Light. So much light. Beatriz Galindo walked back to the library in light, and not just the light from the high archways of the royal alcázar. It was the light of life. Her life. Before the shadows engulfed her again, one archway opened to a garden where running water from a fountain sparkled like diamonds, light and water flashing rainbows onto the high, white stone walls. Beatriz halted by the arch, holding her habito away from her feet, and gazed out before treading into the garden. She sat on a stone bench and looked around her.
At summer’s end beauty and ugliness competed for dominance. Most of the flowers were now gone to seed, even the well-tended roses drooped their heads, crimson petals and desiccated leaves of every shade of brown scattering upon an earth sucked dry and cracked by days of relentless heat. Life passed so quickly, one season dying, re-birthing into another.
Beatriz closed her eyes for a moment, raising her face to the sunlight. Dear God, I have much to give thanks for – I will always be grateful for what I’ve been given. Then she thought how complicated was this gratitude. It was a gratitude birthed from sorrow, and from loss.
A shadow fell upon her. She opened her eyes, relieved to see her dearest friend, Josefa de Salinas, smiling down at her. “You are fortunate, Beatriz, to have time to enjoy the day. I am on my way to the queen.” Josefa laughed a little. “My royal cousin has summoned me to embroider the hems and collars of her new shifts. Sometimes I wish my mother had not taught me so well my skills with the needle. I may then be like you, amigo, more at liberty to spend my mornings in the garden.”
The sheer, white fabric of Josefa’s toca wafted in a breeze against the sides of her face. Apprehension stabbed Beatriz. Her friend’s face was too pale, too thin. The deep hollows under her high cheekbones were as if strong thumbs had bruised her wan skin. A flowing black habito revealed the swell of her belly, a jewelled scallop, made of gold, gathering together the points of the toca at the breast of her gown. Beatriz did not need her knowledge of medicine or midwifery to know that Josefa’s pregnancy was proving difficult. Beatriz swallowed, thinking of what she could make to help her friend. Hiding her anxiety, she smiled at Josefa. “I was thinking of my own mother.”
Josefa sat beside her. “Did she not die when you were but a child?”
“Si – I was three when the black death took her. My father never forgave himself that he could not save her from suffering a terrible death. I think I have told you that my father was a famous scholar of medicine, highly regarded in all Castilla – yet all his knowledge proved useless at that time. I was just wondering how different my life would have been if my mother had lived. My father’s grief was such he never married again. It no longer mattered that I was but a daughter. He consoled himself by teaching me.”
Josefa laughed. “And found himself with a prodigy.”
“Prodigy?” Beatriz shrugged. “I’m not certain I was ever that. Rather a child with a great passion for books and learning. I was twelve when my father’s great friend Antonio de Nebrija took me under his tutorage. It changed my destiny from that of a religious order to a respected teacher of Latin at the university itself. So respected Queen Isabel sought me out when I was twenty to teach her to read and speak Latin. I have found complete fulfilment these past five years and more – not only as a teacher at Salamanca, but in my work as tutor to the queen’s children.” Beatriz lifted her gaze to a rose dropping its petals. Si. Death not only destroyed the life I had then, but also planted the seeds for the life I have now. The life I was meant to live. She refused to ponder about the dues she sometimes paid.
“You have told me the story before. But what makes you think of this now?” Josefa asked.
“I am happy today – the queen wants me to continue as tutor to her youngest child, and your daughter.”
Josefa lifted her dark eyebrows, and grinned wryly. “So – I hear it first from you.”
Beatriz eyed her friend. “Do you mind?”
“Does it matter if I mind, or not? Martin or I could not say no to the queen when she asked for María to grow alongside her daughter as her companion. It was a great honour for our family –and all of us saw how much the young infanta loved María. We are close kin, after all, with the queen. I must accept with good grace my daughter shares the same education as the infanta.” Josefa glanced towards the archway leading back into the building. “While I would like to sit and talk with you in the sunshine, I must be away if I have any hope of finishing even one of the queen’s chemises before the day grows too hot.”
Josefa stood up, shook out the folds of her habito and headed towards the sunlit corridor. “No doubt I will see you soon enough,” she called over her shoulder.
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Publisher: Poesy Quill Publishing.
Page Length: 576 pages.
Genre: Historical Fiction
Unaware of her impatience to see him gone, the prince strummed a short melody. When his fingers stumbled over the notes, he sniffed and passed the vihuela back to her. “I prefer the lute. It has a better sound.”
“If you say so, Your Highness.”
He frowned at her. “You do not agree?”
María shrugged. “All musicians have their own preferences; for me, I have played a vihuela since childhood.” She smiled. Pulled by the strong current of memory, she saw a sunlit chamber and Prince Juan, blond, with gentle eyes, his smile lighting up his handsome face as he murmured words of encouragement. How patient he had been with her; even as a five-year-old, she knew the honour of receiving her first lessons on playing a vihuela from him. He had given her this vihuela for her twelfth birthday, not long before his death.
She glanced at the prince beside her. Prince Henry was so different; a bold, strutting cock, while Juan had been like a caged nightingale. Despite the cage, while he lived, Juan sang, to touch all hearts, a song of goodness and nobility of soul. She inwardly sighed. His death, and Arthur’s, seemed so wrong, a jest of God’s which still made no sense.
“Play me your song again,” the prince commanded. María shuttered away her memories of one prince, and attended to another. She lifted her chin. “Forgive me, but I have not finished it yet.” She swallowed. “It is not ready for Your Highness’s ears.”
His small slit eyes narrowed. “It sounded good enough to me when I heard you in the library.”
María shifted away from him. She wanted to say, Foolish boy, do you not know that you cannot expect to receive everything you ask for? I have no wish to share this song with you. I write this song for the one I love. Sharing it with you would only serve to tarnish my gift, and I would no longer wish to give it. She met his eyes, thinking fast. “I would prefer to hear a song of yours, Your Highness, than any of my unworthy attempts to be a songstress. It would honour me to hear you sing.”
“Would it?” He brightened, his previous annoyance seemingly all forgotten. He bounded up from the seat. “I will go and fetch my lute then.”
María watched him hurry down the corridor until she saw him no more. She sighed, strumming notes on her vihuela, and singing softly under her breath.
Oh, my aching heart Be still
And quiet
’Tis useless to wish for
What you cannot have...
She lifted her fingers from the strings, transfixed. It came to her that Prince Henry was one who would never be quiet, or still. As for knowing the uselessness of wishing for what he could never have? He was more likely to think everything he wanted was his for the taking – even if it meant destroying everything else that stood in his way. Am I wrong to think this? He’s only a boy. The years could teach him a greater wisdom – a knowledge of humility. He may yet learn what love means; you cannot take it, or own it. But she doubted it. Despite his handsome looks, there was something rotten about him. He reminded her of a beautiful apple, red and appetising to look at, but rotten at its core. He still caused her skin to crawl. She hoped and prayed his long dead mother was right. Once married to Catalina, the good in Henry would have its chance to flourish over the bad. She sighed. Her doubt remained fixed, immovable.
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While she continues to have a very close and spooky relationship with Sir Thomas Wyatt, the elder, serendipity of life now leaves her no longer wondering if she has been channelling Anne Boleyn and Sir Tom for years in her writing, but considering the possibility of ancestral memory. Her own family tree reveals the intriguing fact that her ancestors – possibly over three generations – had purchased land from both the Boleyn and Wyatt families to build up their own holdings. It seems very likely Wendy’s ancestors knew the Wyatts and Boleyns personally.
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See you on your next coffee break!
Take Care,
Mary Anne xxx