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."He's not even full-blooded, just a bastard.We would not waste your sister on him if we did not need Spain so badly."My Lady closed her eyes."How can I give him Up when I have never had him?""Mother of God, girl, quit this pretense! Do you think we jest? How do you think a strapping young man like the Prince of Ascoli died? From a little bellyache?""He had the flux.It was very tragic.The King and I were both sad.""Sad! The two of you could have been as sad as a pair of stiffed whores--that does not mean that your husband did not have him removed."Fear crept into the Queen's face as she digested this thought."How can you even suggest such a thing?""This is no suggestion, child.The fact is, the foolish Prince could not keep his hands off his wife, and that, you see, was not part of the agreement.He was not to touch what was the King's.""Why would Felipe care? He told me he had broken off relations with her.""That may be.We suggest you examine the daughter for his likeness to be sure.But regardless: Once a king's mistress, always a king's mistress.Dona Eufrasia is his property.Oh, it is disgusting, we know, but it is the Spanish way.They treat their horses likewise.The Prince of Ascoli was Spanish.He knew the rules."My Lady covered her eyes."This cannot be.""You are our child.We tell you this for your own good." The French Queen Mother slowly lifted her bulk from her chair and opened her arms.Reluctantly, My Lady came to her."Wear your charms," she crooned in her daughter's ear."Stay well.Get yourself pregnant.Stay in his good graces.It will keep you out of the grave."My Lady laid her head on her mother's rounded shoulder."Be glad," the French Queen Mother said."At least he has put his whore aside.We tried everything in our power to sever your father's connection with that Poitiers bitch, and still, only death finally did the trick."ITEM : "Embrace only your enemies."--CATHERINE DE' MEDICI15 JULY 1565Valsain, the House in the Woods of SegoviaWhen in Genoa to make my crossing to Spain, I saw a French war galley making ready to sail at the docks.The filthy, naked men chained to its rows of benches were hunched over their oars, gobbling the bits of bread thrown to them by their master, while the other crewman made ready with the sails.Then a drummer began his beat, a whip cracked, and with a collective groan, the oarsmen bent to their work.How long can a man survive such a life, made to toil past exhaustion in the blazing sun by day and to sleep exposed to chill winds by night?Now Tiberio is on such a ship.Condemned for sculpting his lover's visage: how cruel the irony! The statue that was to make his career had destroyed him.Had it not been found, would the judge have let Tiberio free? He had denounced Michelangelo and his works, the French Queen Mother had said.Had Tiberio born witness against the homosexual leanings in Michelangelo's works and in the man himself, thus shredding the Maestro's reputation to save his own skin? Yet with fire to his feet, even a son would denounce his own father.Who could blame Tiberio for saving himself?But there is still the matter of the poems Michelangelo had written to him.The French Queen Mother had said that Tiberio had denied knowing of their existence.Under the pain of torture, wouldn't he claim to know of them just to get his inquisitors to stop?With these thoughts swinging to and fro in my mind like a bell on a rope, the trip to France passed in a blur.Yet in my troubled state, even I could see that Don Carlos's condition was worsening.At first on our visit, he had behaved surprisingly well.He had done all the things the heir to the Spanish crown should do: honoring the French Queen Mother by taking her colors at the lists; cheering enthusiastically (perhaps more so than his father would approve) at the many spectacles celebrating the Spanish and French alliance; allowing a draw in a mock battle during a masque, when he really wanted to win.Even when young King Charles insisted on driving his sister, My Lady, on a tour of the countryside, and Don Carlos was already at the helm of her chariot, ready to drive, Don Carlos merely bowed to the boy King and handed over the reins, though his face had turned most red.The condesa de uruena thought the improvement in his behavior was due to the break in the terrible heat the day after our arrival in France.Indeed, most were relieved.At least soldiers were no longer dropping in their armor like felled timber.Madame de Clermont had a different opinion.She insisted that Don Carlos's more chivalrous leanings were due to his wish to impress My Lady's sister Margot, whom the French Queen Mother continues to put forward as another possible prospect to strengthen her alliance with Spain.But even though the twelve-year-old Margot is nearly as lovely as My Lady, Don Carlos, I fear, has not eyes for her.Indeed, at the French Queen Mother's ball, he backslid momentarily in all the strides he had made in decorum by slumping Under the canopy of state between Mademoiselle Margot and the Queen Mother while everyone else danced.The French Princess tried her best to engage him with her winsome child's smile, but his pale gaze remained fixed Upon the dance floor, and more specifically Upon My Lady, Until at last her sister gave Up and slouched in the opposite direction.Don Juan, brooding over by the musician's stand, must have seen Mademoiselle Margot's downcast looks, for he stepped forward and begged the pleasure of being her partner.From where I danced nearby with My Lady's ten-year-old brother, a thistledown bit of a prince incongruously named Hercule, I could see the glow spread over young Margot's cheeks as they took to the floor.Don Juan gently led her through the stately steps of a pavane, his calm attentiveness a contrast to her desperate adolescent chatter.My Lady and her partner, one of the brothers from the powerful French family of Guise, paused by the pair as the next pattern formed."Do watch your feet," she told her sister [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]