A Son of Spain (and Austria)

[B-DOG]

A SON OF SPAIN (AND AUSTRIA)

22nd of June, 1498. Salamanca, Castile.
​

Chaos was in the air. Or rather, in the Dowager Princess of Asturias and Girona's birthing chamber. Midwives, some of the most experienced and revered in all of Spain were positioned all over the chamber, scrambling around to tend to the Dowager Princess with no real set of instructions as to what they should do, leaving a few of the women idle and without cause, compelling them to shout words of encouragement to the young widow, who was naturally under much pressure to birth what many considered to be the last hope for Spain. A Son. A Son of the Trastamara Dynasty. A Miracle Prince.

Seated beside the Princess' bed was her one time mother-in-law, Queen Isabel of Castile herself, hunched over the side of the bed, allowing her son's widow to practically crush her hand with the strength of her squeezes, whispering a strange jumble of quiet prayers and demands for her to push, all in good spirit of course. The Castilian Queen then placed her free hand atop of the Dowager Princess' forehead, feeling her hand instantly become drenched in a clammy moisture and a feverish heat.

Isabel removed her hand as quickly as she had put it there. "She's burning, fetch her a cold cloth at once." she demanded to one of the midwives, who obeyed her orders instantly. I mean, who wouldn't? Not only was she her queen, but she was quite possibly the greatest queen of all time. "Margarita, dear, you must push." she encouraged, "for the sake of this baby. Your son. My grandson!"

Margaret of Austria and Burgundy, usually known as Margarita in Spain, rested for a few moments, allowing herself to pluck up the strength to push once more. A powerful, determined push followed, accompanied with an ear shattering scream that rumbled the entire palace. This was the last push. Margaret could feel it, she could feel the baby's head only moments away from entering this world. It happened so quickly for everyone else, but for Margaret it felt like hours. Endless hours of pushing and screaming or endless hours of being told to push and scream, but alas, it happened.

Doña Elvira de Osorio was the woman that had the honour of being the first person to hold the baby. The heir or heiress to both Castilla and Aragon.

Margaret struggled for a moment, trying to gather the words. "What is it?" she demanded, "What is it?".

Doña Elvira handed the newborn to another midwife to be cleansed of it's mother's blood. "It is a boy, your highness!" she cried, "and a healthy one at that!"

An instant wave of relief swept over Margaret, flowing from her head to her toes and then rolling off of her body and a smile began to form on her face. She had a son. A Son of Spain. "Give him to me!" she ordered. "Give him to me now, please!".

Queen Isabel rose from the stool that sat beside Margaret's bed, taking her grandson, now cleaned, from the midwife, holding him in her arms for a few moments as she began to feel tears of joy well up in her dull blue eyes, a flash of grief for her son, Prince Juan passing her as she gazed upon his infant child who reminded her so much of him.

Isabella passed her grandson to his mother, who too felt even more tears well up in her eyes, except this time they were tears of joy. "I am a mother." she whispered softly to herself. It felt like everyone had disappeared for Margaret. That the only two that remained in the room were Margaret and her son, who she had just remembered needed a name.

"Juan." she said, not a trace of hesitation nor uncertainty in her voice. "I will name him Juan, for his father."

The Queen couldn't agree more with the choice of name for the newborn Prince of Asturias. "It is fine name for a fine boy." she remarked. "a fine boy with a fine mother." she smiled at her former daughter-in-law, who's chestnut curls had to be swept away from her eyes so that she could see.

There was an abrupt knock at the door, a heavy knock. "Enter." Isabella called back in reply. At once, the door were swung open by a page.

As it goes, the young page boy announced the entrance of two more important Spanish royals. The Infanta Maria, who was currently being mooted as a potential bride for the Scottish King, and Infanta Catalina, who was likely to be married to the English Tudor Prince, both of the girl's being the former sisters-in-law to the Austrian Archduchess and so, the new Infante's aunts. He had two more aunts, as well as an uncle, but they all either were married off and living abroad or giving birth to what everyone hoped to be the next King of Portugal across the peninsula.

"We have named him Juan." Isabel smiled at her daughters, bending over to kiss Juan's forehead. "For his father."

The pair of teenage infanta's, who were all but vibrating with excitement to meet their new nephew, were promptly at Margaret's side, marvelling at John as if he were some sort of tropical species from the Indies or the Moorish lands. "I can't wait to have a son one day." remarked the Infanta Maria.

"Me neither." agreed Infanta Catalina.

