There and Back Again: The English Journeys of Catherine of Aragon
- Thread starter Awkwardvulture
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*Eleanor to Henry everytime she goes after his former mistresses and their bastards* "Ooh, look what you made me do, look what you made me do"
I really don't like Eleanor in this TL. I actually don't like her in most TLs to be honest. It's a very good TL, but Eleanor fouls my mood.
Eleanor can lower city loyalty levels just by putting artwork in museums
Oh, wait, that's a different Eleanor.
That's fair, and there's a range of different potrayals of her. But for this essentially I wanted to go for someone who wasn't quite conventional, who is hot-tempered and power-hungry...
Chapter 183, September 1533
Château de Fontainebleau, Kingdom of France, September 1533
If she had her way, she wouldn’t be in the Château that day. Hell, if she truly had her way she wouldn’t even be in France. But so many things can go differently than one hopes, a fact of which Joanna Tudor was painfully aware. The Queen of France instead had taken refuge in her chambers. They were richly decorated, but dark, as she had ordered the curtains closed while she hid from the court. Her husband was too busy bedding other women to care about what Joanna did, and that suited her just fine. Her rooms were a shelter from an uncaring world, her sole refuge.
There were some good things that were happening in her life, but she wasn’t thinking of them then.
The Dauphin was good to her, and delicate little Madeline was ever sweet. Truly, she had been anxious regarding the Dauphin’s disposition. Joanna would be dependent on his goodwill should she outlive the King.
Her living children, Jeanne, Marie, and Jean also gave her solace. Despite the misfortune of their parentage, they provided her with warmth and security. After all, even if the Valois King disliked her, the Queen couldn’t be cast aside, lest he risk making his fourth son illegitimate. Their daughters would be less valuable too, and since he already dangled Jeanne’s hand in front of the Duke of Bavaria, it seemed he wanted to get every bit of advantage he could out of their union.
Still, standing in the dim corner of her room, she couldn’t shake the feeling of bitterness…
She thought of Richard, of her mother, of all that she missed.
Joanna remembered that sweet moment she shared with the Earl of Rivers on her seventeenth birthday. The pair had met in the stables at Hertford and gazed into each other’s eyes. They kissed, and she leaned into him, inhaling his musk. Then he suggested that he leave, and she agreed. Now married to a man whom she hated; Joanna wished that she could have acted like her brother. Marry the one she loved; consequences be damned. But it would not be. It was not in her nature to take such risks, and Joanna felt it doomed her to her current unhappiness. So, here she was, drowning her sorrows.
The Queen of France dumped what remained of the bottle into her goblet with a scoff.
The woman brought the vessel to her quivering lips, oh how I wish things could be different…
Joanna coughed after downing the drink. The brandy may have burnt, but it would do. It would numb away all the pain…
No need to worry she'll be fine(ish), it wasn't poison at least!
Yep she's "just" using alcohol, this particulary strong kind, to cope with the situation...
Chapter 184, November 1533
Alcázar of Segovia, Kingdom of Castile, November 1533
“Et in Dei nominee, requiescant in pace…”
The Archbishop of Granada presided over the funeral. A wise, pious man, he shared a birth year with Catalina, and the irony that he would share this sad moment with her too, was not lost on her. The noise of the funerary organ rang through the space, it was a wretched sound, one that she always hated. Her sense of duty compelled her to attend, and she would endure anything to honor the memory of the dearly departed.
Beatriz Galindo was an impressive woman. She had taught three generations of Spanish royalty, and through this, she helped build the Kingdom into what it was. It was only fitting, then, that she’d be given a state funeral before she was laid to rest alongside her long-dead husband.
Catalina wiped a damp eye with her finger, it was hard not to cry now that her old teacher had died. She rubbed her daughter’s shoulder as the girl heaved a sad sigh. Maria was done crying, but Catalina knew that she too would miss the woman who gave them both lessons.
Beatriz’s own children were also there, of course, trying their hardest to contain their grief. Fernán, who succeeded his father as Lord of Bornos in 1501, was forty-three, while her younger son Nuflo had just turned thirty-six. Both had some success under royal service, but neither were quite so remarkable as their mother. Beatriz had often worried that their talent for arms might see them meet the same end as their father, so she was relieved that both had survived fighting with King Ferdinand during the last Italian War.
She was torn away from her thoughts by the tickle of a soft whisper.
“Who will teach me now?” Maria asked, her eyes bloodshot.
“I will find you another lady teacher, pearl. There’s this widow, Beatriz Bernal who I’ve heard is very learned. She will oversee your lessons until your household in England is established. Juan Luis Vives will continue to instruct you on philosophy, and the works of great men such as Cicero.”
The Infanta perked up a little,”Good. I truly look forward to learning more about that man. Those Romans were very exciting and interesting!”
The girl shifted her feet, shutting her eyes. Catalina was not sure why, but she seemed uncomfortable.
A small puddle of blood emerged from under Maria’s dress and she looked to her mother, mouth agape,”Mama, what is happening?”
Catalina stiffened. She did not expect this to happen for another few months.
She took some steps towards her daughter, holding her hands outwards,“Hija, we must return to your rooms. There is nothing wrong with you, my Maria. You are becoming a woman.”
…
The Infanta of Portugal had been changed into a new dress, and laid in her bed, recovering from the incident.
Catalina had the foresight to hire a former midwife to handle such matters of discretion. It would not do for a man to examine her daughter in such a way. Her name was Mafalda Braga, and she served on the time of midwives who attended Catalina during Maria’s birth. The Dowager Queen of Portugal trusted her, for despite having no children, she was an expert at matters of women’s health.
Once the Portuguese woman was gone Catalina and Maria were left only with the company of Maria’s maids and Catalina’s dear friend, Maria de Salinas. There, in the Infanta’s palatial rooms, she saw to it that the girl got some rest.
Hovering by her daughter’s bed, Catalina took in her daughter’s features. Maria’s hair, which was black as night, cascaded down her back, as was the Spanish style for unmarried women.
Her bangs concealed a large forehead, while her nose was straight, of average size. The girl’s eyes were blue, like her mother’s, but rather darker. They were like the cold waters of the English Channel, rather than the warm Mediterranean. Maria’s lips were less full than Catalina’s and it suited her well. Hers was an imperious, sharp beauty, rather than a soft one. God had made Maria to be Queen of England; Catalina just knew it. But she was still a child, not yet wed, and Catalina had to devote herself to her daughter’s care.
“Is there anything that you need, my daughter?”
Maria de Aviz murmured,”Can I have some chocolate to drink, mother?”
“Yes.” Catalina answered,”But try not to mumble. I would not have people think you less intelligent than you are.”
The Infanta straightened her posture,“Sim, senhora mãe.”
“Good girl.” She then turned to her friend,”Maria, have the cook prepare the chocolate just as the Infanta likes; with cinnamon, chilies and sugar.”
Maria de Salinas curtseyed and quickly made her way to the palace kitchens. Not long after, Catalina’s daughter had a question for her,“Does this mean I’ll marry the Prince of Wales earlier?”
“No.” Catalina shook her head,”You are not ready to bear children, you need time to mature. I would not allow it. King Henry will have to wait anyways… The Prince is some months younger than you after all.”
The Infanta Maria smiled,”Shall I start writing to the Prince tomorrow? To plant the seeds of love, as Aunt Juana would say?”
“Yes. I did not think your aunt would be so optimistic as I about the match. But she is right, you should write to Prince Henry, and make it clear that you will be a good, faithful, and obedient wife. This way he’ll not have any cause to be displeased with you and he may love you in time…”
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