8th of September, 1542.
Chapter first posted on my patreon on 02/04/2023.
Alhambra Palace, Granada. 8th of September, 1542.
He was quick to remove himself from her when they were finished, dark hair hanging over his eyes. Felipe's cheeks were flushed, both from the exertion and the shame of doing this so soon after María's death. And when his grandmother was ill too, with no hope of recovery. She thought of reaching forward and stroking his face, but he would not welcome the touch, she knew. At least, not at that moment. So she didn't.
Instead, Joana raised her hips, allowing him an opening to slide a pillow underneath her bottom. Then he leaned back, sitting at his heels. His hair was longer now, falling to his shoulders, and he was stronger too. With broader shoulders, a more steady chin. Not at all like the nervous youth she had married five years before.
"How are you feeling?" Felipe asked, touching her knee gently. Joana lowered the hem of her nightgown, pressing her legs together.
"Well," she said. He sat away from her, at the edge of the bed, back turned to her. She reached forward and squeezed his elbow, the cloth of his shift’s sleeves bunched up under her hand. “And you?”
“I’m worried,” he admitted, not looking at her. “This war can make or break our reign.”
Joana shifted against the bed, careful not to jostle her hips. “Why do you say that?” she asked.
“If the French manage to retake Navarre, there will be an opening into Iberia that is friendly to them,” Felipe said. “A pathway that can lead to more conquests.”
“Beyond Navarre, the French have little to no claim in Spain, my love,” Joana said, trying to reassure him. But Felipe shook his head, dragging his hair away from his face.
“If the Count of Montfort marries my sister Isabel, they will have a claim through her,” he responded. She could see the moment his back grew tense, his fingers twisting the sheets underneath. “If we don’t have a son, the French can take the Spanish kingdoms away from Ana, when I’m dead.”
“Is that why you have visited my bed every day since the news came?” Joana asked not unkindly. Felipe looked at her for a moment, shame clear in his eyes and then, looked away again. “I’m not upset, I swear to you.” She sat up, back against her bedpost. All she wanted was for Felipe to look at her again, but he didn’t, not even when she moved to wrap her arms around his shoulders. He only stayed there, head downcast, feeling so incredibly sorry for himself. “We will have a son, my love. We will. We must.”
“I know,” said Felipe. He shook his head again. “I know, I know. It’s just--” He sighed, closing his eyes. “Sometimes, I want to scream when someone comments on how a man without sons cannot boast of prowess.” Felipe raised his hand and pinched the bridge of his nose, nervous. “We have been married for five years and we already have three children. What more do they want from us? I can’t very well wish upon a star and make them boys.”
“Just ignore them,” said Joana. “It’s what I do.” She pressed a gentle kiss to Felipe’s shoulder, laying her head over it. “I'm only twenty-two. We will have more children. We will have sons.”
“I know.” He leaned back, knocking their heads together. “I want you to take the girls and follow my father to Valladolid.”
She leaned away from him to look better at his face, the handsome face that she had fallen in love with so many years ago. His pointed chin, dark hair, striking blue eyes that looked at her as if she held all the answers to the world in the palm of her hand.
"I thought we were supposed to stay here with your sisters and brother until the war was over," she murmured.
"I know," said Felipe, closing his eyes, "But here it is too close to the sea. If the French place a naval fleet on the Mediterranean, the Alhambra might turn into a battlefield."
"Now, why would they do that?" she asked. Felipe opened his eyes again.
"I don't know," he said. "I just fear it." He grabbed her hand, clutching it desperately. "Please, my love. Do this for me. Go with my father. Keep our girls safe."
"You do know that if I have a son in your father's presence, the Emperor will demand that he be named Carlos, after him," she said, "Don't you?"
Felipe nodded. "I do," he said. "But that is a risk I'm willing to take for you and our children."
For a moment, neither of them spoke and Felipe feared he had asked too much of her. Joana liked her uncle just as much as he liked his father: which was little at all. But then, she nodded.
"Very well," she said. "I will go with your father, but as long as you make me a promise." Joana grabbed his face, making him look at her in the eye, reading every inch of his expression. "You will not take part in any fighting, Felipe. As your wife, I understand your duty to the realm, but I have three daughters under five that need their father in their lives. Your first duty is to them. Thus, you'll only go to gather your men and wait for a day in which they are needed. But you will not fight. Promise me, husband."
He placed his hands over hers. "I promise," he said. "By St George, I promise, Joana, that I will not take part in any fighting."
She examined his eyes, trying to discern whether there were any lies hidden in his words, but finding none, Joana nodded. "Good," she said. "Very good."
They did not kiss, or move to copulate once again. Instead, Joana wrapped her arms around Felipe's shoulders and pulled him into as tight an embrace as their positions could allow, wondering if this was the last time she would ever touch her husband.
