Alcochete, Portugal. 10th of June, 1530.
Leonor read the papers before her with a careful eye, tapping her fingers lightly against her lips. The woman and man before her seemed nervous, faces pale, but she did not let their anxiety distract her as she read her children’s schooling papers.
She tilted her gaze up, looking at the two tutors and returned Joana and Afonso’s reports about the history of the Aviz family, which was not written in Portuguese, but rather, in French, so they could practice the language. “Joana’s grammar is lacking, clearly,” she murmured and the woman nodded with a slight twist to her pressed lips. She was Joana’s governess. “I want another French tutor. Monsieur Dubois clearly does not encourage her enough and I want him fired by the end of the week. The next tutor should be found immediately as well, even if we have to send for one in the French court to do so.”
The governess, one of the younger daughters of the Duke of Braganza named Eugénia, nodded, though she felt the freedom to say, “My lady, the Infanta feels much pressure from her language studies and has requested me to ask you for a reprieve. Latin, Portuguese, French, Castilian and Greek. It is too much for a girl of her age.”
Leonor looked at her, face serious. Eugénia, the Marchioness of Ferreira, looked down at her feet, mouth shut. “The Empress speaks French perfectly,” she murmured, “And my daughter is betrothed to the Prince of Asturias. She may be only ten, but the sooner she masters French, the better. Certainly, Her Majesty will expect my daughter to converse in the language easily whenever she is sent to Castile.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Eugénia responded with a curtsy. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
“And Afonso has gotten his kings mixed,” Leonor continued, looking at the history tutor, who had been picked by the Prince’s guardian, Afonso de Albuquerque the Duke of Goa. “Let his guardian know that he is to have another hour of history lessons until he outgrows his mistake.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” said the tutor.
Leonor dismissed them both, bringing a goblet of watered-down wine to her mouth. She was with child again and everyone said a drunk mother gives birth to a drunk child. She had not yet told anyone, at least not until the child quickened and João was told. He had to be the first to know, of course, as the father. Why else would he not know first? She didn’t know if she had conceived the last night she had with her husband, a month prior, probably not, but Leonor liked to think so. It was romantic.
She hoped it was another boy. Filipe was the sole spare heir to his father’s throne, without considering his uncles, and she hoped to have another son to take the pressure off of him. He was a sensitive boy. The kingship, if Afonso was taken from him like his brother Miguel, would not suit him.
If it was a boy, Leonor would name him Fernando, after her grandfather. João would like that, and if it was a girl, Isabel, after her sister-in-law. Either way, Isabella would be the godmother. João would like that.
She hoped he would live to see this baby. She prayed to God he would live.
