine of Aragon Story Book 1) (5 page)

“Believe me, love. I could not forgive myself if I caused your death by giving you a child when you are too unwell to bear it. I love you, body and soul, Josepha. The doctors tell me it will be long before we can bed together again. Having you here, close to me, is too much temptation. You must go, beloved!”

Josepha wept and wept. Beatriz stood in the shadows, forgotten, with their daughter, swirling in her private ocean of desolation.

Walk until the blood appears on the cheek, but not the sweat on the
brow
~ Castilian proverb

Dear Francisco,

Soon I will be very lonely at court. Not only have you been gone for months, but the queen’s cousin and my good friend Josepha returns to her home in Vitoria. Poor Josepha is unhappy about leaving, but her fragile health has forced the queen to command it. The queen well knows what it is to lack the strength of body to bring forth a living child. In the early years of her reign, she lost baby after baby due to waging battle for her crown.

At the moment, Josepha waits for the queen’s physicians to give permission for her departure. I – and the queen, too – visit her every day. I take her daughter, my little student Maria. The poor child cannot hide from me how she dreads the day when her mother leaves. Whilst five is very young to lose a beloved mother, we can only thank God the loss is not
permanent.

We are in the midst of celebrations for Princess Isabel’s wedding…

···

“Come home with me,” Josepha pleaded.

Alarmed, Catalina looked aside at Maria. She shook her head so fast it could have been a spinning top.

The queen laughed. “Look at Maria. And my Catalina, too. We’d need horses to drag these two apart, just like when our girls first met over a year ago. I remember well that day. The storm that drove us to your home to take up the hospitality of my aunt, your good mother. Come the morning of the next day, Catalina and Maria were inseparable.” Queen Isabel studied the two girls. “Do you wish me to make the command?”

Josepha frowned and lifted her gaze from her sewing, dropping her embroidery onto her lap. Her skin remained as white as the sheets of her bed, but the aging shadows around eyes and mouth lessened with every new day. Her natural vitality slowly returned the youthfulness of a woman who, like Beatriz, had seen no more than twenty-five summers.

Josepha considered her daughter and then Catalina, shrugging her slight shoulders. “I kiss your hands in gratitude, my queen, but I think not. Our two remind me of two girls I once knew – two cousins, one older, the other younger – who called themselves sisters. Every time life separated them, the younger one’s heart broke. God willing, I would rather not give our girls reason for the same grief.”

Queen Isabel picked up Josepha’s still hand. “Si – love binds us to those we love. I would want it no other way.” She lifted her chin. “I make this vow to you, I will be as a mother to Maria. Even without kinship, our long, loving friendship means I could do no other.”

Josepha gave a wry smile. “I am grateful, Isabel. I cannot lie to you, my prima hermana, I’d prefer Maria to grow up with my other children. But like the sun rises in the morning and sets at night, Maria already knows her place is to serve your hija. My heart tells me this is what God wants. And why should my daughter not love your daughter? All my life I have loved her mother.” Tears welled in Josepha’s eyes. She spoke in a voice both trembling and plaintive. “Who will care for you, Isabel, as I do when you cannot sleep, and work throughout the night? None attend to your needs as well as I.” She glanced over at Beatriz. “Latina forgets the whole world when she loses herself in her study. I always make certain you at least have a drink by your side during the long hours to matins, or ensuring there is enough candlelight for you to work by.”

Queen Isabel shook Josepha’s clenched hand. The smile she bestowed upon Josepha was one Beatriz had never witnessed from her before – young and tender, speaking of a lifetime of loving memories. “Don’t cry. Don’t dare think you’ve failed me. You have not, my Josepha. You have exhausted yourself in my service and suffered because of it.

“Now it is time for me to take care of you. I will look forward to your letters. Si, Maria and I will write to you. Let you revel in your hija’s improving hand and sharpening wit. My Catalina will make certain of that.

“Next summer I will journey through Andalucia. I give you notice today I will visit you at Vitoria and see you as I pray to see you – healthy and more than ready for argument once again.”

Brushing away tears, Josepha laughed. She gazed up at the queen as if she was the only person in the world. Her mouth trembled. “How I shall miss that. These years spent in your service have meant much to me. How I wish I could stay. My greatest regret is my body proved too weak to both serve you and give my husband more living sons. But my body betrayed me.” Josepha wiped her face with the sleeve of her chemise. “My Latin will grow rusty while I care for my children and my apricot trees.”

Queen Isabel bent to kiss her cousin’s pale cheek. She framed Josepha’s face with her long, gout-swollen fingers. Their gazes met again.

“Your apricots and horses will make you strong and well again,” the queen laughed. “Not forgetting your older children. They have been too long without you.” She rested her hands on Josepha’s shoulders. “I’ll send you books. Many books – books for my good aunt to enjoy too. As long as I know you remain safe and well at Vitoria with your orchards, riding your horses, and improving your Latin, my heart stays light.” She kissed her cousin again. “Let’s us enjoy these final days together while you regain your strength, and remain content our separation will only be through distance and not yet death.”

···

Alone, Beatriz leaned against the garden’s high wall in the royal alcázar at Sevilla. Her black cloak and sheer toca
lying at her feet, she held her arms tight across her chest, trying to control her breathing. A shaft of sunlight struck and hurt her eyes. She rubbed them, her fingers coming away with her tears. She crossed her arms over her swollen, painful breasts, swallowing the blood in her mouth from when she had bit her tongue. The tears started again – she let them fall, unchecked.

Gathering an assortment of herbs growing in abundance in this private royal garden, she had not expected to be disturbed, disturbed by the loud snapping of dry twigs that had announced the arrival of the king.

