Free The Creation Of Eve by Lynn Cullen Page B

another hand at it. But this was the Queen of Spain, not Europa crying because Count Broccardo's daughter had snubbed her.
    The line of noble horsemen paraded before Us, led by the King in black armor chased with swirls of gold. His helmet Under his arm, he bowed briefly from his saddle to the Queen, then forced his black steed into a show of sidesteps to the crowd 's wild applause.
    The ladies were still calling their approval when into the King's wake clattered Don Carlos, Don Juan, and Don Alessandro. Despite their fine horses and armor, they fought like a pack of eager puppies to position themselves before the Queen.
    "You must choose one, Your Majesty," the condesa de Uruena told the Queen. "They each wish for you to be their liege lady."
    Even from down the line of swaying skirts, I could see the Queen's nervousness evaporate as she considered the young bloods jostling before her. The King turned on his horse to watch.
    My Lady held out her handkerchief to Don Carlos. "For the one who is like a brother to me."
    Don Carlos, a pale worm within a golden shell, reached with a clank of armor for the handkerchief, nearly falling from his horse. He caught himself just in time, clutching the frothy lace cloth to his breastplate. Even from where I stood, I could see his watery eyes shining with gratitude through his open visor. Equally visible was the King, leaning back in his saddle, taking it all in.
    With a satisfied nod, the King swung back around. I followed his line of vision Until it came to rest Upon his sister, Dona Juana, Crown Princess of Portugal. I had seen Dona Juana at many of the events celebrating the arrival of the Queen. With perfect skin, shrewd blue eyes framed by white lashes, and a rounded brow that she lowers like a battering ram when she speaks, she is a beautiful woman in a formidable way. A person with any sense would not argue with her, though she is a young woman, near my years in age. Widow of the Portuguese Crown Prince, she had come back to Spain six years ago at her father the Emperor's request, leaving behind her infant son. Busy waging war in France, the Emperor had chosen her to rule as his regent in Spain, since Felipe, then Prince, had gone to England to wed Mary Tudor. She quickly earned a reputation for stern efficiency and an Unblinking commitment to enforcing the law. But now even the woman known as the Iron Princess was chuckling as her nephew, Don Carlos, galloped off whirling the Queen's handkerchief aloft, his page racing after him, calling him back.
    The flash of a jewel caught my attention. I looked again to the King's sister, then to the lady-in-waiting next to her, a beauty whose dark Uncovered hair shone blue-black in the sun. She toyed with a large diamond brooch as she stared at the King, and he, I did realize, was staring back at her.
    That evening, at a masque given by the Archbishop of Toledo, I watched this lady closely. While the performers sang to the music of viol, lute, and harp, she did nothing more than carry Dona Juana's train, fetch her mistress goblets of water, and stand back while the Princess voiced her many irrefutable opinions. The only time I took my eyes from the lady in the space of the first hour was to lift my empty cup to the pages circulating through the chamber with wine, while Francesca shook her head no from the servants' gallery.
    But even after the performance had ended and a dance had begun, not once did the lady look at the King nor he at her, and no movement between them would have gone Undetected. My attention was not divided, as was the other ladies' in the Queen's household, by the little war gaining momentum between the Spanish ladies and the French, ever since a French lady had overheard a Spanish lady complain to a gentleman that the French women were dirty. I had just decided that perhaps the connection between Dona Juana's lady and the King was a figment of my imagination when the three young Royal caballeros , Don Carlos, Don