If anyone wants me to write every character's official titles, i will need many minutes.
An Imperial Match: Anne Boleyn marries Charles V
- Thread starter pandizzy
- Start date
Hours? No, my good man, we would all age to death before we finish listing that family's titles...
7th of June, 1542.
Palace of Alhambra, Granada. 7th of June, 1542.
Sometimes, Felipe wondered about the pain in his heart. The pain that only a family member could give someone when they died, or when they disappointed you. When they told him about María, he had felt that pain, as he felt it when his mother died, when his father pulled away from them. When the Emperor left throughout his childhood, over and over again, breaking all of their hearts.
He felt pain, and something else. It was an emptiness, almost as if accepting that he was not made to be happy. He was not made to enjoy life as it was, with his daughters and his wife. He was made to suffer, because life could not be good. The Habsburgs had stretched too far and they were paying the price. First, his mother, then his mother-in-law and now…
His father was too ill in his gout to ride himself, hiding in his covered litter while the girls and Fernando remained in carriages that stretched over the roads. So Felipe rode ahead of the procession alone, dressed in black on a black horse, the sun beating down on him even with his black hat. In the south, summer could be as unforgiving as winter, especially in his dark clothes. But he didn’t care. He kept riding.
The sun was high in the sky when they finally arrived, this sombre progress of a grieving royal house. Felipe dismounted first, taking in the sights of the Alhambra Palace, a place that had once held so many beautiful memories of his family. When they were happy. But it was now a place of pain to him. He shook his head, sweat clinging to his hairline and walked to the carriage just behind his horse, the one housing Joana and their daughters. This wasn’t about him.
He moved past the servant that would open the carved door and did so himself, offering a gloved hand to Joana. She came out looking like a spectre, dressed in such suffocating clothes that were a stark contrast to her pale face, a dark veil covering her handsome face. His wife looked at him, squeezing his hand gently, before she too stopped to take in the beauty of the Alhambra.
“I wished to have brought you here in greater circumstances, my wife,” Felipe told Joana. She squeezed his hand and brought her hand to cup his face.
“Do not think me upset for myself, husband,” she told him. “I’m here to serve you.”
He nodded and looked behind her, at his little daughters who were helped off the carriage by their governess. Ana, four, had dark hair like her parents, twisted into a braid under a white cap as she struggled with her black skirts. Luisa came right behind her, two years old, with hair that looked blonder and blonder as the months passed. Then Fernanda, just one, who still couldn’t be trusted with the steps of her carriage. Felipe stepped forward to take his youngest in his arms, with Luisa grasping his other hand.
A steward approached them, just as the rest of the procession entered through the courtyard. “Your Highness,” he said in Castilian with a clear Andalusian accent. Fernanda started playing mournfully with the golden chain of her father’s necklace. “Please, allow me to welcome you to Alhambra, and to be the first to express my condolences for the death of Princess María.”
Felipe nodded. He looked behind him, at the servants that approached his father’s litter. At Juanita and Margarita, climbing out of their carriage alone, holding hands as they tried not to cry. Catalina and Fernando, faces down in their grief. When the Emperor exited his contraption with much difficulty, Luisa wrapped her arms around Felipe’s leg. Still unused to their imperial grandfather, his daughters had a great fear of him.
He looked back at the steward.
“Take us to our rooms,” he said, taking his little family away from the palace’s heart. He wanted to be alone, with his wife and his daughters. And no one else. Joana squeezed his shoulder, holding Ana’s hand. “Has the Prince of Portugal arrived yet?”
“We expect His Highness to arrive by Midsummer day, my prince,” the steward responded. Felipe nodded.
That was plenty of time to prepare. There were many things that he wanted to say to Afonso.
“Your Highness?” someone called behind him. Felipe turned. It was Francesc de Borja, his mother’s old equerry. A trusted friend and companion, with Luis Hurtado de Mendoza just behind him. “Your sisters need you.”
Felipe looked at Margarita and Juanita. Margarita was thirteen. Juanita, sixteen. Her marriage to their cousin Maximilian was delayed due to mourning. Catalina and Fernando were even younger, at ten and eight respectively. They were children. Children who lost María too.
His father was ill, and too focused on himself to look at them. He needed to step up.
He looked back at Joana, placing Fernanda by her side. “Will you take the girls to their nursery?” he asked, and his wife nodded, leaning forward to squeeze his shoulder.
“Of course,” she said with a soft smile. “Anything you need, my love.” Felipe nodded, watching as a nurse came to hold Luisa and Fernanda’s hands, as Joana directed them all inside the palace. When they were gone, the Prince looked back at his siblings and stepped forward with a sigh.
--
21st of June, 1542.
Joana observed from her window as the black-clad Portuguese filtered inside the great courtyard of the Alhambra Palace, removing their caps as they were dazzled by the incredible Islamic architecture, turned into a Catholic sanctuary by her great-grandparents. At the centre of the procession, stood a black coffin, covered with a dyed woven cloth featuring María of Austria’s coat of arms. The Portuguese blue escutcheons, the purple lion of León and the golden castle of Castile. The fleur-de-lys for Burgundy, the pomegranate for Granada.
A sole rider led the group, dismounting expertly from his dark mare. Joana recognized him easily. It was her little brother Afonso, heir to Portugal. When she heard that he would be coming to Castile, to Granada, she didn’t believe it. Her father would have never allowed his heir to leave the safety of Portugal, but he did. Most likely, because María’s two sons, heirs to the throne, remained behind.
