Chapter 10
Lina
“I apologize; I must have misheard you.”
Perhaps there was road dust in her ears from the rattling carriage ride through Madrid, which had landed them in front of a staid brick building whose only remarkable feature was the French princess standing on the front steps.
Or maybe there was still salt lingering in her eardrums from the crossing from England.
They had been traveling for weeks, and Lina felt liable to fall asleep standing up in the threshold of Santa Cruz de Madrid.
What she wouldn’t give for a hot bath and a quiet night in a bed she could call her own.
Instead, Marguerite d’Angoulême was blocking the doorway and spouting fantasies.
“I said, ‘Welcome home, my dears, and by the way, this isn’t really a convent,’ ” Marguerite repeated, her violet eyes bright with mischief. “It is a hospital and a university for women.”
Anne—who Lina knew was just as tired as she was—let out what could only be described as a squeal. She and Marguerite took each other’s arms, old friends reunited at last.
“Tell me more,” Anne demanded.
Marguerite reached toward Lina, linking her arm so the three of them walked abreast into the convent.
Or university. Could it be true? Lina had never heard of such a thing.
Women had tutors, perhaps studied occasionally in institutions of higher learning, but even the wealthiest of noblewomen were largely barred from academic pursuits, herself included.
“We recruit students to attend the university for the arts and the hospital for medicine,” Marguerite confirmed. Her fox’s smile grew. “And best of all, it’s all happening under the nose—or, should I say, Habsburg jaw—of the Holy Roman emperor himself.”
“That’s my nephew, I’ll have you remember,” Lina chided, though her heart wasn’t in it. Blood ties aside, she didn’t care for the most powerful man on the Continent either.[*1] “But truly, Marguerite, have you really done this? Because I’m beginning to believe I have hallucinated you entirely.”
Marguerite steered them down a hallway. “Humor me with a tour, and you can see it with your own eyes.”
A porter arranged the transportation of Lina’s and Anne’s luggage, and Marguerite took them first to the hospital, from the surgery to the apothecary to a wing where two midwives were delivering a baby.
A few of the physicians were men, yes, but Lina saw mostly women among them, standing together at patients’ bedsides and conferring over medicines.
The university was much the same, with women leading classes on everything from language to literature to philosophy.
Lina had watched as Anne paused outside one of the classrooms, a hunger in the witch’s eyes that Lina hadn’t seen since retrieving her from the Tower of London.
When Marguerite’s letter had arrived, Lina’s first emotion was relief.
Not necessarily at the prospect of going abroad, but to have a task to appease Anne Boleyn.
Yes, she had been the one who wanted to save the woman in the first place, but all summer she felt like she’d been living with a caged lioness, one that would pounce on the first person she saw the moment the bars were opened.
She had feared the lioness would find the keys and free herself, vanishing into the night to God only knew where.
Well, God and Lina, for if Anne really had run off, it would most certainly have been to kill the king of England.
Lina’s second emotion about going to Spain was…
discomfort. It had been decades since she had returned home, and after the crossing, she soon realized Castile was not as she remembered it.
The cities of her mother’s homeland felt as densely populated as London, though England’s ever-present fog didn’t linger here.
She and Anne had traveled by sea along the coast of France, disembarking in Bilbao before journeying to Madrid.
All the while, Lina was struck by how much Spain had changed in her absence.
The country was growing rich off the purloined gold of the Americas, and everywhere she looked, there were signs of new wealth: treasure-laden ships in the harbors, freshly painted houses, new businesses, and residents dressed in fine clothing.
And even if Spain hadn’t looked different, it felt different.
Everyone here she’d ever known or loved was dead: Maestra Galindo, her parents, all of her siblings save her sister Juana, mother of the emperor and queen of Spain in name only—she’d long since been confined for so-called madness (Lina had her doubts) while her son ruled in her stead.
In short, Spain was no longer home.
But here at Santa Cruz…Lina was stunned that Marguerite had been able to create something so singular, so valuable to the goals of the Sisterhood.
[*2] Something inside her felt like it was waking up, the part of her that had once leaped at the chance to act as queen regent while Henry was away, the part of her that had organized and argued and created change in the confines of the English court.
