La Reina Loca: A Juana I of Castile Timeline

[pandizzy]

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Valladolid, Castile. September 1495.​

A fresh breeze came from the city, filtering into her chambers and snapping the curtains of her windows. It was a good day, she determined, neither too warm nor too cold. The sort of day that started good and could only end good.

Infanta Juana stood by her wall-length mirror, staring at the reflection of herself, as her Moorish handmaid pulled the laces of her overgown tighter and tighter. It was a pretty gown, made of green velvet with golden accents and an undergown of maidenly white satin, trimmed in cloth-of-gold. The gown was more elaborate than most of her other dresses, and the reason was very simple: Juana had been summoned by her mother.

“Cinch it tighter!” Juana urged Cayetana, half desperate. And why shouldn't she be? The last time she had seen her mother, the Queen had pursed her lips in disappointment at how loose her gown was. She didn't say anything, not overtly, but her expression was clear. Juana would hate to disappoint her mother again.

There was no greater woman in the land than Isabella the Catholic. She who had fought Portugal for her rightful crown, who had expelled the Muslims from Iberia once and for all. Juana greatly admired her mother. She was her heroine, a woman who could do no wrong and for her to be summoned, just her and no one else, meant the Queen wanted to speak about important things. Things that could be heard by no other set of ears. Things that only Juana could know.

Her auburn hair was twisted into a braid and pinned up into two buns, one on each side of her head, with diamond pins. As Cayetana finished her work behind her, Juana pinched her two cheeks to bring some colour to them and bid her brown eyes, inherited from her father, to look glossy and beautiful before the Queen. Her mother would certainly point any and all faults in her posture and form, but Juana was determined to lessen them anyway.

“Done, Your Grace,” said Cayetana, stepping back. She was a pretty girl of fifteen, only some months younger than Juana, with black hair and eyes, and skin darker than her mistress. “Is there anything else the Infanta would ask of me?”

“No,” Juana answered. She looked at her reflection again.

She was sixteen and everyone said she was beautiful. Taller than her mother and most of her sisters. Juana was sure that she knew what her mother wanted. It could only be one thing.

Catalina had been betrothed since she was three to the Prince of Wales, heir to England, and María would sail to Burgundy as soon as she came of age, to marry their young duke Franz. With Isabel refusing to get married so succinctly, that left only her unpromised. Certainly, her mother had found someone to have her.

“The Queen will speak of my husband,” Juana said. “When I return, I’ll be a promised woman, you’ll see.” Cayetana smiled and curtsied as her infanta left the chambers.

She walked to her mother’s chambers with her head held high, confident and self-assured. Juana wondered who her mother had chosen. If he was handsome, and good, with kind hands. Her mother would accept nothing less than a crowned head for her darling daughters, she was sure. Even Maria, who would not marry a future king, married the King of the Romans’ only son. A young boy who ruled over vast and wealthy lands in Europe. Juana should expect nothing less.

One of her mother’s servants opened the door for her and Juana dipped into a deep curtsy as she was announced, her eyes going straight to the portly woman sitting by the hearth. It was too warm to light a fire, and her mother was bundled up in her furs, turning her cold blue eyes to look at Juana appraisingly. She was a fine woman of forty-four years, her once-golden hair bound up under a white veil, her mouth twisted in a displeased pout. Juana wondered if she was late and she touched up her neck, wondering if her hair was out of place.

Her mother turned to a musician that played in the corner of the room. “Leave us,” she said. Juana hadn’t even noticed the man there. He stood up and left with a curtsy, closing the door quietly behind him. Then her mother turned back to her. “Come here, child.”

Juana walked to her mother and knelt by her feet, taking her fine white hand in hers for a kiss. “I beg for your blessing, mother, in this godly day,” she said and her mother finally smiled.

“God bless you, my child,” her mother said. “How are you? Have you said your prayers today?”

Juana nodded. “I have, mother,” she said. Her mother bid her to stand up and Juana did so, bowing her head gently at her.

“I have news,” her mother said. “The King of Portugal is dying.”

“Oh.” Juana didn’t know what to say. Just last year, her parents and the King of Portugal had signed a treaty over the Indies, separating the world in two, for each to enjoy and care for as their own. “I’m sorry to hear about that.”

“Don’t be,” said the Queen. “That man has been a vermin in this world and I’ll be glad to see him gone.” Her mother took her hands in hers, stroking her knuckles. “An agreement has been made, secret for now, but valid. Once he comes to his throne, Dom Manuel will ask for your hand.”

“Dom Manuel?” said Juana. “I don’t know who he is.”

“He is the Duke of Viseu, son of my dear aunt Beatriz,” said her mother. “When that man lost his son, and failed to make the Pope accept his bastard as his successor, he was forced to accept that Manuel is his heir. My cousin has been well-instructed to look at Castile for friendship and to look at you for his future wife. He is a little older than you, but it’s good. A good man, they say he is. Pious and gentle, with kind hands.”

“Oh!” Juana clutched a hand to her breast. “Thank you, mother, for making me such a splendid match.” She leaned in to kiss her mother’s face, happy. Oh, to be a queen. And of Portugal! So close to home, so like her beloved lands. María would travel to faraway Burgundy for the chance of being empress and poor Catalina to the cold island the people called England, but she would marry into their neighbour.