She stepped away from the window and walked out of her rooms, heavy black skirts swishing as she ran to be the first to greet Afonso. It had been nigh on five years since Joana last saw a member of her own family and though she wished it were greater circumstances, she would not lose the opportunity to embrace her brother.
When she reached the courtyard, Afonso was standing beside the coffin, a hand over the dark mourning cloth as he stared at it mournfully. The people around him noticed her presence, falling into respectful bows not just for their king’s daughter, but for the wife of the heir to the throne of Castile and Aragon. It took him a moment before Afonso turned too, his face pale and with dark bags under his eyes, but she didn’t care.
“Afonso!” Joana called out. “Meu irmão! Portugal!” She was shorter than him, for she inherited their mother’s small stature. Afonso’s long legs travelled faster than she could ever do, allowing them to meet together halfway in a dolorous embrace. Joana wrapped her arms tightly around her little brother, burying her face in his chest.
He smelled like home. Like eating fried cod, custard tarts and black pork on a warm summer’s morning. His chest was stronger than she remembered, more muscled, but he was still her brother. Her little brother, born on the last day of August. Her mother had wished for a son greatly, having given birth to two daughters in the early years of her marriage, and the months between Afonso’s birth and Maria’s death were ones of great joy. Even though she was only two, Joana could remember them. The parties, the celebrations that at long last, the King had an heir.
She looked up at him. “Afonso,” she whispered, reaching forward to cup his face. “My little brother, how I have missed you.” The Portuguese language flowed easily from her tongue, like reuniting with an old friend, and tears brimmed her eyes. “How my heart breaks to know that we must meet in this sad event.” She clutched his hand. “I’m greatly sorry for María’s death. She was a good Christian who respected you.”
“María was good,” Afonso agreed. “She was a good mother, a good wife and a good daughter for our father.” He clutched her waist, holding her tightly against him, as if he was unwilling to let go of something familiar. “How are you, irmã? How are your daughters?”
“All of them are quite well, as am I,” said Joana. “I’m sure in the coming days, someone will suggest to you a match between one of my girls and Infante Jorge.” She shook her head. “Some people have no respect for grief.” Afonso nodded.
“I agree,” he said, shaking her husband. “How is your husband? Does he treat you well?”
“Felipe is a perfect gentleman,” Joana responded. “I’m very happy with him.” She licked her chapped lips, nervous. “But he has--”
“Afonso!” someone shouted behind them. Joana turned, trying to see who would break the heavy atmosphere of mourning and found her husband, climbing down the stairs with quick and angry steps. “Hijo de puta!”
There was nothing to be done. The confusion was too much and Joana had hardly stepped away from her brother when her husband deferred a punch against his face, causing the Prince of Portugal to fall back. Felipe didn’t seem to care, however, moving to throw another punch.
“Felipe!” she shrieked. “Stop it!” Afonso, recovered, closed his own hand into a fist, and Felipe’s face turned as his cousin and brother-in-law punched him in the chin, a mixture of blood and spit flying out. Joana grasped at her husband’s shoulders, slapping his back. “Stop it! Stop it! Parem, por favor!”
Felipe clutched at the neckline of Afonso’s black doublet and her brother spit in his face. “Will you truly fight me in front of your sister’s coffin, primo?”
“You killed my sister, bastardo!” Felipe replied, face red with fury. “Her blood is on you, her blood is on your cock!” He stepped back, his nose bleeding and brought a hand to his swollen lip, blood running down his chin. “Did you truly need a second son, primo?” He spat out the last word. "Pray to the Lord that the French are amenable to the idea of giving you a second wife, because from my family, you will get nothing." He turned to leave. "Come, Joana."
A man from his entourage helped Afonso stand up and her brother brought a hand to the cut on his brow. "A perfect gentleman, huh?" he questioned, icy blue eyes looking at her.
"Joana!" Felipe called out again. Joana turned to look at him, trapped between her brother and her husband. Afonso was her kin, but Felipe was her lord and husband, the father of her daughters. She swore a vow before God to obey him.
"Joana," said Afonso. She looked at him.
"I'm sorry," Joana said to her brother as she moved to go after her husband.
Spain and Portugal are historical enemies. Hard to keep them happy with each other.
Holy shit. Felipe just went off on him like that. I expect Charles at any second to offer one of his granddaughters to little Jorge any seconds now.
Ain't that the truth?
Just one gigantic family feud at this point, buy hey, that's another day on Europe on those days.
Well, that went about as badly as could be expected… I know that you are grieving, Felipe, but you really botched it here
I think too sick and grieving to ride his own horse Charles doesn't have the strength for it now.
Not like he cares, let's be honest.
Do I dare guess that Charles's days might be numbered at this point? His wife, sister, oldest daughter has already passed away and he does't seem very strong.
He is just sick, but like, many members of his family were sick for many years before they died.
True, that happened. Hoping he can recover and make peace with Felipe soon. When the worst of the grief has subsided.
I truly don't know how he and Felipe could reconcile. They are both too stubborn.
Felipe, Felipe, I hope your wife cuff you good when you are alone, because you not only brawled with your grieving brother-in-law and were a poor host, you also insulted your wife death mother! I hope she remind you that.
Well, that went terribly. Joana going after Felipe probably was a nice chaser to cleanse Afonso’s palate of the right hook he just received. I suspect João will be insufferable when Afonso returns with the “I told you so”.
A punch in the face isn't in line with the ball and chains that João was expecting.
I think Joana is forcing herself to keep in mind that Felipe is grieving his best friend. Also, speaking as someone who uses the Portuguese equivalent of Hijo de Puta, it's never really about the mother.