Her ambitions had long been dormant, her talents stuffed down to make room for survival. Maybe here she could be herself again.
At last, Marguerite took them to their quarters, two rooms within the old convent that were next door to each other.
“Now, I’ve arranged for one of our finest physicians to look at this finger of yours,” Marguerite told Anne, squeezing her good hand gently.
“I have every faith she’ll declare you to be in perfect health. ”
Anne gave a faint chuckle. “A female physician. I never thought I’d see the day.”
While Marguerite summoned the doctor, Lina took advantage of a few moments of peace and quiet to get settled.
Her room boasted a high window to let in the afternoon light, a freshly made bed, and a few other necessities.
The air smelled faintly of rosemary, a scent that reminded her of her mother.
She could already tell that Santa Cruz was a place she could do good, a place she could make a life of her own, even if it all still seemed like a dream.
A knock came at the door, and Marguerite stepped inside.
“I hope everything is to your liking. I know it isn’t a palace—”
Lina waved a hand. “It has been a long time since I’ve lived in a palace.”
“Perhaps one day we will fix that,” Marguerite replied. She leaned against the doorframe. “Tell me truly—are you both well? I have asked much of you, and not just in coming here.”
Lina found she wasn’t quite sure how to answer that. “I am well enough. But Anne…Anne has been through a great deal in the past few years, let alone the last few months. She hasn’t said as much, but I can tell she’s afraid she’s failed the Sisterhood.”
The Frenchwoman said nothing for a moment, her eyes slipping away from Lina’s. For all that Anne and Marguerite seemed to be the best of friends, Marguerite ran her society with intensity and determination. A failure like Anne’s was certainly a blow to the mission.
“We had high hopes for her,” Marguerite said at last. “But of course, we were sending her into the lion’s den. You know what Henry is like. When Mary Boleyn was cast out of favor, we thought it was over. At least Anne held on another few years and made progress where she could.”
“And what now? What will we do about Henry?” Lina needed the Sisterhood to stay involved in England. Without their help, Mary would continue to grow up cast aside and denied her rightful inheritance.
Marguerite closed the door, then pressed her fingertips to her temples.
She suddenly looked older than her forty-four years.
[*3] “It’s too early to say. We have to regroup, start planning again.
Jane Seymour isn’t one of us, and I have too few women in the royal circles who carry influence in court. We have tried, but…”
“It wasn’t enough,” Lina finished, finding a seat of her own. She played with a fraying thread on the arm of the chair, frustrated that she had come into the Sisterhood late, that she hadn’t done more when she was in power, that even now she couldn’t create change overnight.
“We will have time together here to talk it all through,” Marguerite promised. “It will be weeks before my husband will notice my absence.”
“But not the reason for it?” Lina asked. She couldn’t imagine orchestrating something as grand as the Sisterhood without Henry noticing. Perhaps that was too generous, for while Henry was convinced that he was some kind of genius, he couldn’t hold a candle to most of the women Lina knew.
The younger woman scoffed. “Of course not. My first husband was much the same—totally unaware of any universe but his own.” She gave a sly smile. “That’s why I make sure to find the most excellent lovers.”
Lina rolled her eyes. “You French. Not a scrap of morality among the lot of you.”
“Better no morals than to embrace English frigidity.” Marguerite pretended to shudder. “I am ill-suited for the bitter chill of Mother Britain.”
“You have a point there,” Lina allowed. The Spanish court, for all its own politics and schemes, had always felt bright. Vibrant. Moving to England had been like jumping in the Guadalquivir in January.
But although Henry had had his fair share of mistresses, Lina had never dared take a lover. She knew that the rules for women weren’t the same. She had, however, sometimes wondered what life would have been like if Henry had never become king.
He’d been second in line to his elder brother, Arthur, who had been Lina’s own first husband, if only for five short months before the sweating sickness took him.
They had been so young—betrothed at eleven and married at fifteen—and their attempts at playing husband and wife were timid and fumbling, but sweet.
She never knew him well enough to guess what sort of man he’d have grown up to be, but there had been a kinder light in him than any she’d ever seen in Henry.