The Creation Of Eve (22 page)

"You are her favorite--where were you today?" he demanded. "What did she eat?"

"Just here, My Lord, and at the refuge for penitent women, delivering bread." I did not mention that I stayed in the coach as usual when we went on that errand, so I had not observed her in that place. "She ate nothing out of the ordinary for dinner--roast hen, figs, some marzipan. All was prepared by the palace cooks."

"Who tasted it for poison?" He looked past me at Francesca. "You?"

"No one did," I said. I felt ill. "We had not thought it necessary."

"Half the world is at war, fighting the Church. Fighting me. And you think it not necessary? Send for our cooks," the King ordered his man. "All of them. I shall see them in the anteroom."

"I shall send for doctor Hernandez, too, My Lord," I said.

"He is coming. If you want to be of Use, get her some more water."

It has been eight days since then, eight long days filled with My Lady's moans and sobs and cries of pain, Until her fever broke and hundreds of pustules rose all over her face and body, marking her affliction as the Small Pox. She is unconscious now, not waking even when doctor Hernandez bleeds her, her blood trickling into his cup just as surely as her life force. The King does not leave her, though his advisors beg him to stay away. Do not risk your own health, they say. Think of Spain. Think of your subjects.

But His Majesty just shakes his head and pushes away the chalices or bread or blankets that are brought to him. He says nothing, just paces by her bed, his dagger slapping against his breeches, and asks the doctor for a sign, any sign, of the return of her health.

Once, a few days ago, in the dark of night, when I had fallen asleep on the floor of her chamber after struggling with Her Majesty to keep her hands from her wounds, I woke to the sound of a man murmuring. I lay there with my nose buried in a silk-covered pillow, the sweet rotten scent of silkworms filling my head as I strained to remember where I was and why I was there.

"Heavenly Father, forgive me." The King's anguished voice clarified my wits.

I squeezed my eyes shut and tried not to breathe. I could not let him know I heard his prayers. Such was the domain of his confessor, not his wife 's companion.

"Forgive me, Father. This poor girl. This lively little sprite. She touched me with her spirit--and I have ruined her, for what? For a moment's pleasure? Father warned me how too much sex weakens a body, but I gave in to her, to our lust, though I knew she was a child and I had to be strong for the both of Us. This poor child, sent to me by her parents like a tun of French wine. No one has ever cherished her properly, and I am as bad as the rest, letting my Unbridled desire overrule my will to take care of her. It is not her fault, Father. Let her live. I beg of you, let my sprite live."

His choking swallow wrenched my heart. "Father," he groaned, "it is right that you punish me for the sins I have committed in the past. They are most grievous. I should burn in Hell for them--both you and I know what they are. But Father, I beg you, do not punish this girl for my own wickedness."

Footsteps rasped against the rush matting as someone entered the room.

"Your Majesty." I recognized the voice of doctor Hernandez. "How fares our patient?"

The King's voice turned cold and low. "Just get her well, doctor. Her mother will have my hide if not." I held my breath as I heard him leave the room.

"?Que es esto?"
cried doctor Hernandez, nearly tripping over me where I lay.

The light of the doctor's lantern shone on my face. Behind him stood the condesa, her frown framed by her white wimple.

"We nearly fell Upon you there," she said. "Get Up and go to your chamber. You do no good for her there."

Reluctantly, I returned to my chamber, to the relief of Francesca, who hurried to remove my bodice, corset, and skirt. As I lay shivering in my shift Under Unwarmed covers, I could not help wondering: What were the King's most grievous sins?

ITEM: All colors, no matter their original brightness, when in shadow look to be equally dark.

27 FEBRUARY 1561

El Alcazar, Toledo

After all these weeks, during two of which we despaired each day for her life, the Queen has survived her case of the Small Pox. Her vision, which for a time was lost, has been restored, but she is still very weak, and covered from head to toe in slowly fading red wounds. Once it was clear that she should live, the King reluctantly returned to his office to conduct the business of holding together his far-flung lands, and let the French Queen Mother take over her daughter's care from afar.

Upon the Queen Mother's orders, My Lady's frail body was bathed twice daily in asses' milk, greased with a yellow ointment relayed to Us by couriers from France, and swaddled in silk gauze. I do not know what is in the ointment, but knowing the Queen Mother's penchant for magic and the gruesome ingredients in the charms of the Black Arts, I do not wish to ask. I will say only that it smells of stale human Urine and scythed grass combined, and of tar. The Queen's chamber does reek of this mixture and soured asses' milk, and Francesca complains that I reek of it as well.

But the results are encouraging, though the Queen's skin remains reddened and her lovely hair has thinned to the point that you can glimpse her scalp in places.

Late in the Queen's illness, when her vision began to return, the condesa ordered that all mirrors be removed from Her Majesty's chambers, to spare My Lady shock at her appearance. The condesa remains firm in this notion, even though the Queen's imagination has begun to work and she fears she must be a dreadful monster indeed if the condesa forbids even a glimpse.

Yesterday, we were peeling the linens from the Queen's face, when again My Lady pleaded for a mirror.

"Wait just a little longer, Your Majesty," said the condesa, Unrolling a strip of gauze from around Her Majesty's head, "Until your recovery is complete."

"If I am going to be Ugly," said the Queen, "I must begin to get Used to it."

"Surely you'd rather wait to see yourself at your best," said the condesa.

