Free The Last Queen by C.W. Gortner

that he whispered, “You haven‟t recognized a thing you‟ve eaten tonight, have
    you, ma petite? ”
    “No,” I told him, “But I‟ve had poultry before, my lord. I do know its taste.”
    “Do you?” He forked a piece of roast flesh from his silver plate and raised it to
    my lips. I glanced around, wishing we weren‟t so visible to the Flemish courtiers
    seated below us, several of whom were staring, smiling and nudging each other as if
    they knew something they did not.
    I took the fork from him. “Delicious,” I pronounced. “I believe it is quail, yes?”
    He let out a hearty laugh. Then I felt his hand slip under the table to rest on my
    thigh. I went still. It took a moment for me to identify my fear. He touched me as if I
    were a prized possession, a favorite hound or hawk. I understood then that I was his
    now, to do with as he wished. I‟d surrendered whatever little freedom I‟d enjoyed as a
    infanta to become the archduchess of Flanders, Philip of Habsburg‟s wife.
    I regretted not having stood my ground earlier. I knew, of course, what was
    expected of a bride on her wedding night, in general if not specifics. I hadn‟t stopped
    to consider this was, in fact, my wedding night. Was I prepared to give myself to a stranger? Unlike me, I doubted he was a novice when it came to such matters. Men
    rarely were. I should have insisted we wait until a proper ceremony was arranged; I
    should have pleaded exhaustion or another indisposition.
    Yet even as I thought this, I knew I deluded myself. I had agreed because I
    wanted to, because I had seen a challenge in him I could not resist.
    I reached for my goblet. Philip took up his at the same time. His gesture conveyed
    what he did not say, and so intense was the way he looked at me that after we drank
    together Margaret leaned from her place at my left side to whisper in my ear, “You
    mustn‟t worry, my dear. My brother is like any man, but you‟ll have your cathedral
    wedding. My lord Besançon won‟t be deprived of the opportunity to show you to the
    people. He considers our alliance with Spain his greatest achievement to date. Indeed,
    I‟m surprised he hasn‟t sent me packing my coffers this very night, so he can see me
    off all the quicker to your brother‟s bed.”
    I glanced past Philip at the archbishop. He nodded as Philip murmured to him
    but seemed more interested in his food, eating with his hands like a serf. I thought
    there was something unpleasant about the prelate but I was grateful for Margaret‟s
    reassurance. Perhaps now would be the time to tell her about my brother and his
    many princely accomplishments.
    Instead, I felt Philip take my hand and draw me to my feet. “Play a bass dance,”
    he called to the musicians as he led me to the floor. “A Flemish bass dance to
    celebrate my marriage.”
    His court yelled their approval, banging goblets on the tables, causing cutlery and
    trenchers to jump. My entourages‟ brows arched even higher; I could practically feel
    their stares boring into me. To them, my wedding ceremony had been a farce. I
    shouldn‟t be here. I should be in virginal isolation with my women until I was wed by
    the church, with all the requisite trappings.
    All thought of extolling Juan‟s virtues fled my mind. Surely, I couldn‟t dance with
    a man I‟d just met, and whom, in my entourages‟ opinion, I had not yet officially wed?
    As if he sensed my misgiving, Philip said, “Come, my infanta. Let us show them
    how Spain and Flanders can dance together.”
    He propelled me forward. As the drumbeats gathered force, I surrendered my
    inhibitions. I excelled at dancing, and the bass dance was one of my favorites, its fluid rhythm and intricate twists and bows requiring both stamina and grace. Philip too
    proved an excellent dancer, and I met his every move with ease, as if we‟d danced
    together a hundred times before.
    He whispered, “You are breathtaking,” and my flush must have reached the roots
    of