Her mother smiled at her. “We will care for the dispensation, of course,” she said. “As a first cousin once removed, Dom Manuel is too close a relation for you, but don’t fret. The money from the Indies shall be more than enough to cover it.”

“Thank you, mother,” Juana said again. “I’m so happy I could burst!”

“Don’t thank me just,” her mother murmured. “Thank the Lord for seeing you fit for this match. To be Queen of Portugal is no laughing matter.”

Juana nodded vehemently. Her mother waved her away, dismissing her and Juana went with a large smile on her face, feeling like her cheeks could cut from the force of her grin. She walked out of her mother’s rooms giggling, almost skipping, walking with so much joy that she hardly knew where she was going. Soon enough, she was in the nursery, and her little sisters came jumping to greet her.

“Juana! Juana!” it was Catalina who spoke, almost ten with red-gold hair twisted into two braids. One of her milk teeth, the canine, had fallen just the past week and Juana could see the gap. “Why are you smiling so?”

“I’m smiling because I’m happy,” said Juana. She embraced Catalina and María, with her large blue eyes and retiring chin, looked at her in confusion. “Sisters, it’s agreed. One day, I’ll be Queen of Portugal!”

“What?” the voice came behind her and Juana turned to see her elder sister Isabel, wearing a widow’s garments. Four years had passed since the death of her beloved Afonso, Prince of Portugal and she still grieved him every day. It was no surprise that she reacted so.

But still, Juana made a face. “Dom Manuel will ask for my hand when he ascends the throne,” she said. “It’s agreed. Mother said so.”

Isabel clutched the cross that hung from her neck, looking away as her eyes filled with tears. Juana turned away from her and back to Catalina, who was playing with her own dolls. She wouldn’t let her sister ruin this day for her.

She was to be queen!

 

[pandizzy]

Alvor, Portugal. October 1495.​

The room was nearly empty, devoid of all those that ought to be there to witness the King’s final moments. He had hurt many hearts in his kingdom, offended many minds and there were many who would refuse to meet him even now, in the fear that this might be another trick.

Was Duke Diogo not murdered under such strange circumstances? And then his younger brother, summoned to court with such fear, only to learn the King intended to name him his heir. No one could truly trust King John. Least of all, his dutiful and suffering wife.

Eleanor of Viseu observed as the final rites were delivered to her husband, the priests dutifully attending to someone who didn’t deserve their attention. John had murdered her brother with his own hands, had executed her brother-in-law and exiled her sister and her children from their homeland. And yet… She could have forgiven all of that, as a good wife should, if he had not insulted her by attempting to sit his bastard where her child once sat.

When his sister died, John placed Jorge de Lencastre in her household and begged her to love him as she did Afonso. It was for her son’s sake that she cared for him, because Afonso had no other brother save for him. And then she lost her child and John made moves to legitimise his illegitimate whelp, to have him be the future King of Portugal instead of her brother. That was too much of an insult to her.

She had done all she could to safeguard the succession for Manuel and now, the crown would be his. She was sure of it. Manuel would be king. She’d sell her own soul to make it happen.

Once the final rites were administered, it was only a matter of time. Eleanor stood by the bed, though she doubted John was aware of her presence. He was very sick these past few months, perhaps because of the weight of all his sins. The entire country awaited his death, the moment where the cortes would finally be able to proclaim her brother as their king and all would be put to rest. The world would be right again.

“Has Dom Manuel received my letter?” John asked with a croaking voice. Eleanor turned her face away, so she wouldn't have to see the steward nod.

The letter. His demands, more like it. When it became clear that his bastard was not to be king, John awarded him plenty of lands and offices to create in him a rival for Manuel. He was now Duke of Coimbra, Grand-Master of the Order of Santiago and administrator of the Order of Aviz, Lord of Montemor-o-Velho. And then, his sickness came and his time was ending, too little time to give his child what he wanted. So he wrote to Manuel to make demands of her brother.

He urged Manuel, on his accession, to pass all his other titles and possessions, including the mastership of the Order of Christ and the island of Madeira, over to Jorge. And if that was not insult enough, he demanded something even greater: the eldest daughter born to Manuel and his trueborn wife be given to Jorge in marriage. So he would be a son to him, her husband claimed, but all could see the truth. The eldest Infanta of Portugal would have a great dowry and with her, a claim to the throne greater than any other woman in the land. If none of Manuel’s sons had legitimate offspring, his daughter, and consequently her husband, would rule.

Eleanor had tried to convince John to have Jorge take the cloth. She had argued about the honour of a cardinal's hat for his son, the wealthy dioceses that he could accumulate, and the benefits of royal ties to the Holy See. None of it had been effective. John had argued that the whore’s son was meant for a life of politics, and she had known full well that he had intended for the boy to be his heir the moment her sweet Afonso passed to sit at the right hand of God.

She was only thankful that the Lord had not allowed such a thing and she prayed every day that her brother would be smarter than agree with the capitulations. Once he was king, that was true, he could do as he pleased with his lands and daughters.

