History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici by C.W. Gortner Page B
Authors: C.W. Gortner
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comfortable wool gowns, though I soon deduced the people of Flanders wouldn’t have minded if I’d donned sackcloth. Lining the roads to Lierre, they cheered themselves hoarse and threw handfuls of flowers, clad in colorful costumes. Their sheer numbers astonished me, accustomed as I was to the vastness of Spain, where one could ride for days without encountering another soul.
Like its denizens, the land itself challenged my senses—a verdant monotony boasting nothing higher than a squat hill. There were no jagged mountains, no hilltops crowned by frowning stone castles or vast golden plains. Flanders looked like a garden bowl, green and inverted and soaking wet. There was water everywhere, a permanent presence sitting turgid in marshes, babbling in rivers, or flowing through canals; water dripping from the sky and water sloshing underfoot. Outside their picturesque hamlets, where it seemed even the dogs were well fed, luxuriant fields sprouted cabbages, legumes, and other vegetables, and gleaming livestock munched within grassy enclosures. Flanders teemed with abundance, a veritable heaven on earth, where it seemed no one had ever suffered war or famine or disease.
Flemish noblemen and their wives met my entourage halfway to Lierre. The women chattered nonstop, their low-cut gowns and hiked skirts revealing sturdy ankles in colored hose. By the time we rode into Lierre, Doña Ana sat rigid on her mule, her flinty expression indicating that, to her, Flanders was steeped in vice.
Built on the banks of the river Néthe, Lierre was dazzling, crowned by spires and crisscrossed with canals. Balconies were festooned with flower boxes and laundry; the cobblestone streets rang with the rattling of coins in velvet pouches as merchants went about their business. I stared in delight at street vendors peddling meat pies and sugary buns, and Beatriz laughed aloud when she spied market stalls piled high with bolts of brocade, velvet, tissues of every hue, satins, and fine-worked Brussels lace.
“It is paradise,” she exclaimed.
“It is Babylon,” snarled Doña Ana.
It is my new home, I thought, and I rode in a daze through gilded gates into the courtyard of the Habsburg palace of Berthout-Mechelen.
Philip’s sister, Margaret, waited to greet me—a tall, rangy princess whose pronounced nose and equestrian jaw set off effervescent gray-blue eyes. After kissing me on the mouth as if we’d known each other our entire lives, Margaret led me through ostentatious passages into an antechamber hung entirely in blue satin. I could see a huge bed heaped with furs in the adjoining chamber. Venetian carpets covered the floor; a fire crackled in the marble hearth. In the corner stood a wood tub lined with sheets—for my toilette, explained Margaret.
“You do want to bathe,
oui,
after such a tiresome journey?” She did not seem to recall that as my brother’s betrothed, she too would soon undertake the same voyage. Clapping her hands, she sent her women rushing at me.
I stood, stupefied, as the Flemish women stripped me of my clothing like a slave on the auction block. It took a few moments to locate my voice; when I did, my protest brought everyone to a halt. Margaret regarded me curiously as I clutched at my shift.
“I…I wish to bathe alone,” I managed to say, in halting French, as Beatriz and my ladies came to flank me. Doña Ana and my other matrons stood frozen.
Margaret shrugged. “
Eh, bon.
I’ll see to your supper.” Kissing me again as if the matter were of no particular account, she swept out, her ladies chuckling behind her.
I gave a nervous laugh, hugging my arms about my chest. “They act like barbarians!”
Beatriz nodded. “Indeed. Her Majesty would be outraged.”
“No doubt,” I said, and I eyed the tub. “But I could use a bath. Come, help me.”
To my matrons’ horrified gasps I drew my shift over my head and tossed it aside. Doña Ana cried, “Absolutely not! I forbid it. That bath is not
Like its denizens, the land itself challenged my senses—a verdant monotony boasting nothing higher than a squat hill. There were no jagged mountains, no hilltops crowned by frowning stone castles or vast golden plains. Flanders looked like a garden bowl, green and inverted and soaking wet. There was water everywhere, a permanent presence sitting turgid in marshes, babbling in rivers, or flowing through canals; water dripping from the sky and water sloshing underfoot. Outside their picturesque hamlets, where it seemed even the dogs were well fed, luxuriant fields sprouted cabbages, legumes, and other vegetables, and gleaming livestock munched within grassy enclosures. Flanders teemed with abundance, a veritable heaven on earth, where it seemed no one had ever suffered war or famine or disease.
Flemish noblemen and their wives met my entourage halfway to Lierre. The women chattered nonstop, their low-cut gowns and hiked skirts revealing sturdy ankles in colored hose. By the time we rode into Lierre, Doña Ana sat rigid on her mule, her flinty expression indicating that, to her, Flanders was steeped in vice.
Built on the banks of the river Néthe, Lierre was dazzling, crowned by spires and crisscrossed with canals. Balconies were festooned with flower boxes and laundry; the cobblestone streets rang with the rattling of coins in velvet pouches as merchants went about their business. I stared in delight at street vendors peddling meat pies and sugary buns, and Beatriz laughed aloud when she spied market stalls piled high with bolts of brocade, velvet, tissues of every hue, satins, and fine-worked Brussels lace.
“It is paradise,” she exclaimed.
“It is Babylon,” snarled Doña Ana.
It is my new home, I thought, and I rode in a daze through gilded gates into the courtyard of the Habsburg palace of Berthout-Mechelen.
Philip’s sister, Margaret, waited to greet me—a tall, rangy princess whose pronounced nose and equestrian jaw set off effervescent gray-blue eyes. After kissing me on the mouth as if we’d known each other our entire lives, Margaret led me through ostentatious passages into an antechamber hung entirely in blue satin. I could see a huge bed heaped with furs in the adjoining chamber. Venetian carpets covered the floor; a fire crackled in the marble hearth. In the corner stood a wood tub lined with sheets—for my toilette, explained Margaret.
“You do want to bathe,
oui,
after such a tiresome journey?” She did not seem to recall that as my brother’s betrothed, she too would soon undertake the same voyage. Clapping her hands, she sent her women rushing at me.
I stood, stupefied, as the Flemish women stripped me of my clothing like a slave on the auction block. It took a few moments to locate my voice; when I did, my protest brought everyone to a halt. Margaret regarded me curiously as I clutched at my shift.
“I…I wish to bathe alone,” I managed to say, in halting French, as Beatriz and my ladies came to flank me. Doña Ana and my other matrons stood frozen.
Margaret shrugged. “
Eh, bon.
I’ll see to your supper.” Kissing me again as if the matter were of no particular account, she swept out, her ladies chuckling behind her.
I gave a nervous laugh, hugging my arms about my chest. “They act like barbarians!”
Beatriz nodded. “Indeed. Her Majesty would be outraged.”
“No doubt,” I said, and I eyed the tub. “But I could use a bath. Come, help me.”
To my matrons’ horrified gasps I drew my shift over my head and tossed it aside. Doña Ana cried, “Absolutely not! I forbid it. That bath is not
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