Chapter 115, December 1520
Ribeira Palace, Kingdom of Portugal, December 1520
Her waters broke early in the morning on Christmas Eve, hours before the sun had even risen.
Catalina of Aragon, Dowager Queen of Portugal lay in the bed, panting as she pushed with all she had.
The woman still wore her black widow’s veil, the rest of her mourning clothes removed for obvious reasons. She clutched her rosary, silently praying as she continued.
“AAAAAAH!” She screamed, it felt like she was being ripped apart, as she pushed harder and harder to try and get her baby out.
The midwives and her ladies were there, all with worry etched on their faces. Childbirth was often dangerous for the women of her family after all, and, Catalina, having just turned thirty-five a week ago, was at an age when it could be particularly deadly.
Beads of sweat covered her forehead and Catalina looked over to her dear friend, Maria de Salinas, who was holding her hand, trying to support her as best she could.
Their eyes met before Catalina tightened her grip on the other woman’s hand, pleading,”Maria, if this gets worse and there is a choice between myself and the baby, save my baby. Don’t let this one die to save me, don’t let my baby die!”
Maria de Salinas nodded, clearly pained at the prospect,”I will obey your wishes as ever Catalina, but I must ask that you promise not to give up.”
“I won’t Maria, I promise.” The Dowager Queen of Portugal replied.
So, she steeled herself, prepared to continue in her struggle, to bring a new life into the world. I will have this child; I do not care if it kills me. Manuel gave me this final gift, and I shall not throw it away for anything.
Catalina of Aragon pushed again, and again, until finally she felt a slippery, wet sensation, and heard the first, shrill cries of her child. The midwife, Teresa Mendes, took the baby, swaddled and cleaned it, as the Dowager Queen sighed in relief. It was over, and she finally, after all these years, had a living child.
Still, while her body wanted to rest, to sleep, her heart, and her mind did not.
“Is it a boy or a girl?” Catalina asked
Teresa, a thin, middle-aged woman with graying black hair smiled widely,”Your Majesty has delivered Portugal a healthy Infanta.”
“The Lord has answered my prayers then. Bring her here so that I can hold her please.”
When the midwife walked over, baby in hand, Catalina’s heart soared. She may have lost her husband, but now she had a reason to live. Cradling her daughter in her arms, Catalina of Aragon cried tears of joy, her baby cooing at her,”Oh my sweet girl, you have your father’s hair.”
It was true, the little Infanta’s fluffy down was dark brown, as Manuel’s had been before it greyed.
Although it was bittersweet, given that her daughter would never meet her father, the Dowager Queen of Portugal focused on how happy she was to finally have a healthy, living child.
Gazing into the Infanta’s eyes, blue just like her mother’s Catalina murmured,“I think I will name you Maria hija, for both my sister and my dearest friend.”
Welcome to the world Maria