She even hoped that he might repay their brother’s shed blood and the injustices visited upon their sister by killing the bastard outright, once he wore the crown and John was not alive to care for broken promises.

The Queen looked back at her husband when he began to wheeze, gasping for air and Eleanor knew the time was close. She clutched the rosary in her hands and observed silently as her husband breathed his last, not once shedding a tear. When it was all done, the steward stepped forward to close his eyes and she crossed herself, thankful that her great enemy had died.

“The King is dead,” the steward said, but he did not add what had now become customary in France of declaring ‘Long live the King’ for his heir. Manuel would only be a true king when he was proclaimed so by the cortes. Such was their way.

But Eleanor let out a deep breath, relaxing for the first time in many a month. She shared a single look with the steward and the present priests, knowing that now she'd have to don a widow's garments, and walked out of the room. She led herself to her own chambers, far away from the King's, so she could sit down. A maid had been present, lighting up her candles, but Eleanor dismissed her with a flick of her hand. She needed to be alone for this.

The now-Dowager Queen took a sheet of paper and a quill, dipping the tip in ink. Eleanor hesitated only briefly before she began to write out:

Meu querido irmão,

 

[pandizzy]

Toledo, Castile. January 1496.​

Juana thought of Dom Manuel every day. She prayed for his health and for his kingdom. How happy she was when she learned of the death of King John, no matter how sinful such a thought was. To know that his great enemy was dead gave her much joy, and that he was now king. His successes pleased her more than anything; his sorrows were hers to feel just as keenly. She was desperate for news from him, even just rumours, and every night, she knelt down to pray that the next would be the day she was finally called to join him.

Juana hadn’t seen a portrait of her love yet, but she could imagine his face well enough. She had seen his mother once, when Dona Beatriz came to Castile to see her sick sister, Juana’s grandmother, and she was a very austere woman. Religious and sombre, worthy of respect, but one could still see how beautiful she’d been in her youth. That had been before Juana knew of her intended engagement, though, she’d been unable to tell her great-aunt how she longed for Dom Manuel.

She would whisper his name into the pillow. Manuel, Manuel, Manuel. It sounded sweeter than honey now to her. Soon after his accession in October, he recalled his sister Isabel and named her son as his heir, until the time came for him to have his own children. Although Dona Eleanor was his elder sister, the Dowager Queen had refused to swear an oath on the grounds that she had no issue to leave the kingdom too. Juana didn’t know why they needed to swear oaths when she was ready to bear children for Dom Manuel.

They would have many children. Juana wanted a large family, bigger than her mother’s. At least eight, but she was comfortable with whatever number the Lord decided to gift her with. She would bear them all with a smile, knowing that as a man, Dom Manuel would want many children to inherit his throne after him.

But then… Something horrible happened just as the celebrations for Christmas ended. Juana knew that an embassy from Portugal arrived the past week, though she wasn’t allowed to meet them personally. She thought it would only be a matter of time before she left for Portugal. How foolish she was.

She was with Isabel, helping her sister with an embroidery that would be given as alms to the poor. They were sitting together, quietly working when her mother and father came into the room. It was a shock, to see them together, and as she raised from her curtsy, Juana felt her heart race.

Her mother looked saddened and there was a twist in the mouth of her father, telling her that he was angry. Isabel could see it too, for she asked, “Did something happen?”

Their parents exchanged a glance, a look that silently spoke a thousand words before turning back to them.

“We met today with the Portuguese ambassador,” said her mother. “He is eager to see our accord with the King done.” She looked sadly at Juana. “But in a different manner than what we expected.”

“What do you mean?” Juana asked, a cold hand of fear clutching her heart.

“King Manuel has asked for the hand of Isabel, madrecita,” her father said to Juana, fondly using the nickname he gave her. “Not yours.”

No.

“Me?” Isabel exclaimed. “Why not her?” She pointed at Juana who felt her entire body sway, her heart stuttering as if it would soon slip out from her ribs. “It was agreed! I don’t wish to remarry.”

“The King gave two reasons,” her father said. “Your age, which will allow you to produce a son without worries, and the love that his subjects still feel for you.”

“No,” Isabel said simply, her pale eyes flashing with something erratic and frightening. “No. No. I shall not go to Portugal. Not again. Not after my dear Afonso. I should rather die a thousand deaths than suffer returning to that country.”

“The matter is not yet decided, Isabel,” Her mother offered soothingly, in the gentle manner she had adopted in speaking with Juana’s irrational older sister. “He may very well choose Juana or Maria in time. Your father has made it clear that your grief is considerable.”

“Has he?” Isabel glared at her father. “Has he explained the measure of my grief when he fails to understand it? My heart died when Afonso passed to the right hand of God, and I have seen fit to take vows and been denied time and again by Father. Let me take the veil and leave me to my mourning.”

“Who cares about your mourning?” Juana exclaimed, tears coming to her eyes. “You don’t even want him! I want him! And he chose you instead of me!”

Isabel turned to her, eyes sharp and cruel. “I do not want this, you ignorant fool! Father, tell the King of Portugal that I will not be his Queen.”