Alhambra Palace, Granada. 8th of September, 1542.
He was quick to remove himself from her when they were finished, dark hair hanging over his eyes. Felipe's cheeks were flushed, both from the exertion and the shame of doing this so soon after María's death. And when his grandmother was ill too, with no hope of recovery. She thought of reaching forward and stroking his face, but he would not welcome the touch, she knew. At least, not at that moment. So she didn't.
Instead, Joana raised her hips, allowing him an opening to slide a pillow underneath her bottom. Then he leaned back, sitting at his heels. His hair was longer now, falling to his shoulders, and he was stronger too. With broader shoulders, a more steady chin. Not at all like the nervous youth she had married five years before.
"How are you feeling?" Felipe asked, touching her knee gently. Joana lowered the hem of her nightgown, pressing her legs together.
"Well," she said. He sat away from her, at the edge of the bed, back turned to her. She reached forward and squeezed his elbow, the cloth of his shift’s sleeves bunched up under her hand. “And you?”
“I’m worried,” he admitted, not looking at her. “This war can make or break our reign.”
Joana shifted against the bed, careful not to jostle her hips. “Why do you say that?” she asked.
“If the French manage to retake Navarre, there will be an opening into Iberia that is friendly to them,” Felipe said. “A pathway that can lead to more conquests.”
“Beyond Navarre, the French have little to no claim in Spain, my love,” Joana said, trying to reassure him. But Felipe shook his head, dragging his hair away from his face.
“If the Count of Montfort marries my sister Isabel, they will have a claim through her,” he responded. She could see the moment his back grew tense, his fingers twisting the sheets underneath. “If we don’t have a son, the French can take the Spanish kingdoms away from Ana, when I’m dead.”
“Is that why you have visited my bed every day since the news came?” Joana asked not unkindly. Felipe looked at her for a moment, shame clear in his eyes and then, looked away again. “I’m not upset, I swear to you.” She sat up, back against her bedpost. All she wanted was for Felipe to look at her again, but he didn’t, not even when she moved to wrap her arms around his shoulders. He only stayed there, head downcast, feeling so incredibly sorry for himself. “We will have a son, my love. We will. We must.”
“I know,” said Felipe. He shook his head again. “I know, I know. It’s just--” He sighed, closing his eyes. “Sometimes, I want to scream when someone comments on how a man without sons cannot boast of prowess.” Felipe raised his hand and pinched the bridge of his nose, nervous. “We have been married for five years and we already have three children. What more do they want from us? I can’t very well wish upon a star and make them boys.”
“Just ignore them,” said Joana. “It’s what I do.” She pressed a gentle kiss to Felipe’s shoulder, laying her head over it. “I'm only twenty-two. We will have more children. We will have sons.”
“I know.” He leaned back, knocking their heads together. “I want you to take the girls and follow my father to Valladolid.”
She leaned away from him to look better at his face, the handsome face that she had fallen in love with so many years ago. His pointed chin, dark hair, striking blue eyes that looked at her as if she held all the answers to the world in the palm of her hand.
"I thought we were supposed to stay here with your sisters and brother until the war was over," she murmured.
"I know," said Felipe, closing his eyes, "But here it is too close to the sea. If the French place a naval fleet on the Mediterranean, the Alhambra might turn into a battlefield."
"Now, why would they do that?" she asked. Felipe opened his eyes again.
"I don't know," he said. "I just fear it." He grabbed her hand, clutching it desperately. "Please, my love. Do this for me. Go with my father. Keep our girls safe."
"You do know that if I have a son in your father's presence, the Emperor will demand that he be named Carlos, after him," she said, "Don't you?"
Felipe nodded. "I do," he said. "But that is a risk I'm willing to take for you and our children."
For a moment, neither of them spoke and Felipe feared he had asked too much of her. Joana liked her uncle just as much as he liked his father: which was little at all. But then, she nodded.
"Very well," she said. "I will go with your father, but as long as you make me a promise." Joana grabbed his face, making him look at her in the eye, reading every inch of his expression. "You will not take part in any fighting, Felipe. As your wife, I understand your duty to the realm, but I have three daughters under five that need their father in their lives. Your first duty is to them. Thus, you'll only go to gather your men and wait for a day in which they are needed. But you will not fight. Promise me, husband."
He placed his hands over hers. "I promise," he said. "By St George, I promise, Joana, that I will not take part in any fighting."
She examined his eyes, trying to discern whether there were any lies hidden in his words, but finding none, Joana nodded. "Good," she said. "Very good."
They did not kiss, or move to copulate once again. Instead, Joana wrapped her arms around Felipe's shoulders and pulled him into as tight an embrace as their positions could allow, wondering if this was the last time she would ever touch her husband.
