Madrid, Castile. 12th of December, 1550.
Snow fell in blankets around him and Infante-Archduke Fernando adjusted his scarlet clothing, unused to the bright colouring covering his lithe body. He dismounted from his horse with the help of a servant, looking around at the Alcázar that had been the site of some of his fondest memories and he was eager to return, after so many years in Zaragoza. He was happy to be home.
A dark figure approached him, climbing down the steps from a balcony and Fernando smiled, opening his arms to embrace Francesc de Borja. The man made as if to bow, but he couldn’t let him do so, not when they hadn’t seen each other in so many years. Francesc was a Jesuit priest now, with his wife having been dead for quite a while, and he grasped his cross at the sight of Fernando in red clothes.
“Dear Jesu, they told me but I couldn’t believe it,” he said. Fernando pulled him into a tight embrace. “Not until I saw you, Don Fernando, could I say that you were now a cardinal.”
“With the death of Gaspar de Ávalos de la Cueva, the Pope had no choice but to accept my father’s demands,” said Fernando, tapping Francesc on his back. The man had always been skinny, but he looked positively malnourished, possibly from taking vows of simplicity during his monastic life. “I may be young, but it’s official now. I’m a cardinal.” He was only seventeen, and the law stated that one had to be thirty to be made a cardinal, but with his father’s demands and his brother’s money, Fernando was ordained.
Francesc leaned back, cupping his face with a fatherly smile. “Your mother would be so proud to see you,” he said softly. “It was hard for her to accept your role in the church, but she always said that if you had to be a priest, then it was for the best that you became a cardinal than anything else.”
Fernando smiled. He had no memories of his mother, she died when he wasn’t even four, but the idea that he was doing something that made his mother proud pleased him greatly. Especially since, after so many months in Zaragoza, he felt that nothing he did was right. That he could only disappoint his relatives, instead of make them proud. Felipe was a prince, soon to be king, Juan was the richest duke in Europe and Eduardo… With death, no one would ever say a bad word against him. Not that Fernando wanted to, but he did feel like he could only err in comparison to his brothers.
“What are you doing here?” Francesc asked. “Do not tell me you have grown tired of the Aragonese.” Fernando laughed. Francesc’s grandfather was Alonso de Aragón, bastard son of Rey Fernando II el Católico, and he was prone to rattling off their connection to all that may hear. Alonso too, as it happened, was Archbishop of Zaragoza.
“With my new role, I thought I’d serve the Princess in her council,” said Fernando. “Or maybe my brother, if he has returned already.”
Francesc shook his head. “Don Felipe remains in Austria with your father,” he said. “In truth, I don’t know when he will return.” The former duke looked behind Fernando and the infante turned as well, watching the waddling carriage cross into the Alcázar’s entrance. “Who is that?”
“That?” Fernando didn’t know what to say. His old tutor nodded. “It’s Esperanza and Juana.”
The girl who stepped from the carriage was dressed simply, and the homespun fabric did not disguise the swell of her belly. Her hair fell to her waist in waves of reddish gold, her wide eyes were a rich brown flecked with green. She could not have been more than fifteen.
"Come closer, love," said Fernando and Esperanza approached Francesc carefully, bowing deeply before the once-noble. It was clear that she was common born, in the way she held herself so diligently, ready to serve. But she was young and holding a careful parcel to her chest, more precious than anything else in the world. "This is Francesc de Borja. When my mother died, he and his wife cared for me."
"A pleasure to meet you, sir," said Esperanza demurely. Francesc carefully leaned in to look at what was in her arms and he held his breath. An infant swaddled in blankets to guard against the chill rested in the crook of her arms, hardly more than three or four months old. The little face was pale, with a prominent chin and watery blue eyes that Francesc could tell would resemble Fernando’s own in time. She yawned and closed her eyes, settling into a deep sleep.
Francesc looked at his old charge, trusted to him by the deceased empress and her parents. "What have you done?" he asked, for once forgetting all about etiquette and decorum.
Fernando looked at Esperanza then at his own feet, like a scared child being told off by his nannies. "I fell in love," he said. "My father did it. Why can I not?"
"You know why," Francesc said. He crossed himself. "The Princess will be furious when she finds out you brought her here." He looked at the infante. "Fernando, this is bad."
“How could she be furious?" Fernando asked, trying to justify himself. "Esperanza is the sweetest soul. She deserves to live a comfortable life. To think of what I saved her from. She lived in such miserable conditions before, Francesc. She is so good, she does not accept finery no matter how many times I offer it. Joana will see her for her inner beauty, just as I do. And it is Juana’s right to be here as a grandchild of my father.”
Francesc shook his head. "It's not appropriate to hold your illegitimate daughter in the same castle as the infantas," he said. He sighed and waved a servant in. "I have a house in the city. It's suitable for her and the child."
He grabbed the man's hand, stopping him. "Francesc, please," Fernando whispered.
“If it pleases you, I would be grateful to have the accommodations, my lord. I would not want to impose upon the Princess of Asturias and her children. To see the Alcázar in person is more than enough, I could never dream of staying in it.” Esperanza offered, eyes cast down.
Francesc looked at her briefly before turning back to Fernando. "There is nothing else I can do," he said. "Your father is in the middle of a war with the Protestant League and you attempt to sit your mistress with the Princess." He shook his head. "Soon enough, this will be the talk of Europe."