“You are the eldest daughter of the King of Aragon and Queen of Castile, Isabel. You have a duty to your country and to your family.” Their father’s voice was stern, a warning to be careful. “Whatever happened to the gracious and obedient daughter who was sent to Portugal with all honours?”

“I’m obedient!” Juana said, running to her father. She fell to her knees, grasping the edge of his cloak desperately. “I’ll marry Dom Manuel without complaint, father. Please, tell him it’s only me he will have.”

He clutched her by the arms and forced her to stand. “Juana,” Her father’s voice was not as sharp as it was with Isabel, but the exasperation was there, “Be sensible. You are a valuable match to be sure, but your sister is the Princess of Portugal. If the King wants her, then he shall have her.” But tears were still flowing down her cheeks, all of her dreams and hopes dashing away. “I’ll find you a new husband. A better man for you.”

“I don’t want a better man!” Juana whined. “I want Dom Manuel.”

Her mother cupped a hand to Juana’s cheek, wiping her tears. “It will be better this way,” her mother said gently. “Isabel is closer to Dom Manuel’s age. Put him from your mind and you will forget him soon enough, Juana. Your father and I will see you married happily and well.”

Juana shook off her father’s hold, tears sliding down her cheeks and turned back to look at her sister. “I hate you!” she shrieked, half mad. “You’ve ruined my life!” She wanted to tear her sister’s hood off and pull out her hair, to scratch out her eyes and make her ugly, so Dom Manuel would see that he didn’t want her. Not really.

“I don’t want him, you stupid girl,” Isabel said. “Unlike you, I know Dom Manuel and I also know I will never be happy with him as I was with my dear Afonso. So you suffer, should the world cease to turn because you do not have whatever you desire? You do not know the meaning of sorrow, dear sister. You are young enough to be completely ignorant of it.”

Juana didn’t see herself slapping Isabel. Or pulling at her hair. Only that one moment, she was stepping forward and the next, her father was dragging her away whilst her mother ran to help her sister. She fought against the King, screaming and weeping, and her father held her close, whispering in her ear.

“We’ll find you a new husband,” he whispered. “Don’t worry. You will soon forget of Dom Manuel.”

But Juana didn’t know if she was capable of it.

 

[pandizzy]

Toledo, Castile. January 1496.​

She sat imperiously, as though on a throne, as if she were already a Queen and they her subjects. It enraged Ferdinand to see his eldest so impertinent, a triumphant smile on her gaunt face.

“Those are my conditions, Father. I do not see how they are so impossible to deny. Are they not what you demanded of those whose kingdoms you won?” His eldest lifted her chin haughtily, and he winced at the sharp lines of her face. Scourging and starving herself had robbed her red hair of its lustre, and her blue eyes were pale, erratic and faraway.

“You ask too much, my dear one. To expel every last man, woman, and child unless they convert. Such a thing cannot be done immediately. And the King of Portugal requires an heir soon to appease the Cortes,” his wife argued, patient as ever with their willful daughter. The self-same patience that allowed her to believe herself capable of dictating to them.

Ferdinand shook his head, sitting before Isabel in his chambers, where the Dowager Princess of Portugal had come in the late evening. “Your mother and I have indulged your foolish grief long enough,” he spoke disdainfully. “The boy is dead and your misery has grown inconvenient. You affront God with your impertinence towards your mother and father, along with your willful destruction of the gifts He bestowed upon you. To think such a foolish girl could be born to such esteem.”

The words had their intended effect. His daughter turned on him, as sharp and vicious as a cornered stray cat. “I conduct myself as I have been commanded to by God and my conscience! When my Afonso was taken to His right hand, I obeyed the scriptures by remaining however much I wished to be with my beloved again! I have asked to be sent to a nunnery and I will not be denied again, Father. Send me to a nunnery and give Juana to Manuel, for he will have none of me.” She touched her cheek, the reddened bruise given to her by her sister still visible. “My sister will be glad to have him.”

“The years between you and your siblings have given you thoughts that you’re above us all,” said Ferdinand, remembering the long years where Isabel was their heir. “A woman does not make demands of her lord husband. If it’s his will, and ours, you will go to him gladly.”

“I would sooner die,” Isabel said flatly, and he thought of the scourging and the starvation again. What would she do in the Portuguese court if sent? How would Manuel take a wife that had something resembling madness in her eyes? “The Lord punished my dear Afonso because Portugal welcomed the Jews that you and mother expelled from Castile and Aragon. It’s clear to me. To force me to marry someone I do not want to would be an even greater affront in His eyes.”

“I will drag you down that aisle myself if it is Manuel’s pleasure and mine. Your arrogance to speak for the Almighty does not sit well with me, daughter.” His voice was low, so much that it made Isabella pale. It was like a distant boom of thunder, promising vicious storms to come. “You will remain here while the negotiations are made and be attended to by your mother and her ladies. Guards will be posted at your door and an archbishop will preach to you of your duties as a daughter and wife until you accept your place.”