 

[B-DOG]

29th of June, 1498, Salamanca, Castile.
​

Maria could not help but feel down. Today was her special day, the day that saw her turn from aged fifteen to sixteen, the day that was supposed to be spent celebrating her life and yet, her newborn nephew Infante Juan was taking all the attention away from her. It had already been a week since his birth and still, nobles from all ends of Castile and Aragon came dancing down to Salamanca with gifts and congratulations alike, hoping to catch a glimpse of the boy that would one day rule over all of them. Maria watched enviously as the Infante of Castile and Aragon was presented with chalices formed with some of the finest gold smelted from the new world. Clothing, in all sizes imaginable embroidered by some of the finest fabrics and threads in all of Europe. Tapestries embroidered depicting great events in Spanish history by nuns who had been lodged away in convents most of their lives to avoid marriage or live quiet lives and that was just the beginning of it, Maria knew not where to start with the sheer amount of gifts that had arrived from the royal courts of Europe. She could not lie to herself, she may have been presented with a few gifts, perhaps the most enticing being two brand new gowns which she had received from her mother and father, aside from that, there was little else. Maria had always been grateful for anything she had been given in live, but she couldn't deny that she was filled with jealousy of Juan. But still, she held out hope, perhaps the King and Queen had a surprise in sight for her.

"Maria. Why do you have that sour look plastered across your face?" Catalina questioned, noticing her sisters glumness. She felt a small smile creep up on the corners of her mouth, "Is it because our nephew is receiving more attention than you on your own birthdate?"

Maria took a deep breathe, turning her nose up to her sister. "No, of course not." she said, seeming not convincing enough as Catalina burst into a fit of laughter. Maria could feel her cheeks tingle slightly with anger. "What are you laughing at?" she demanded, trying to sound as stern and intimidating as possible. "Catalina, I fail to understand what appears to be oh so humorous to you." Catalina gulped down her laughter, using all her might to not smile. In truth, she was laughing at her sister's expression. It anything but funny, Catalina just loved to make her sister feel a fool. However it was common knowledge that Catalina preferred Maria to all her sisters, and that she did not truly mean any of it. "Please, Catalina, Enlighten me." Maria said, once again trying to paint an illusion of intimidation.

"It is nothing." Catalina said, "But I would be careful, dear sister, we are to have another two nephews before this year closes." she paused, but Maria knew exactly what her next words would be. "Then you'll be forgotten about." she spoke, quickly scurrying away to be with her nephew as well as avoid whatever reaction her sister might let out.

+

23rd of August, 1498, Riberia Palace, Lisbon, Portugal.
​

There was a woman, a slightly older woman, maybe in her late twenties or so, sitting upright on a rock-hard mattress which rested on a finely carved bed, this was a Queen's bed, the Queen of Portugal's bed. Such woman went by the name of Isabel. An Infanta of Aragon and Castile by birth, Queen Isabel of Portugal had been married once before, firstly to a man named Afonso, who had previously been heir to the Kingdom of Portugal, and secondly, to King Manuel of Portugal, her present husband. In her bed, Isabel swaddled a heavy, unmoving bundle of blankets, seeming to have a human child inside of them, sleeping soundly in his mother's arms but no, what Isabel was actually held in her arms was a corpse dressed in blankets. The corpse of her son, who was born dead.

 

[B-DOG]

25th of August, 1498. Toledo, Castile.
​

"Isabel has had her child." said King Fernando of Aragon as he moved his eyes from one word to the other on the letter that he had received from Portugal. "A stillborn boy." he added grimly after a brief pause to process the news, a small frown appearing on his face.

Isabel of Castile frowned too. "Oh, my poor daughter." she expressed. "There will be many to follow." she offered in order to stay positive.

Fernando made a face of uncertainty at his wife, "I am not so sure. King Manuel tells me that Isabel is not feeling herself, she believes that she birthed a healthy boy and even refuses to let go of our grandson's corpse, and has been showing symptoms of a sickness of the body too." Fernando cleared his throat, "Perhaps your mother's madness is hereditary." Fernando offered to his wife, who's mother too had been mad, she would scream at individuals that weren't there, and was incredibly disassociated with herself by the end of her life.

"We can only hope not." Isabel replied. "I will pray. I will pray for Isabel and I will pray that the rest of our daughters are not cursed with his awful sickness, as well as the safety of Juana's unborn child and Infante Juan." she finished.

As Isabel the Catholic journeyed to the Royal Chapel, she found herself thinking of her late son Juan, remembering how stricken with grief she had been and how she had still not recovered from it, and the fact she perhaps never would. She couldn't lose Isabel, her weekend heart couldn't take it and neither would her pride. She couldn't imagine people remembering her as the great Queen of Castile commissioned the first voyage to America and kicked the Moors and heretics who then died of grief. She knew she was selfish for thinking this but truly, she had known enough tragedy in her life, she didn't know if she could handle any more.

2nd of September, 1498. Greenwich, England.​

The screams of a woman in labour were distant, but close enough so the whole court could hear them, from the kitchens to the courtyard, everybody waited in anticipation. Except one woman, dressed from head to toe in black, seeming quite unbothered in comparison to everyone else, looking over two roses, one white and one red. She watched with closer attention to the white rose, a great feeling of worry beginning to mount in her heart. She extended her arm and plucked one singular petal from the white flower, the sound of the woman's crescendo of screams coming to an abrupt end, and the petal of the white rose wilting just as quickly.