Lisbon, Portugal. 20th of August, 1523.
Isabella stopped in her room, watching the empty drawers and the empty bed. She would miss this. Miss her home. Her country, her land, her people.
This was the day where she would leave everything behind, save for some of her things and two of her ladies, Leonor de Mascarenhas and Margarida de Mendonça. She was no longer an Infanta of Portugal, but the true and only Queen of England. Their proxy marriage had already been done and now, all she needed to do was to leave for her new home, leaving all she had ever known in her past.
She would miss it. She was sure of it. But it was her duty, her destiny and she had promised to do her best with whatever suitable husband her brother found for her. For Portugal, she would do anything and Portugal needed her to marry the King of England, a man that had recently been considered as her uncle, father of her cousins. Her new children.
She was nervous. Afraid. She put a hand to her throat, taking hold of her rosary. It pressed against her palm, grounding her, centring her. As long as she had her faith, she was safe. Nothing would hurt her.
“I thought I’d find you here,” said a voice behind her. Isabella turned and saw João, leaning against the doorway, “Are you nervous?”
“A little,” she answered. Isabella placed her hands in front of her, “I’m more looking forward to it than nervous. I’m afraid that it will be soon taken from me.”
“It can’t,” her brother said. He removed himself from the doorway and walked to her. He took her hands in his, stroking the knuckles with his thumbs softly, “You are now the Queen of England, sister. Only God can take that from you.”
She nodded. It was something she had been telling herself for many days now since the proxy marriage occurred. Even without a consummation, she and King Henry were already husband and wife.
“I’m afraid to leave you and Leonor,” she admitted. João arched an eyebrow, “It’s so soon since Maria… And I want to be here for you and her. You are my brother and she, my greatest friend.”
“You should not hold yourself back because of us,” he answered, “Leonor and I will be well. We will miss you, but we will be well.”
“I know,” said Isabella, “But I wish I could stay until the baby was born.”
“The baby will only be born in winter,” he said, shaking his head, “And I shall not let you take a boat in that time. It’s too dangerous.”
“I know.” She shook her head. It was so silly, “I want to be good. Do you think I will be good?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Good?”
“I want to be a good wife to King Henry and a good mother to his children, our cousins,” said Isabella, “But I don’t want it to seem like I am replacing our aunt. These princes have lost too much in such little age and I… I don’t know what to do.”
“Just be yourself,” said João, “Be your caring and loving self and I know our cousins will thrive under your watch. But don’t worry. To John and Katherine, you will be the only mother they remember.”
But what about to Mary? She didn’t say that. She was afraid to say that, to put a voice to her fears. Her new stepdaughter was seven, only a child. Mary would remember her mother. What if she hated Isabella for sleeping in her bed? She so hoped this would not do. She so hoped to be good to her.
“I love you, João,” said Isabella, “And I will miss you so much.”
“And I will miss you,” he answered, pulling her into a hug, “But to be Queen of England is your destiny, Isabella, and I know you shall dazzle the English. They will not even know what hit them.”
Zaragoza, Aragon. 29th of August, 1523.
Anne tightened her hands on the arms of her throne as her husband’s court observed her, watching for any hint of what truly happened between the imperial couple. At this point, everyone knew of her and Charles’ argument, how he had not shared her bed ever since and she knew that some even wondered whether she would be set aside like a common whore, dismissed with her son as if she didn’t even exist.
That thought frightened her. Gave her a sense of her own fragility and poor standing. Charles was the Roman Emperor, he could do everything he wanted and she was nothing more than a knight’s daughter. If her husband tired of her, he could have the pick of any lady or princess of Europe, but she would have nothing. She’d most likely join a nunnery, separated from her child for the rest of her life. Not even the possibility of returning home existed to her. Her father was very clear on his lack of daughters called Anne.
But she forced herself to calm down. That Charles had not yet dismissed her was reassuring. He had not denounced her as a heretic, delivered her to the inquisitors that ravaged his lands. She was safe, for now. She was still the Empress and this title gave her security. As long as she remained Charles’ wife, she remained secure.
So, Anne took a deep breath and relaxed her shoulders. She was tense, her jaw set and her body strained. She was wearing a red dress with a thick golden hem, her sleeves puffy and extravagant. Over her chest, she wore a pearl necklace that had once belonged to Joan of Portugal. Her dark hair was up in a bun and several braids around her head, a sign of her newfound wealth and prestige. She had dressed both to impress and to remind the courtiers around her that she was still their Empress and Queen and was owed respect.
Charles was seated on the larger throne beside her, tapping his fingers on the arm of it. He did not look at her. They had not talked since their discussion in her rooms nearly a month before. Anne had requested his presence many times, but he had always refused her. Once, she had even gone to his rooms at night to attempt to force him to talk to her, but he had his grooms send her way. That had been humiliating.
They were in the throne room of the castle in Zaragoza, the capital of Aragon, one of her husband’s many kingdoms. Many months ago, he had invited his step-grandmother, Doña Germana de Foix to come to serve as his vicereine in Valencia. He told Anne he couldn’t trust anyone else to take care of his affairs in the small Iberian kingdom. She had been expecting Germana for weeks, as the woman lived in Germany with her husband, but if she had to be honest, she had hoped that the Dowager Queen would have waited a little longer to come to Iberia. Just long enough for her and Charles to be reconciled.
This would be the second time she’d be meeting a member of Charles’ family, albeit through marriage, and she would much prefer to have a united front with her husband if things were to go as they did with Queen Juana. Instead, for all her prayers, after settling her businesses in Brandenburg with her husband, Germana hastened to come to Aragon and now, everything could change.
Anne knew Charles sent frequent letters to Germana. He told her so. She like him understood what it was like to be seen as a foreigner in Spain, hated by her marriage to Fernando el Católico and for her failure to bear a son to Aragon. Theirs was a great friendship and certainly, the woman already had a formed opinion of Anne in her mind. No matter what she did or said, Germana would not change. She’d either love her like a granddaughter or hate her for marrying Charles in secret. There was no middle ground.
And so, her heart raced when Charles waved for the guards posted at the doors, which they opened, and the herald cried out, “Sir Johann of Brandenburg-Ansbach and his wife, Doña Germana de Foix, the Queen of Aragon!”
A woman and a man entered, followed by a little girl dressed in expensive finery. The woman was short and fat, with a long hooked nose and a round face under her reddish-brown hair. The man was similarly unattractive, with short red curls and a small mouth, but the little girl was quite pretty. She had reddish-golden hair and light blue eyes, with a pale face. She was wearing a beautiful green dress with pearls etched into the bodice and held a wooden doll in her hand. She couldn’t be older than five years.
The little family walked before the thrones and bowed to them, with Doña Germana smiling wildly. When they straightened back up, Charles stood up and laughed. “My lady,” he said, walking to her, “What a pleasure it is to see you again.” He took her hands in his and kissed her on both cheeks, lingering a bit, as if whispering in her ear.
“Your Majesty,” said Germana when he stepped back, “The sight of you brings enormous joy to my withered heart.”
He smiled, eyes bright and walked to her husband. He shook hands with Sir Johann and they spoke a little about the financial state of Brandenburg, coupled with what they could do to fix that. At long last, Charles turned to the little girl by Sir Johann. She was holding her skirts and gave him a new curtsy.
“And who is this?” he asked, touching her hair.
“Your daughter,” said the girl in her high singsong voice. Anne’s heart stopped in her chest.
What?
“Our daughter, my lord,” said Germana, “The Infanta Isabel of Castile and Aragon.”
Anne wanted to throw up.