Isabella placed a hand over his. “Perhaps, we do not need to be so strict, husband,” she said. “Let us send the message to Dom Manuel. If he accepts, we will know that Isabel shall go gladly, and to a country free from vermin.” She made a face, hating all things Jewish and he knew at once where his daughter had gotten her stubbornness. At least, Juana, María and Catalina were different. That much was a comfort to him.

Ferdinand glowered at his wife and daughter before nodding curtly. “Send the letter to Dom Manuel and see whether he agrees. God willing, we may yet send this willful child away and be done with her once and for all.”

“A touching display of love, dear father. I shall pray that your rider falls and breaks his neck on the journey,” Isabel japed as she stood up and left.

 

[pandizzy]

Alcochete, Portugal. March 1496.​

The man entered his chambers quietly, bowing deeply. Manuel smiled openly at the sight of his ambassador, who had recently arrived from the Castilian court. Francisco de Eça was a clever and dutiful man, who was sure to have gained great success in his endeavours.

“My dear Francisco,” said Manuel. “How did the Catholic Monarchs treat you?”

“They have treated me well, Your Highness,” said Francisco. “But it’s good to be home.” Dom Manuel noticed that he carried a great deal of papers in his hands. Documents to be sure, contracts as well. All things detailing the agreement he had just sealed with their neighbours.

“Well, Portugal is glad to have you.” Manuel extended his hand to take the papers and Eleanor, his sister, moved away from the window, where she was watching a wedding procession in the city. Manuel looked at the first paper rather distractedly, not really thinking much. “So, how long must I wait until I have my bride with me?”

But Francisco grew pale as Manuel continued to read his reports, a tense set growing in his back. “My lord,” he heard the ambassador say. “The Dowager Princess had some reservations over the proposed marriage.”

Reservations? Manuel looked at his sister, who was frowning, then back at his ambassador. What he had in hand was more than simple reservations.

“Dom Francisco, are these the demands made by Isabel of Aragon and approved of by the Catholic Monarchs?” he asked, incredulously reading over the letter to confirm its validity.

“Unfortunately, such are the demands of the Princess Isabel to give her consent to marrying Your Grace,” Francisco de Eça spoke reluctantly, wringing his hands together as Manuel sat back to consider the request. “The Princess will only accept to wed you if the Jews living in our great land are expelled.”

Portugal had gained much in accepting the Jewish Castilians and Aragonese banished by the Catholic monarchs. The country had been enriched by their presence and the gracious refugees had consented to increased taxation in return for peace and the ability to practise their faith in private. To demand conversion or expel them outright wouldn’t serve his interests whatsoever.

And to have demands leveraged upon him by his future bride did not bode well.

“This demand… is it only the Princess Isabel making it? Surely the King and Queen can convince her to put aside this demand and accept the gracious offer I have made?” he asked. Manuel could see the sweat beading down the ambassador’s forehead.

“I’m afraid it is non-negotiable for the hand of the Princess. Either conversion or expulsion, and the Queen has given her express approval to these terms.” Francisco shook his head gravely and Manuel wanted nothing more than to send the fool away and be done with the matter.

“Who does she think she is?” Eleanor asked behind him. “To make demands of us? She ought to be grateful to be even considered.”

Manuel looked at her. “Be careful how you speak of her,” he said. “You once thought of her as your own daughter.”

“What of the Catholic Monarchs’ other daughters?” Eleanor interjected, and Manuel turned to his sister with an arched brow, considering her words for a moment.

He turned to Francisco with a frown. “Leave us. I will summon you when I have considered these terms the monarchs send to me.”

He turned to his sister as the man left, the Dowager Queen smiling graciously as she took the man’s place across from him. “If Princess Isabel is the only one issuing such a demand, then would it not be wise to marry a younger sister of hers? Such a girl would be younger and able to give you more sons, dear brother. And she would be more moldable. More influenciable to perform to your desires.”

“You are certainly right.” Manuel paused for a moment, a frown forming on his lips. “A younger daughter would demand a smaller dowry. Isabel is the eldest and can be expected to bring much to the royal coffers.”

“Money can easily be saved in the taxation of the Portuguese Jews. Should they convert, you will be unable to tax them as Catholics. And should they leave, they will take their wealth with them and we shall lose valuable men,” Eleanor argued, neatly tying the issue. “And I must confess to some… reservations about the Princess.”

Manuel sat up straighter, looking at his sister with a serious expression. She had once been the Princess’ mother in the eyes of God, and he trusted her to know more of the Princess then himself, and to speak more candidly than Francisco. Manuel had only seen Isabel a handful of times. He had been the one to greet her when she arrived from Castile to wed his nephew and he was present at the wedding, but after the celebrations were over, he returned to his own lands.

“When my beloved son was called to God’s right hand, the Princess was consumed by grief. She could not eat or sleep, which could be expected of a young widow who loved her husband.” Eleanor paused, pulling her sleeves down and looking away, as if forcing herself to recall something unpleasant. “But then she began engaging in… upsetting behaviours. Her piety had been commendable before, but she blamed herself for his death. She starved herself of food and water, had herself scourged for any perceived sin, however mild.”