Fernando didn't say anything, but he knew Francesc was right. This would have consequences. He had thought to leave Esperanza in the house in Zaragoza that overlooked the Ebre. But the thought of abandoning her so soon after the birth of their precious daughter had disgusted him and he boldly set out with her at his side.
“Let Europe talk. They will not have worse to say about me than they do about my brother in the Low Countries. And one little girl born to a butcher’s daughter and a cardinal is hardly worth their attention.” Fernando tilted his chin defiantly.
“Except the cardinal in question is an Infante of Castile and Aragon, an Archduke of Austria.” Francesc sighed deeply, feeling all of his forty years weighing on him as he ordered accommodations to be made for his stubborn charge’s paramour and illegitimate daughter.
--
Leicester Castle, England. 27th of December, 1550.
“He has a serious face,” said John, kneeling by his newborn son’s cot. “With clever eyes.” The newest Lord of England was tightly swaddled to ward off any chills, a little cap over his brown head. He had a good size, peacefully sleeping after the strain of being born and all the attendants swore that he’d live. The birth had been easy for both the child and the Queen, and they would recover. “We might give him to the church, so the Pope knows we remain loyal.”
He looked behind him, at Kitty who was leaning against a multitude of pillows. His wife was only six and twenty, with already seven children to fill her nursery, her dark hair bounding down her shoulders. She smiled weakly, tired after so many hours spent pushing out their child and nodded. “If you say so, my love,” she murmured.
“I do say so,” said John. He stood up and walked away from the boy’s cradle, as he had already been fed by his wet nurse and needed to sleep, walking to sit beside his wife. “This is our fourth son. Best to see him take holy vows, instead of fathering a line that could cause trouble to William’s descendants in the future.”
“None of our children will rebel against their own brother,” Kitty complained with a pout. John chuckled.
“Maybe not our children, but our grandchildren and great-grandchildren,” her husband responded. “The wars of our grandfathers are still in living memory, my love. When cousin turned against cousin and the Thames ran red with blood.” And they were in Leicester, the territory of the old Dukes of Lancaster, who were betrayed by their Yorkist kin when Henry VI showed the first sign of weakness. Kitty shivered and nodded, clutching the cross that rested against her breast.
“Then you are clever to give our son to the church,” she said. Kitty leaned back and smiled, taking his hand gently. “What name shall we give him?”
“I was thinking about Edmund?” he offered. “For your deceased father. We already have a boy with my father’s name and if we name him John, he will be only one amidst thousands of Johns being born around the country.” And John was quite selfish when it came to his own name. He liked being John Tudor and he didn’t wish to see another bear it, even if that other was his own son.
But Kitty’s face wrinkled in distaste and she shook her head. “My father was a terrible man,” she said. “He cared more about buying ale and fending off his debtors than his own children. Once my mama died, he couldn’t even bother to send us letters.” He stroked her hand softly, because Kitty spoke so little of her parents, despite the words of praise she’d give to her uncle, or Lady Howard, or maybe even her own siblings.
“Charles, then,” he declared. “For your brother?” But the name seemed ill-fitting even as it passed from his lips. He looked back at the lambswool cradle and sighed. The boy was much too serious to bear his uncle’s name, his little brow knit even in sleep in a way that John had never seen on his light-hearted friend, his brother.
“What of George? After the Saint?” Kitty said softly. “You intend for him to take on the cloth, it could suit him. George would be a fine name for a bishop. Perhaps he will be Bishop of Leicester one day.” She smiled and looked at the bundle in the cradle. “Oh he does have a stern look to him, he’ll carry a priest’s mantle with dignity.”
John nodded. “He will be George,” he declared. “George Tudor.”
“George Tudor, Bishop of Leicester,” Kitty added with a gentle smile and John laughed. Her smile turned down slightly and John felt her eyes on him, her fingers picking at the edge of her nails. “Have I done well, my love? Are you… Are you happy with the children we’ve had together?” Her voice was low, hesitant as she fidgeted with the rings on her fingers.
He frowned. “What do you mean? Of course I’m happy, Kitty. You’ve made me the happiest man in Christendom, you’ve done so well as my wife and queen, you’ve given me seven healthy children,” he paused, eyes darkening. “Has someone given you reason to believe you haven’t? Show me the man who said as much.”
“No, no it is not that.” She sighed, biting her lower lip nervously. “It is just… it has been eleven years and I’ve only been thinking. You don’t regret not marrying someone more impressive than me?” The question hung in the air, Kitty’s eyes downcast, not daring to look at John. “Someone with royal blood, someone who would have brought prestige to England and an impressive dowry and connections to Europe?”
John moved closer to his wife, cupping his hand under her chin to pull her gaze upward. “You are the only woman I could have chosen, Kitty. It was always you, since the day I saw you in my coronation feast. When I married you, I knew what I was choosing,” he poured all his conviction into his voice, to show her he was speaking truthfully. “I do not care if my coffers weren’t enriched when I married you. You have a fine background from good English stock, and you have served faithfully and dutifully as my queen for these eleven years.”
Tears began to track down Kitty’s cheeks and John gently wiped them away, leaning down to kiss her.
“You are a kinswoman to the Prince of Asturias, our daughter will be Queen of Castile and Aragon one day because of you. You are my undisputed queen, my darling wife who I would be lost without. Never doubt for a moment that I would always choose you, even against every other woman in the world.” He pulled his wife into his arms and embraced her tightly. “I have made quite a few mistakes, Kitty, many of which I might regret until I’ve departed this life. But marrying you has never been counted among them.”