I took the ball of Used gauze from the condesa as she started Upon another piece. I swear the condesa enjoys frightening Our Lady. "You are not Ugly, Your Majesty. You bear the marks of your suffering, but they are not so deep as to be permanent."

"Thank you for telling me the truth, Sofi. I can always depend on you. So Mother's stinking ointment has worked?"

"Wonderfully," I said. "In fact, in my opinion, you might think to discontinue it. Perhaps your skin only needs now but to breathe."

"Then let Us stop it!" the Queen exclaimed. "How wonderful to be rid of this stench Up my nose! I fear I shall go on smelling it forever. How does madame de Clermont fare with it? Has she been Using the ointment I've sent?"

I winced. Although a month had passed, I could still hear the sweet-natured French lady's gasp when she discovered that first pustule upon her hand. And I could still see her rushing to a mirror and pushing back the top of her bodice, revealing another watery wound bubbling Up from the tender skin of her breast.

"You are kind to think of madame, My Lady," said the condesa, "though I know not how she fares. She is still recovering in her rooms."

I drew in a breath. Madame had not fared well. I had promised My Lady to always tell her the truth, but how did I break such troubling news?

"Your Majesty," the condesa said, "do you think discontinuing your treatment is wise? Do you not want to look your very best?"

"Sofi," said the Queen, "call for doctor Hernandez. We shall let him judge."

I summoned a page. He ran off before the condesa could stop him.

When doctor Hernandez came, he did indeed pronounce Her Majesty's skin to be healed enough to discontinue the malodorous balm. Influenced by the Queen's fervent pleading, he even allowed her to leave her bed to sit in a chair by the brazier. This morning, she was feeling well enough for Us to wash her hair. No sooner than we had rinsed the last of the soap away with rose-scented water, attired her in a robe of black velvet lined with sable, and seated her near the warmth of the brazier with her hair spread down the back of the chair, did we hear a shouting from the rooms below.

Footsteps pounded on the stairs; the heavy door flew open. In rushed Don Carlos, clutching a fistful of drooping snowdrops to his gaunt chest.

"My Lady--I heard you are well! I rushed home from University to see you."

The Queen's hair rippled down the chair back as she turned slowly, her hand to her wounded face.

Don Carlos gasped. "Oh, My Lady!"

She smiled sadly. "Am I that wretched?"

Tears welled in his pale-lashed eyes. "I knew that your illness was grievous, but--"

A gentle tapping sounded on the doorjamb. Don Juan leaned in the doorway with his hat in his hands; Don Alessandro stood behind him. "May we come in?"

Don Carlos dropped to his knees and pressed the Queen's hand to his cheek. "I prayed! I begged God to take my life for yours--"

"And it seems that He has spared you both." Don Juan entered quietly. "No need for tears, Carlos."

But Don Carlos was too deep within his grief to pay him mind. "Oh My Lady, your beautiful hair is so thin now, and your pretty skin--"

The Queen gazed down Upon the hand still captive to Don Carlos. "Ah, well, so much for my need of a mirror now. I suppose I've received my report."

The Prince looked Up, tears streaming down his pasty face. "Did anyone tell you how hard I prayed for you? That I sent my love to you each day?"

"Yes, my dear Toad," she said gently, "and it helped me. I thank you for your kind wishes."

"They were not just kind wishes, My Lady! I desire only your greatest happiness. I--"

"Come," said Don Juan. "We need to allow her to rest."

Don Carlos leaned away from Don Juan. "You don't know how I feel! She is nothing to you." He looked Up beseechingly at the Queen. "He has not shed a single tear, while I have wept myself sick!" Recalling his misery, he laid his face in her lap and sobbed.

The Queen stroked his hair. Slowly, she raised her head, Until her gaze was met by Don Juan.

Don Alessandro looked between them. A crooked smile crossed his freckled face. "Perhaps not everyone needs to cry."

"What?" Don Carlos lifted his head, sniffing. Seeing Don Alessandro's pointed look, he peered at the pair. His attention was broken by noise in the corridor.

The King stormed into the chamber.

"Carlos! Why do you weep? Get Up. I could hear your whimpering down the stairs."

Don Carlos released the Queen's hand and struggled to his feet. "Father--"

"Quiet yourself! Do you think you help her this way?"

"But I think only of her welfare."

"Do you? Or do you think only of yourself ?"

"Father!" Don Carlos's voice cracked with brokenhearted wonder. "You have never spoken to me thus."

The King knotted his fists at his side, thumbs twitching against forefingers. "Just--pull yourself together."

Don Carlos nodded, his pale eyes watery with tears. To my surprise, the Queen's eyes were full, too.

"Too much crying around here." The King's cold voice belied the emotion etched on his brow. He has never been anything but protective of his son, even when others would have lost patience. I felt my own throat clog with tears as the King fought to master his countenance. Disconcertingly, I sensed that someone in the room did not share in the heartbreak of this scene. Over by the window, Don Alessandro slouched against the wall.

He straightened when he saw me, and composed that freckle-dusted face, so charmingly framed by dark ringlets, into an expression so deeply sympathetic that I wondered if I only imagined the smirk I had seen just the moment before.

ITEM: The Queen's grandfather Francois I was celebrated for his love for the ladies. He formed his own personal group of maids of honor, La Petite Bande--twenty-seven young beauties chosen for their looks and wit. He dressed them to his taste and bade them to follow him everywhere, even to his bed. Beyond these ladies, his conquests were many, though he also begot seven children upon his wife.