Manuel’s stomach coiled at his sister’s words. They did nothing to soothe the growing unease he had begun to feel towards the match. To hear his prospective bride described as such a fanatical woman, he almost would’ve preferred to hear that she was a consummate whore, for at least he could have her guarded and monitored to safeguard the legitimacy of his children.

“Even my husband feared for her,” Eleanor continued. “He moved her bed to his rooms, so as to be sure that she would not cause harm to her body or life and had her watched at every moment.”

That gave him cause to hesitate. King John had been a scourge upon their land and to know that even he acted in fear and worry for this woman’s life was certainly an argument against her.

“But she knows our language,” Manuel continued. “She knows our culture.”

“Any foreign bride would have to learn them,” Eleanor pointed out. “Such a fact is not detrimental to the Infanta’s cause.”

Manuel looked back at the papers before him.

“The Infanta Juana has all the benefits of her sister without her erratic nature. She is bound to be clever and well-educated, a capable and respectable consort to have at your side.” She looked at him, her gaze measured and a wry smile on her lips. “And even my ladies and I hear tales of her beauty. I would think her to be the fairest of the Catholic Monarchs’ daughters if the gossip is to be believed.”

“She is only sixteen,” Manuel thought out loud and Eleanor placed a hand over his shoulder. He was twenty-six. An entire decade older than the Infanta, whereas her older sister was only a year younger than him.

“Men older than you have married girls in the flower of youth, dear brother,” said Eleanor. “You are still young yourself. Ten years is so little a difference in the span of a life. And a young queen may be just what you need. Let your young bride keep a merry glittering court for your people.”

“I shall consider it then,” said Manuel. But he thought of Isabel. The eldest daughter of the Catholic Monarchs, with only a sickly brother to inherit ahead of her. Could he give up such an opportunity in the name of the Jews? Or was Portugal destined to have a mad queen?

 

[pandizzy]

Toledo, Castile. May 1496.​

Juan asked her to ride with him. He knew that she could refuse him nothing, not when he asked her so gently and lovingly. She and Juan had the closest bond amidst the children of Queen Isabella, and had always played together before he was handed over to his tutors and she to the women. It was no surprise that he would try to comfort her when her heart was so broken.

They rode across the lands that surrounded Toledo, their escort struggling to keep up with them and Juana raised her head toward the sky, auburn hair bound in a braid. She had not left the castle since news came from Portugal, when they told her that Manuel wanted her sister, and she’d missed the sun. She missed its warm kiss on her skin, the light that burned behind her closed eyelids.

Tears burned in the corners of her eyes and Juana looked at her older brother, blonde hair stuffed under a large feathered hat.

“I don't understand why you're so upset,” Juan murmured, gentle and understanding. “There will be others.”

Juana shook her head. How could she explain it, in truth? The pain that she felt in her heart. Manuel was their kin, the Lord's chosen to rule in Portugal and he was supposed to be hers. She was to be Manuel's queen, not Isabel. She didn't even want him, she'd much rather scourge herself in Afonso's memory than honour her future husband. Why should she be rewarded with a man who was described to be kind, and just, recalling all that had been exiled by King John as his first act as ruler? Why should she be allowed to stay so close to home when she refused husband after husband, and said she intended to become a nun, to the despair of their mother?

Juana looked at her brother. “Isabel had her chance to be Queen of Portugal,” she said. “And she failed. She failed to have a child with her departed husband and to act in serenity after his death. The Lord clearly does not wish for her to be queen of our grandmother's country.”

“Juana,” said Juan. “You ought to be more sympathetic. You don't know her pain.”

“She isn't being sympathetic with me,” Juana said, kicking at the side of her horse to coax him into a trot. “She doesn't think of what will happen to me when she goes to my intended husband.”

Juan frowned. “What do you mean?” he said.

“María will soon go to Burgundy,” said Juana. “Catalina to England, but where will I go? Perhaps to Hungary, and to that old man, so Mother can give him her support against the Turks. Or to Denmark, so I can be far away and never return, so no one ever thinks of me again.” She looked at him. “I've been forgotten.”

“You haven’t,” Juan insisted. “Not by me.”

Juana didn’t answer him. Not when a sole rider came from the city, rushing to reach them. She and Juan urged their horses to go to him, certain that it was something important, because their mother never did interrupt their usual rides before. She too loved horses and knew how calming it could be to ride across the land.

“Your Graces,” said the man after a curt nod. “The Queen requests your presence before night's fall.”

Juan and her rode back into the city, following the sole rider, with their escort coming behind her. Juana wondered what her mother could possibly want up until the moment she was before her, still in her riding habit and with her hair pulled from its braid by the wind. The Queen was sitting by the window and she turned to look at her two children with affective strictness.

“Look at your sister, Juan,” said the great queen Isabella. “Soon enough, you won’t be able to anymore.”

Juana and Juan exchanged a glance.

“Did something happen, lady mother?” Juan asked, careful.

“Dom Francisco de Eça has returned with his master’s missive,” her mother began and Juana felt her heart race inside her chest. “His King, Dom Manuel, has chosen the Infanta Juana to be his bride, not Princess Isabel. I suppose it was her demands for the marriage, or maybe the fact that we offered a dowry equal to Isabel’s for Juana--” She could not speak anymore, not when her child threw herself at her feet, kissing the hem of her skirt.

