heard her utter. I turned with a ready smile.
During the tour, many such girls had made their way to me, hoping for a piece of
ribbon from my hair, or section of lace from my cuff, as though any article that had
touched my person were a talisman.
Madame de Halewin stepped between us. “Her Highness doesn‟t wish to be
disturbed. Off with you, girl!”
I held up a hand, moving around Madame to the now-cowering figure. She was
just a child, one of the thousands who prepared our food, mended our linens, dusted
our belongings, and swept our hearths. I had been taught by my mother‟s example to
always show kindness to those who served me, as justness, not pride, was the
hallmark of royalty.
“Come, child,” I said, “what is it?”
The girl reached into her apron pocket and withdrew a scrap of paper. “Your
matrons send you this,” she murmured, and she stepped back hurriedly.
I frowned, glanced at the paper. The writing was cramped, in faded ink, but the
words were unmistakable: Somos prisoneras. We are prisoners.”
“What is this?” I asked the girl. “Where did it come from? Speak up.”
Beatriz and Soraya came up beside me. An uncomfortable tightness formed in my
chest when the girl whispered, “It is from a lady named Doña Francisca. She asked
me to bring this to Your Highness. She begged me. She also bid me to tell you, Doña
Ana is ill.”
It was all I needed to hear. I motioned. “Beatriz, Soraya, come with me. We‟ll visit
my matrons in their quarters.” I stopped Madame de Halewin with a single glance.
“Alone.”
_________________
STANDING AT THE BOTTOM OF A STAIRCASE IN A DILAPIDATED QUARTER OF THE
PALACE, I gazed about in horror.
My matrons‟ quarters, if such they could be called, consisted of a wine cellar, the
moldering walls windowless, the broken stone floor strewn with straw. I wouldn‟t
have stabled a mule here, I thought, and I felt ill when I saw the pallets and the
threadbare blankets, the mess of cinders in the center where my women had resorted
to burning kindling for heat.
I gestured to Beatriz, who rewarded the girl with a purse of coins and sent her
scampering off., her good deed done and financial situation considerably improved.
My four matrons stood clustered together, clad in layers of soiled clothing, all
bearing the sallow look of invalids. The odium in their sunken eyes made me want to
flee back up the stairs. I had signed vouchers for their upkeep before I left with Philip on tour. I believed I had seen to their welfare. How had this happened? How long had
they been here, like this?
I moved to the pallet where Doña Ana lay and dropped to my knees. “Doña
Ana,” I whispered. “Doña Ana, it is I, your Juana. I am here.”
My duenna‟s eyes opened, glazed with fever. “Mia niña,” she croaked, “Oh, my
child, you must summon a priest. I am dying.”
“No, no. You are not dying.” I removed my shawl, tucked it about her. “It‟s only
your tertian fever, as you used to get in Castile. The moment we went to Granada, you
always improved.”
“I‟ll have no such relief here,” she murmured.
I lifted an enraged gaze to Doña Francisca de Ayala, who stood like an accusing
specter before me. “How did this occur? Why was no word sent to me of these
deplorable conditions?”
She met my gaze. “We tried, Your Highness. We were denied access to you.”
“Denied?” My voice edged up a notch. “By whom? Tell me at once!”
“My lord Besançon. We were told by his secretary that you authorized our
transfer, and should we find reason for complaint we could take our leave for Spain.”
She gave me a mirthless smile. “I suppose he expected us to walk there.”
“That is impossible.” My gaze flew to Beatriz. “I paid out of my own purse for
your expenses. I was told you would be well cared for.”
Doña Francisca reached into her frayed cloak pocket and withdrew a bunch of
crinkled papers, tied with a string.
During the tour, many such girls had made their way to me, hoping for a piece of
ribbon from my hair, or section of lace from my cuff, as though any article that had
touched my person were a talisman.
Madame de Halewin stepped between us. “Her Highness doesn‟t wish to be
disturbed. Off with you, girl!”
I held up a hand, moving around Madame to the now-cowering figure. She was
just a child, one of the thousands who prepared our food, mended our linens, dusted
our belongings, and swept our hearths. I had been taught by my mother‟s example to
always show kindness to those who served me, as justness, not pride, was the
hallmark of royalty.
“Come, child,” I said, “what is it?”
The girl reached into her apron pocket and withdrew a scrap of paper. “Your
matrons send you this,” she murmured, and she stepped back hurriedly.
I frowned, glanced at the paper. The writing was cramped, in faded ink, but the
words were unmistakable: Somos prisoneras. We are prisoners.”
“What is this?” I asked the girl. “Where did it come from? Speak up.”
Beatriz and Soraya came up beside me. An uncomfortable tightness formed in my
chest when the girl whispered, “It is from a lady named Doña Francisca. She asked
me to bring this to Your Highness. She begged me. She also bid me to tell you, Doña
Ana is ill.”
It was all I needed to hear. I motioned. “Beatriz, Soraya, come with me. We‟ll visit
my matrons in their quarters.” I stopped Madame de Halewin with a single glance.
“Alone.”
_________________
STANDING AT THE BOTTOM OF A STAIRCASE IN A DILAPIDATED QUARTER OF THE
PALACE, I gazed about in horror.
My matrons‟ quarters, if such they could be called, consisted of a wine cellar, the
moldering walls windowless, the broken stone floor strewn with straw. I wouldn‟t
have stabled a mule here, I thought, and I felt ill when I saw the pallets and the
threadbare blankets, the mess of cinders in the center where my women had resorted
to burning kindling for heat.
I gestured to Beatriz, who rewarded the girl with a purse of coins and sent her
scampering off., her good deed done and financial situation considerably improved.
My four matrons stood clustered together, clad in layers of soiled clothing, all
bearing the sallow look of invalids. The odium in their sunken eyes made me want to
flee back up the stairs. I had signed vouchers for their upkeep before I left with Philip on tour. I believed I had seen to their welfare. How had this happened? How long had
they been here, like this?
I moved to the pallet where Doña Ana lay and dropped to my knees. “Doña
Ana,” I whispered. “Doña Ana, it is I, your Juana. I am here.”
My duenna‟s eyes opened, glazed with fever. “Mia niña,” she croaked, “Oh, my
child, you must summon a priest. I am dying.”
“No, no. You are not dying.” I removed my shawl, tucked it about her. “It‟s only
your tertian fever, as you used to get in Castile. The moment we went to Granada, you
always improved.”
“I‟ll have no such relief here,” she murmured.
I lifted an enraged gaze to Doña Francisca de Ayala, who stood like an accusing
specter before me. “How did this occur? Why was no word sent to me of these
deplorable conditions?”
She met my gaze. “We tried, Your Highness. We were denied access to you.”
“Denied?” My voice edged up a notch. “By whom? Tell me at once!”
“My lord Besançon. We were told by his secretary that you authorized our
transfer, and should we find reason for complaint we could take our leave for Spain.”
She gave me a mirthless smile. “I suppose he expected us to walk there.”
“That is impossible.” My gaze flew to Beatriz. “I paid out of my own purse for
your expenses. I was told you would be well cared for.”
Doña Francisca reached into her frayed cloak pocket and withdrew a bunch of
crinkled papers, tied with a string.
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