January 1479. Windsor Castle, England.
Ned observed the younger children playing in the gardens from his bedroom’s window, cheeks flushed and burned red by the cold as their little hands packed small snowballs to throw against their siblings and cousins, laughing. Dickon was shouting and pulling Mimi by the legs to the ground, their little sister now shrieking as she shoved snow on his face. Magdalene was creating a snowman with Lady Somerset and Ceci was in the midst helping little Ed throw a snowball against Blanche of Lancaster.
His heart ached as he watched them. They were so carefree, so spontaneous. He envied them. Ned couldn’t play in the snow, he had to study and rest before supper. His role was more than that of a child, as he was the Prince of Wales, heir to the throne. Blanche was allowed to participate because she was to be his consort, not a queen regnant. She could afford to be a little girl before she’d be called to do the duties of a wife.
Ned’s mother had told him that he’d have to consummate the marriage when Blanche turned fifteen. She made sure, in fact, that he knew it. His mother was not to bear anymore children and Ned was now the person to look for in search of new heirs. Dickon’s Portuguese infanta was only ten, and barely that, while his little brother was nearly eleven. They wouldn’t have children before Blanche became a woman. Ned was certain of it.
He turned back to his pile of books and papers. His Latin tutor had left him to study for the day while they waited for the time of supper and Ned sighed, sitting down. He scratched his head, sweat clinging to his hairline and sighed, opening the book about Marcus Aurelius.
He did not get even a paragraph in before he stopped. His mind could not focus, his hands were tired and his eyes were going everywhere but the pages before him. Ned dropped the book down and stood up, walking around his room with a sigh.
He had heard them again last night. His parents, fighting. Screaming and throwing accusations around, uncaring of who heard them. They always did so now, when the court was dismissed and they were supposed to enjoy a brief moment of familial intimacy.
Ned knew what was the problem, it was hard not to. His parents were arguing over Uncle Richard's marriage. Father thought Mother had something to do with it, because the new Duchess of Gloucester had been one of her ladies-in-waiting. Mother thought Father was hypocritical, considering his dalliance with Lady Erroll.
Ned stopped before the window. Blanche was laughing, cheeks flushed and as red as her hair. It made him smile as well, to see her so happy. He couldn't see her as a wife, not then when she was so young, but he knew that one day, Blanche would sit on the throne beside him. She'd give him children and she was owed respect in return. If he could not muster love, he would respect her.
That much he could promise.
--
London, England.
Nell hated being an older sister, poor child, and Isabella didn't know what to do about that. She seemed to despise little Matilda with all her heart, fighting and struggling against the nurses whenever they paid attention to her sister. Which they had to, considering she was younger.
Isabella's children with her deceased husband were never like this. William loved his siblings and was always excited to be an older brother. Thomas too and even John. Beatrix, her youngest, was the jewel in their eyes when she last saw them. Clan Hay had forbidden her to speak with them all when her affair with Edward became common knowledge. Isabella would never see them again.
Her father, Lord Huntly, told her that if she ever returned to Scotland, he'd lock her up in a nunnery and she had no doubt that her husband's family was willing her children's head with all sorts of lies. Her only hope was to live long enough to see Lady Mary of York marry young James, the Duke of Rothesay and perhaps send a letter to William through her. Joan of Gloucester would be going as well to marry a Scottish nobleman from the borders. Maybe.
But she couldn't look so forlorn for so long. Edward was coming to visit. He had sent a rider ahead to warn her of his coming and Isabella made sure that her household was prepared to receive the King as he deserved. She couldn't afford to lose his favour. Not then, not ever.
--
September 1479. Toledo, Castile.
The peace between Castile and Portugal was of utmost importance in the year 1479. All of Europe watched the two countries negotiate a suitable treaty between the two nations, the last holdout of war after peace in France was achieved. The last stronghold of discord amongst the Christian nations who worried about the growing power of the Turkish infidel in the Hungarian plains.
Isabella and Ferdinand knew this well. She was with child again, their fourth after Isabel, Fernando and Juan. It was her hope to sign a treaty before her new baby was born, so he or she would not suffer through constant worries at court. Isabel, their eldest, was nine and Fernando was four. Little Juan was just one. Isabella wanted to look upon her children and know that they were safe as true heirs to Castile, that her 'niece' in Lisbon would never harm a single golden hair upon their heads.
Thus, there they sat with envoys from Portugal. Isabella kept a hand upon her swollen belly, caressing it just to needle the two ambassadors. Juana, her cousin's bastard, had yet to produce a single child with her uncle Afonso and seemed ever more unlikely to do so in the passing years. Even if she became Queen of Castile, and Isabella would die before that happened, the succession would eventually return to Fernando. To Isabella's line. Either way, she would win.
Isabella returned her eyes to the paper before her. The treaty seemed suitable. She'd be Queen of Castile, but Juana remained as Queen of Portugal until her husband died, when he'd be succeeded by Prince João and his heirs. Isabella had to give up her current claim to the kingdom of Portugal, who would in return recognize Castilian claims to the Canary Islands. Portuguese hegemony over the high seas would be accepted. All suitable, all acceptable, except for two things.
Her son and her daughter. Her darling children, her heirs were to be married to the children of João and his French wife. Only one was still alive, a boy named Luís Afonso as Infanta Isabel, named after her paternal grandmother, had tragically perished in June. Isabel de Aragón would marry Luís Afonso and her brother Fernando would be promised to a Portuguese infanta as of yet unborn. Both brides would bring a dowry of 100,000 cruzados when their husbands, and themselves, came of age.
Isabella had to send her daughter to Portugal as well, to be raised next to her husband and the Portuguese promised to do the same to their infanta. Isabella didn't believe they would; they wanted Isabel as a hostage. Why would they risk sending one hostage of their own, even if she was to marry Fernando in the future? And there was nothing to say that such an infanta would come. No word, no whisper of a pregnancy that came her way.
Isabella looked at Ferdinand. Her husband was reading it carefully, face passive. He wanted to accept it, she knew he did. They had been married for near a decade and she knew him well. Ferdinand's father was close to death, everyone said so, and he wanted to return to Aragon. Take their son Fernando so the boy could learn about his paternal inheritance. Have him sworn in as Prince of Girona.
Without even looking at her, Ferdinand picked up his quill and dipped it in ink. Isabella sighed, shaking her head as she watched him sign at the bottom of the paper. For better or worse, he had made their decision.