“Oh, thank you, mother!” The words slipped past her lips, tumbling down. “Thank you, thank you!”

“Don’t thank me,” her mother said as Juana sat on her heels, looking up at her magnificent mother and queen. “It was the work of your father, not mine.” Her mother looked at her with a single look that could freeze the entire world, full of reproach. “I don’t appreciate the actions of a selfish daughter and before you leave, you shall apologise to your sister for your words against her.”

Juana nodded. “I shall,” she said. “I shall apologise and be to her as loving a sister as I have always been.”

Her mother put a hand over her head, as if to give her a blessing.

“Your father has decided to ride with you to the border,” she commented. “Dom Manuel has demanded your presence already. You’ll leave before July.”

“Thank you, mother,” said Juana. Her mother dismissed her and Juan afterwards and her older brother left to go with his tutors, though Juana barely paid attention.

She was going to Portugal!

Juana walked across the corridors of the royal residence in search of her older sister. She found Isabel in the chapel, as she always was, the once Princess of Portugal kneeling by the altar, clutching her hands as she prayed.

Although she hadn’t intended to interrupt, her sister turned to look at her, certainly having heard a misstep or another. Since the death of her husband, Isabel had worn simple black garments or a widow's robes, her shorn golden curls hidden under a hood. Her cheeks were sunken in and there were dark bags under her eyes, but she looked no different than what she looked every day. Widowhood had been cruel.

Her sister crossed herself and stood up to look at her, all without saying a word. Juana sighed.

“I came here to apologise,” she said. “What I did to you was cruel and unbecoming. I shouldn't have done it.”

Isabel arched an eyebrow. “Done what?” she asked. “If you can't speak of it, why do it?”

Juana huffed.

“I'm sorry for pulling your hair and slapping you when it seemed you'd wed King Manuel,” she said. She set her shoulders back. “Now, it seems there was no reason at all to do it. Dom Manuel has chosen me in the end.”

For a moment, Isabel said nothing. And then she sighed and walked towards Juana. It was almost a shock to have her sister embrace her and it took a breath before Juana returned it, wrapping her arms around Isabel's lithe body. Her sister rubbed a soft hand down her back before she took a step back, closing her fingers around Juana's shoulders.

“My baby sister,” she murmured. “My poor, foolish baby sister. You don't even know what you're getting yourself into.” She smiled kindly, as though her words didn't ring in Juana's ears. “Perhaps I'd make a poor wife to Manuel, but at least, I know what it demands from a person. I don’t think you do.”

Juana didn't know what to say. She was speechless, staring at her sister and her eyes that were so like their mother's.

“When you become a wife, you will no longer be a daughter, a child,” Isabel said. “Your foolish behaviour won't be accepted anymore. Sweet sister, you're an abnormal creature. You feel too much, but it's time to stop. There is no other way to survive. The man you pine for does not exist. He is a figment of your imagination and it’s time you accept that.”

Juana felt her heart race as her sister continued.

“Nearly every year, you will be called upon your duty to bear heirs for your husband, to forget when he looks at another woman. When he eventually sells off your daughters to the highest bidder, and causes your sons’ deaths in his needless wars.” Isabel smiled and her eyes found a strand of auburn hair that had escaped from Juana's braid, allowing a humorous glint to overtake them. “And perhaps you may still love him throughout all of that, but in the end, Dom Manuel will not measure up to the image you have of him in your head. Men will always disappoint you, my sweet thing, either by living or dying.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Juana asked, trembling. “Do you hate me?”

Her sister blinked, surprised. “Hate?” she repeated in an incredulous tone. “I have nothing but love for you in my heart. I'm trying to warn you, Juana. You may think you will rule by your husband's side as our mother does, but that is not what will happen. Our mother broke the rules. Juan's fate is to reign whilst yours is childbirth and sadness.” She stroked her arms gently. “You won't be like our mother. She is a queen regnant, tasked by God to rule Castile. You'll be little more than a broodmare, imprisoned and made to squeeze out one offspring after another, paraded on Manuel’s arm when he must mollify our parents and later our brother. And whatever you do to make him happy, to win his love and respect, it will never be enough.”

 

[pandizzy]

Eltham Palace, Kingdom of England. June 1496.​

Elizabeth of York, Queen of England, rocked her youngest daughter gently, cooing at the handsome face of her little girl. Mary was just two months old, with wispy red hair and grey eyes that opened and closed lazily and Elizabeth had already fallen deeply in love.

Her fifth child was a balm to her poor heart, with all the worries she had over Arthur in Ludlow and the boy that claimed to be her brother. The birth had been difficult enough, but to have her in hand was a great gift from the Lord.

Little Bess jumped at her feet, wanting to take a closer look at her little sister. She was almost four, with angelic golden curls and bright green eyes, as well as round pinkened cheeks that likened her to the cherubic images now favoured by the artists. Behind her stood Henry, called Harry, the five-year-old Duke of York, with wide blue eyes. He attempted to tug at his mother’s skirts, always demanding her attention.

