April 1482.
April 1482. Palace of Whitehall, England.
His mother paced about him, fanning herself desperately with a white fan. Ned rolled his eyes when she was behind him, knowing that she could not see it and sighed, scratching his brow as she continued to ramble.
Well, not ramble exactly. She was just demanding, a sign of being both a Dowager Queen and his mother, and he knew all that she said was out of love and care, but still. Ned thought that if he heard about Ceci's marriage one more time, he was sure to stick pins in his ears.
"We must be sure to send her with just as much pomp as her station demands," his mother said. "Your sister is marrying the richest lord in Europe."
"I have not forgotten," said Ned. In fact, he didn't know if he even could. His mother had spoken so often about the prestige and power of this match that he had heard little else from her since mourning ended. Ceci was expected in Nancy since December, but their father’s death delayed it. Now, the Dowager Queen of Lotharingia was back in demanding her arrival and half of her 150,000 dowry. “I swear to you, mama, everything is ready for our travel to Kent.” Where the entire family would send Ceci off to her marriage in the Low Countries.
His mother nodded, pleased. “Catherine should need some new dresses too. For the journey,” she murmured. “She will be twelve soon enough. And her marriage is next.”
“The next marriage is Dickon’s, mother,” Ned responded, shaking his head. “The young Infanta is expected next year.” His mother made a face.
“I know this match was needed to repair our friendship with Portugal, but I sometimes wonder whether we chose correctly with young Beatriz,” she murmured, stopping before the window. Sunlight streamed in, lighting up her face even under her widow’s garments. “I hear conflicting rumours about my niece’s husband.”
“What do you mean?” he asked and his mother shook her head.
“The King of Portugal is a most paranoid man, according to some gossip,” the Dowager Queen replied. “He distrusts the Duke of Viseu and his mother. A distrust that can only translate to young Beatriz and her future children.”
“Beatriz de Viseu’s children shall be English and very far away from Portugal,” Ned said. “King João cannot possibly see them as threats.”
His mother nodded. “Yes, that is what I hope,” she admitted. Her hands flicked over her cheeks, as if cleaning off tears, and she turned back to him with a soft smile. "I saw Blanche today at mass. She looked marvellous, if I do say so myself, and grows ever more beautiful as the days pass."
"If you say so," he murmured, looking away.
"Edward," his mother said sharply and he looked up. "Blanche is your lady wife and queen."
"She is a child," he responded. "Younger than Catherine even. She can't be my wife in truth until her fifteenth birthday."
His mother shook her head, biting back a French curse. She walked to him, placing her hand on his shoulder.
"That day is closer than ever," said his mother. "You must do something nice for her. Today, even. Invite her to have supper with you."
"I don't want to," Ned said stubbornly.
"Don't be a child," his mother replied. "You are the King and the occasional kindness to Blanche will spar you all sorts of trouble in the future." She walked away from him, wringing her hands together. “I’m not asking for you to love her, Edward, but Blanche is the key to bind this country. You will need her by your side or else many will remember the days of old King Henry with fondness.”
“I know that,” Ned said. He sighed, pressing his fingers against his eyes before he leaned back. “Fine, fine. Send for my page.” His mother smiled as she moved to obey him.
Ned could only hope this would work.
--
May 1482. Lisbon, Portugal.
Ana brought a cup of wine to her lips as the people danced before her. The court of Portugal, celebrating the King's birthday as they ate and drank their fill of her husband’s money. She despised all of them, their scheming behaviours and two faces, pretending to be happy before the King despite plotting behind his back.
Did they not know that this was for the best of Portugal? His centralising actions, the boats that left their harbours searching for new lands to explore in the name of greater riches and more power. Instead of spreading the faith to barbaric people who could not even read the gospels.
She placed her hand over her swollen stomach. Ana was with child again, the first time since Duarte and she could not dance because of it. As if she would even care to do so. Dancing with poor partners was as much worse than not dancing at all. And Ana knew which one she would choose.
Her eyes moved across the decorated hall and she saw as the Duke of Viseu danced with Ana de Mendonça, her heart racing as she did so. Ana brought her cup of wine closer to her mouth again, taking another sip. Ana de Mendonça had lost the weight she acquired after bearing the King’s bastard Jorge in November, just after the death of King Afonso and was beautiful again. It irked the Queen to see her, so proud and high, as if no one knew how she was a whore.
Ana turned to her ward. Young Isabel de Aragón was a pretty young girl, already twelve, and had been living in Portugal since the peace between Portugal and Castile was signed. Her red-gold hair was in a tight braid under an embroidery caul, green eyes excited as she watched the people celebrate.
“A bit of wisdom for my future daughter,” the Queen began and Isabel turned to look at her with a smile. “Men only care for a woman’s strong opinions when it is the same as theirs.” She raised her cup. “Never forget it.”
Isabel nodded and curtsied as she murmured, “Your Grace.” At that moment, a young nobleman approached to invite her to dance and Ana nodded so she would know to accept it. Isabel smiled as she went.
Ana turned back to the large throne beside her, which was empty and her eyes moved to look for her husband. João was in a darkened corner of the hall, hidden save for his golden crown and Ana would have sent for a maid to call him to her side if she did not notice the woman beside him. Pretty, dark-haired and large breasted.
Again? Ana stood up and before one of her maids could come forward to ask if she needed anything, she turned around to leave. She might be a queen and bound to her royal duties, but she did not need to bear this humiliation.
