I'm just holding my breath a little here.
As you said before, Portugal and Spain are allies one moment and enemies the next at the drop of a hat.
An Imperial Match: Anne Boleyn marries Charles V
- Thread starter pandizzy
- Start date
As you said before, Portugal and Spain are allies one moment and enemies the next at the drop of a hat.
25th of June, 1542.
Alhambra Palace, Granada. 25th of June, 1542.
They buried Sister María in the late hours of the morning, after a long celebration of mass in her memory with a trusted priest declaring long speeches about the Princess’ courage, her kindness and love for all members of her family. The pain of her absence was felt by her husband, her two sons and her siblings and father. The Emperor was sitting in a carved chair, too sick to stand himself.
Catalina stood between Margarita and Fernando, holding her brother’s hand as they observed their sister’s coffin being lowered in the empty grave, surrounded by their family. The marbled tomb built for the Catholic Monarchs, now laying together. Her grandfather and mama too, all ready to receive her sister with open arms. Just as she wanted.
María had left for Portugal when Catalina was only five years old. She had some memories of her sister, but not much. She remembered her sickness, how Abuela Elizabeth was always commenting about her weak heart. Her hands, always helping Catalina learn the proper form to hold a lute. Her golden hair, her beauty. After María arrived in Portugal, and Catalina learned her letters, they were able to exchange correspondence. And become true sisters that way. It was not fair, thus. For her to die. Not fair at all.
When the coffin was finally lowered into its final chamber, a handful of burly servants slid a marbled lid over the tomb, veined with gold. Catalina stretched on the tips of her toes to see better and she noticed there was a black plaque at the centre, denoting María’s name, her birth and her death, as well as her accomplishments. MARIA, CAROLI V FILIA. PRINCEPS LUSITANIA.
A silence arose from the crowd when the lid was finally placed over, a sense of finality and ending. María, her sister. Her older sister. María was dead. Catalina didn’t want to cry, but she felt the tears coming in anyway, even when she scrunched up her face to try and stop them. The Prince of Portugal, María’s widower, stepped forward to press a hand against her tomb. His shoulders were hunched forward, his entire body tense.
Catalina felt a tugging in her elbow and she turned around, looking at Abuela's face. Lady Elizabeth had been caring for the younger imperial children since her daughter’s death, had seen them grow up as the only remaining pieces of her Annie, and her face was pale with grief. She tugged at Catalina’s elbow again. “Come, sweet girl,” she said in French. “This next part will be for the adults only.” Fernando had turned as well, and the two children left together with their grandmother. For their shared nursery, to eat a meal and try to rest.
Afterwards, Fernando left to pray in their little altar, his back turned to Catalina in a clear sign that he didn’t want to talk and her grandmother was forced by her nerves to lay down in her own rooms, on another wing of the palace. Abuela Elizabeth had been experiencing weak health for many months now. Felipe, Catalina’s oldest brother, had even told her it would be best to remain in Toledo, but she insisted on coming.
Alone, and without lessons to fill her hours, Catalina decided to walk across the grounds. She took her favourite doll, one made by a French toy maker with dark auburn hair and a precious blue gown, and left after telling one of her nurses not to follow her. She wanted to be alone as well. Catayena, her doll, would be her only companion.
The Alhambra grounds were beautiful, even if somewhat somber by the occasion. Catalina had been born in the palace, as her mother and father came to the south to escape the stifling atmosphere of their courts. It was good to be in her birthplace, even if she didn’t exactly feel at home. Why should she? Her home was Toledo, or Madrid, with her grandmother.
Catalina wanted to see the Queen again. They had visited her on their path to Alhambra and papa didn’t think she was sane enough to make the journey as well. One of her nurses said that her madness had overtaken her, because on the second day of their brief stop in Madrid, her grandmother seemed to have forgotten that María died.
She was walking beside a beautiful man-made lake when she heard it, under the sound of the tinkering fountains, hidden behind the green bushes of the gardens. Someone breathing in deeply, loudly. Sighing. Catalina walked around the bushes to see better, her curiosity getting the best of her, and she quickly stepped behind it again when she saw who it was. Afonso. The Prince of Portugal.
He wasn’t looking at her. He was merely sitting down in a stone bench, hands on his knees as he stared at the ground before him. Catalina didn’t think he was crying, or if he was, he did it very silently and discreetly, because his shoulders were tense, but not shaking. She hid behind the carefully sculpted shrub, looking better at him.
Afonso was her cousin. His mother had been her father’s older sister. That made them kin, if not just because María was his wife, but they shared blood between them. She shouldn’t be shy.
But she was. Catalina didn’t know why, but she didn’t know what to say to Cousin Afonso. It made her nervous. She decided then that she wasn’t going to say anything, and just walked away quietly, but something must have happened. She must have made a noise because he turned around sharply, a beautiful face twisted into an expression of anger.
“Who is there?” he asked in Castilian. “Who is there?” The second time he spoke, it was in French. “Come out now. The Prince of Portugal commands it.”
Her cheeks flushed, Catalina stepped out from behind the shrub, looking at her feet sheepishly. She heard her cousin sigh and when she looked at him, he had visibly relaxed.
“Ah,” he said. “Catalina, isn’t it?” She nodded. “Why are you hiding, cousin?”
She shifted nervously. “I don’t know what to say to you,” she admitted in a low voice. Her grandmother had told her to always tell the truth.