Don’t think of it. Forget it. She yanked up the neck of her gown, covering and hiding from view the bruises left by his fingers on her breasts. She rubbed her neck and tried to swallow, her throat hurt. She didn’t need a mirror to tell her she would need to find a dress with a high collar to hide what the king had done to her.

She tried to repair her dishevelment, and began to walk slowly towards her rooms. Beatriz cocked her head, stepping into a part of the garden awash with green light. She felt unreal, as if she had fallen in another world of nightmare. Without thinking, she crossed herself, resettling on her head the toca. She wished it could make her disappear.

Beatriz stepped into the garden’s deeper shadows and saw Maria coming through the gate. The child looked at her with surprise. “Latina,” she blurted out.

“Have you come to enjoy the sun’s warmth, too?” Beatriz said quickly. As if in denial of her words, she shivered, averted her face and swallowed, her hand going to her throat again. It hurt. Really hurt. This time she feared the king had meant to strangle her.

Maria, disturbed and frightened, stepped towards her. “Mama – is all well with her?”

“Your mother?” Beatriz narrowed her eyes against the bright light streaming on her face. She untied and retied the loose ends of her girdle, as if letting loose the beads of a rosary in prayer. “When I saw her this morning she gave me no cause for concern. Has something happened since then?”

Maria looked even more bewildered. She gazed down at the toes of her black leather slippers, peeping out from beneath her skirts, and then back at Beatriz. “Something is wrong, my teacher...”

Maria glanced at the path leading to the royal chambers. The doorway was open in the high stonewall. A climbing rose spread its certain claim over the grey stone. Butterflies flittered a graceful dance around the yellow roses creeping above the door. Only the royal family ever used that door, for its path led straight across a courtyard to the chambers of the king and queen. Go too far and guards barred the way with pike and sword.

Maria turned and faced her. “Why is the door open, Latina? The queen commands it locked.”

Beatriz shifted uneasily. “Why should I know, Maria? You ask questions for no good reason.” Her words broke and snapped, like the very twigs under their feet. She gazed at the sky. Not one cloud – so beautifully blue, it seemed to mock her.

Maria blinked. Distressed, her eyes filled with tears, she repeated, “Something’s wrong...”

Beatriz bowed her head, straightening the folds of her gown, refusing to meet Maria’s eyes. She shrugged. “Si, something’s wrong, but ’tis not for a young child’s ears. Go from here, Maria. Go and enjoy these days too soon ended, when childhood gives you freedom denied to us who are no longer children.”

Her eyes shining with tears, Maria gave Beatriz a deep reverence. Her head pounding, Beatriz felt like she had lost her footing. Again the abyss opened up before her. She raised her hand to her aching temple.
I should not have taken it out on her. Next lesson, I’ll beg her forgiveness.

Before she left the garden for her own chambers, Beatriz shut the door, watching Maria head in the direction of the library. The wind brought to her ears the gay long notes of the hunting horn threaded with the muted rumble of galloping horses leaving the grounds of the alcázar. In the distance, she saw the billowing dust of the party accompanying the king on his morning hunt. Soon, the sounds of men and horse became but a whisper of rumour upon wind.

Despite the warmth of the day, Beatriz gathered her cloak around her body, and tossed her hood over her head. She cloaked herself in another sense than the physical. Following the path that would take her back to her rooms, her eyes no longer saw the world around her, but looked blindly around, overcome by despair and defeat. Beatriz stumbled. Wanting to vomit, she went to sit on a nearby stone bench, and bowed her head.
I am trapped. Trapped, with no way to
escape.

···

Catalina and Maria stared at her when they came to the schoolroom for their morning lesson the next day. “You’re wearing a nun’s habit,” stated the infanta.

Beatriz glanced down at her shabby grey gown of the Franciscan order. The girls had been little more than babies when she had stopped wearing it every day. “I am still a lay member of my order in Salamanca. I almost took my final vows, but realised my problem with obedience is one I never want to solve.” The girls looked disconcerted. “I am allowed to wear the habit if I wish. I’m a member of the third order of Franciscans.” Catalina and Maria continued to gaze at her in bewilderment. Beatriz took a deep breath. “I’m wearing it today because I needed a reminder of humility. Yesterday I was unnecessarily harsh to Maria. I hope you can forgive me, child?”

Maria beamed. “Si. But you don’t need to wear your habit, Latina.”

Beatriz eyed the child almost skipping and dancing with Catalina to the table where their books were waiting. The coarse fabric of the habit chafed her skin, as if reminding her of her lie. She swallowed, touching the wimple of her habit. She had pulled its cords a little too tightly this morning, but at least it covered her bruised neck and chest. She prayed to God the habit would give the king reason to think again before coming her way. He respected the church. Surely if he remembered how close she had been to taking her vows he would leave her alone.

Sweet heart,

I miss you sorely. I do not often say that, do I, love? But my dear friend is gone. Last week, Josepha left with her husband for Vitoria. The queen’s physicians deemed her well enough for travel, but, love, how bitter sweet that day was.

Her daughter Maria is bereft. Court life never disturbed the child overlong with Josepha also here. Josepha offered a buffer, a semblance of normality for the child. I pray to God I can do the same. The queen promised her cousin she will be a second mother to the little one. As yet, Maria can not hide she aches for her own.

Once a year, before the onset of Lent, Maria will go home with her father to spend Easter with Josepha. No doubt the passing of time will teach the child to adapt with ease from one place to another without Josepha’s help.

Si, Maria’s home is no longer with her family. Catalina is the child’s true home, her place of belonging. As I, too, belong – to you. Today I find myself yearning to be your wife. Is that strange for me to say? I – who always tell you, ‘There is no hurry. Let’s be patient, and marry when you can leave the king’s army.’ Farewelling my friend leaves me melancholy… These last days, only teaching gives me any joy…