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 the shift over my head and tossed it aside.
Doña Ana cried, “Absolutely not! I forbid it! That bath is not properly drawn. I can
smell the perfume in the water from here. You‟ll smell like an heretic odalisque.”
“Seeing as I smell like a goat after weeks at sea, I hardly see the argument,” I
replied. Beatriz helped me into the tub. I reclined in the scented water. “ This is paradise,” I sighed, and Soraya slipped forth to massage my feet with aromatic oils she
produced as if by magic from her gown pockets.
Doña Ana glared, whirled about and started barking orders at the other women,
who were soon hauling in my surviving coffers, searching the contents for suitable
garments.
My skin glowing, I was dressed in my crimson velvet with my mother‟s ruby about
my throat. Against the blue room, I shone like a flame. Doña Ana threw a veil over
my head moments before Margaret and a group of nobles tromped in. Pushing in
behind them were the men of my entourage, still clad in their soiled traveling gear,
their expressions hard with anger that they‟d not been offered so much as a room to
rest in.
I resisted the urge to pull off the veil. Castilian tradition decreed only her husband
could unveil a royal bride. I thought it absurd, echoing the Moor‟s habit of immuring
their women, and I stood rigid as a sculpture when Margaret declared, “Such a lovely
gown. And the ruby is gorgeous, my dear. May I present a few members of our court?
They‟re most eager to pay their respects.”
I nodded, starting slightly when the archduchess leaned to me and whispered, “All
of this ceremony is frightfully tedious, my dear, but they simply refuse to heed reason.
We can only hope they‟ll make their speeches brief so you can sup in peace.”
Not knowing what to say, I inclined my head as the archduchess introduced the
nobles, as well as Margaret‟s former governess and matron, Madame de Halewin, a
gaunt woman in jade silk. Most of the names flew from my head the moment they
were uttered; I had an overall impression of well-fed sleekness and appraising eyes
before a corpulent man in crimson robes strode into the room, his fleshy face
beaming.
“His Eminence, the archbishop of Besançon, Lord Chancellor,” pronounced
Margaret.
The Spanish company bowed in deference to the authority of the church.
Besançon was the highest ecclesiastic in Flanders, his position equal to that of
Cisneros in Spain. He was also the man whose postscript had displeased my mother.
As I started to curtsy, he shot out a fat ring-laden hand, detaining me.
“ Mais non, madame. It is I who should bow to you.” He did not bow, however; his
head tilted at an angle before he turned his keen stare to Margaret and issued a curt
babble of Flemish.
I looked in puzzlement at the archduchess. With a reddening of her cheeks,
Margaret translated, “His Eminence wishes to know why Your Highness wears a
veil.”
“It is our custom,” interjected Doña Ana, before I could reply. “In Spain a bride
must remain hidden from all male eyes until she is wed by the church.”
I spied the pinch in Besançon‟s mouth, belying his jocular
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 the shift over my head and tossed it aside.
Doña Ana cried, “Absolutely not! I forbid it! That bath is not properly drawn. I can
smell the perfume in the water from here. You‟ll smell like an heretic odalisque.”
“Seeing as I smell like a goat after weeks at sea, I hardly see the argument,” I
replied. Beatriz helped me into the tub. I reclined in the scented water. “ This is paradise,” I sighed, and Soraya slipped forth to massage my feet with aromatic oils she
produced as if by magic from her gown pockets.
Doña Ana glared, whirled about and started barking orders at the other women,
who were soon hauling in my surviving coffers, searching the contents for suitable
garments.
My skin glowing, I was dressed in my crimson velvet with my mother‟s ruby about
my throat. Against the blue room, I shone like a flame. Doña Ana threw a veil over
my head moments before Margaret and a group of nobles tromped in. Pushing in
behind them were the men of my entourage, still clad in their soiled traveling gear,
their expressions hard with anger that they‟d not been offered so much as a room to
rest in.
I resisted the urge to pull off the veil. Castilian tradition decreed only her husband
could unveil a royal bride. I thought it absurd, echoing the Moor‟s habit of immuring
their women, and I stood rigid as a sculpture when Margaret declared, “Such a lovely
gown. And the ruby is gorgeous, my dear. May I present a few members of our court?
They‟re most eager to pay their respects.”
I nodded, starting slightly when the archduchess leaned to me and whispered, “All
of this ceremony is frightfully tedious, my dear, but they simply refuse to heed reason.
We can only hope they‟ll make their speeches brief so you can sup in peace.”
Not knowing what to say, I inclined my head as the archduchess introduced the
nobles, as well as Margaret‟s former governess and matron, Madame de Halewin, a
gaunt woman in jade silk. Most of the names flew from my head the moment they
were uttered; I had an overall impression of well-fed sleekness and appraising eyes
before a corpulent man in crimson robes strode into the room, his fleshy face
beaming.
“His Eminence, the archbishop of Besançon, Lord Chancellor,” pronounced
Margaret.
The Spanish company bowed in deference to the authority of the church.
Besançon was the highest ecclesiastic in Flanders, his position equal to that of
Cisneros in Spain. He was also the man whose postscript had displeased my mother.
As I started to curtsy, he shot out a fat ring-laden hand, detaining me.
“ Mais non, madame. It is I who should bow to you.” He did not bow, however; his
head tilted at an angle before he turned his keen stare to Margaret and issued a curt
babble of Flemish.
I looked in puzzlement at the archduchess. With a reddening of her cheeks,
Margaret translated, “His Eminence wishes to know why Your Highness wears a
veil.”
“It is our custom,” interjected Doña Ana, before I could reply. “In Spain a bride
must remain hidden from all male eyes until she is wed by the church.”
I spied the pinch in Besançon‟s mouth, belying his jocular
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