“Say to me about what?” he questioned.
“About María,” said Catalina. Afonso smiled sadly and patted the seat next to him.
“Come here,” he said and she sat beside him, nervous still. Close to him, Catalina could see that he had some green flecks in his blue eyes and a smattering of freckles around his nose. “You don’t have to say anything,” he promised.
Catalina smiled. “María was a good sister,” she murmured, because she still felt like she had to say something. “We all loved her very well.”
Afonso nodded. “She was good,” he said. “My only regret is that I could not love her more.” He shook his head. “Not that you should worry about that, cousin.”
Catalina rolled her eyes. “Worry about what?” she asked and Afonso looked at her, his eyes twinkling as he smiled.
Well... Is this teasing that Catalina will one day take her sister's place as queen? I suppose it worked for Manuel and Isabella and another Maria... Also, I don't like that Elizabeth Boleyn seems sick one bit
Well, Afonso needs a second wife. And also, Elizabeth Boleyn died in 1538 OTL. She is on borrowed time.
Awww, the poor Spanish Habsburgs are just ripped apart by this loss. It would be something if it were the Infantas of Spain and Portugal who convinced their brothers towards peace.
Yeah, Joana really does want peace, but right now, it's not the time, unfortunately.
Hey, everyone, I made the decision some weeks ago to create a patreon. It's just for those who wish to support me and stuff, those who think I'm doing a good job. It only has one-tier so far, but I have posted stories that will never see the light of day there, due to reasons, so you can read some of my extra work. I do plan on posting chapters there first and then a week or so later, posting it here. With the way things are going right now, you could even, as a patreon, read several chapters ahead before even one is published.
So if you think that's something you're interested in, feel free to check it out.
So if you think that's something you're interested in, feel free to check it out.
7th of August, 1542.
Chapter first posted on my patreon on 02/01/2023.
Fontainebleau, France. 7th of August, 1542.
“I shall take five thousand men down Gascony,” said Francis, the King of France. He placed a disk with blue enamel and fleur-de-lys painted in yellow at the map before them, signifying both himself and his army. “Upper Navarre is small and ignored by the Emperor. It will be easily freed.”
Henri of Navarre, his cousin and brother-in-law, nodded, pushing down his own red and yellow disk. “I have eight hundred men ready to serve my name and die for me,” he said. “The Queen, my beloved wife, has also promised to use the money inherited from your deceased mother to pay for Swiss mercenaries that may help us.”
Francis nodded. “The Emperor, that soft-hearted fool, is in Granada for his daughter’s funeral.” It had hurt some of his prestige that he would wage war against a grieving father, especially with the clergy, but Francis could not let the opportunity slip from his hands. The clergy could be satiated with money and donations. “It will take weeks for any news to reach him and days before he could even think of summoning an army.” Weeks that would be detrimental to his cause. By the time Charles learned of their invasion, Marguerite and Henri might have even been crowned already in Pamplona.
Henri looked at the map before them, the disks representing their armies and the enemy. “All my mother had ever wanted was to take back Navarre,” he murmured, clutching his throat. “It pleases me greatly to know that her wishes will be fulfilled at long last.”
“And Burgundy, Your Majesty?” someone asked, someone who was so unimportant that Francis did not even bother raising his eyes to see.
“Anne de Montmorency will retake Burgundy with four thousand men, then march ahead to the Low Countries,” Francis responded. Charles had left his sixteen year old son as the ruler over such rich and vast lands and he intended to show that boy how real men waged war. “Those lands will finally return to their true ruler: the King of France.”
He looked back at Henri d’Albret and smiled.
“To seal our alliance, brother,” he began, “We shall host a wedding. Tonight. My daughter Sophie and your son, Jean, the true Prince of Viana."
"Your Majesty…" Henri began. “They are just children.”
“The Archbishop of Reims has agreed to write a dispensation for their young age and close kinship,” said Francis, waving a hand so as to dismiss the entire matter. Sophie was close to turning eleven and Jean was already twelve. “They will share a schoolroom, learn under the same tutors. It will allow them to grow close before they inevitably share a bed when Mademoiselle Sophie turns sixteen.”
Henri, unable to deny his patron, nodded, though it was clear that he was rather troubled by it. Francis decided not to bother and continued with his plans, pointing at the duchy of Lorraine. “Antoine is unable to join us in the war, but he swears that our troops will have food and shelter in his lands,” he said. Antoine’s only child, Nicholas, was betrothed to Francis’ daughter Antoinette, the eldest child of his second marriage, who already lived in Nancy as his ward. They would be kin, not just close friends. “From there, it will be easy for the Duke of Montmorency to travel to Flanders, and take the rest of the netherlands.”
He looked at his men. Francis felt a strange stirring inside his chest, something he had not felt in years. He could already feel the return of French glory and pride. They had taken Calais and Normandy from the English. Next came Navarre, under his brother-in-law, and Burgundy. The Navarrese were his allies and to take their ancient kingdom back would give them an opening in Iberia, and a possibility for further conquest. Francis could not let the opportunity slither away.
“Gentleman,” he said, chest puffed up like a proud pigeon, “Today we retake what was ours. Today we show Europe, and that idiotic ape of an emperor, not to cross our way.” The men exclaimed their joy, raising their first. “Today begins our Golden Age!”
“Yes!” they shouted. “Long live the King! Vive le Roi! Vive le Roi! Vive le France!”
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