“Careful, children,” said Queen Elizabeth. A nurse came to pick Mary and she handed her off with a smile, before looking at her two older children. Margaret was a proper lady now at seven and had no desire to be with her younger siblings, but Bess and Harry were so close in age, she sometimes thought of them as twins rather than anything else. “What is it that bothers you so?”

Harry kicked at the ground. “I wanted the baby to be a dog,” he admitted in a low voice and Elizabeth smiled.

“We can get you a dog, my love,” said Elizabeth. Her favourite son smiled in return.

She spent another two hours in the nursery before returning to Whitehall, just as the sun was setting. Her movements attracted the attention of the people, her barge running down the Thames. Elizabeth smiled gracefully as they called out her name.

She had healthy children, a country at peace after so many years—the man claiming to be her brother notwithstanding— and a husband who loved and respected her. It was good to be Queen.

When she arrived at Whitehall, a servant of her husband came to tell her that the King was summoning her to his chambers. It was not evening yet, so Elizabeth didn’t assume he wished to perform their marital duties. Despite their desire for each other, both believed it was not proper to do such an act during the daytime, when servants could walk in and some matter might need a king’s attention to be solved.

She found Henry by the hearth, though the logs were unlit and he was reading a paper. Her husband turned to look at her when she entered and Elizabeth could see the way his shoulders relaxed visibly in her presence, how he seemed more at ease with himself and the world around him.

But the smile that had begun to spread across his mouth melted off and was replaced by a grimace. Elizabeth frowned.

“Is there something wrong?” she asked, walking closer to him. Henry took her hands in his and sighed.

“That damned boy,” he said. “The one claiming to be the Duke of York and your brother has married Lady Catherine Gordon, a kinswoman to King James of Scotland. If she has a son…” Elizabeth squeezed his hand.

“No one will accept him,” she said. “Catherine Gordon is a junior noblewoman, not a match for whom they see as a king, even if false.”

“My spies say they are preparing an invasion,” Henry answered, ever the nervous fellow. Elizabeth smiled.

“Then you will crush them,” she responded. “Your army is strong, the coffers are filled and you have a peace treaty with France.” She pulled him closer, wrapping her arms around his waist. Henry was lean, and tall, just a handful of inches taller than her. “Don’t worry about it, my king. When we’re together, you mustn’t think of the future.”

He embraced her back as Elizabeth placed her head over his chest, listening to the steady beats of his heart.

“In the end, we will prevail,” she said. “We must have faith in God.”

“As Job did?” he asked. Elizabeth looked at him and smiled. “I love you, Bessie.”

“I love you too,” she said in return. Elizabeth kissed him and smiled when she felt his hands clutch the laces at the back of her dress.

They might not do this in the daytime, but she could make an exception.

---

Toledo, Castile.​

Her heart was racing as her sister's words rang in her head. Never enough. It will never be enough. It doesn't sound fair. What could she possibly mean by that? Surely, she was lying. Surely, she was just jealous and trying to frighten her before she left.

Juana would prove her wrong. She would dazzle Manuel with her wit and her charm, she would offer prudent advice as befitting a gracious and modest consort. She would deliver healthy children in scores and surely he would love her for all of it. How could he not love the perfect wife and queen? How could he not love her? Everyone did. She was her father's favourite, her mother's most beautiful daughter.

She walked and still the thought needled at her. She would only be Manuel’s consort, she wasn’t a queen in her own right like her mother. But what did that matter? What would that change? Her father loved and respected her mother as his queen first and a fellow sovereign second. Why should Manuel be any different?

Catalina smiled when Juana stopped before her, red-gold hair twisted into two braids that were then pinned up. Her little sister had grown even more beautiful after her eleventh birth, with a soft and loving smile. She held up a bouquet of lovely Valencia roses, the petals as yellow as dawn and a smile tugged at the corner of Juana's mouth.

“For you,” Catalina said. “To remind you of home.”

“Gracias, hermana,” Juana said, taking the roses. She leaned down to kiss her sister’s round cheeks before embracing Catalina tightly. Her sister was not even eleven, a beautiful young girl that Juana would miss greatly in her life in Portugal. “Take care of yourself, sister, and behave. I have no wish to come here and order you to obey mother and Doña Elvira.”

Catalina giggled. “I’m more obedient than you!” she exclaimed and Juana laughed.

‘I’m your older sister and within some months, I’ll be Queen of Portugal as well,” she said. “You need to respect me.” She poked Catalina at her stomach and her little sister laughed. Juana sighed and embraced her again, knowing how much she would miss her. More than María, or Isabel. Catalina was her favourite sister. “I’ll name one of my daughters after you, my love.”

Catalina smiled. But before Juana could say anything else, someone cleaned their throat behind her. She straightened herself and looked at her father, all ready to start their ride to the border. He would take her to Portugal and hand her over to the nobles that would then take her to Manuel. Normally, her mother might be inclined to ride with them as well, but the Queen was still upset with Juana over what she had done to Isabel. This was her punishment.

Juana sighed and looked around her, at the people that had been with her for her entire life. Some Castilians, around two thousand of them, would make up her suite in Portugal, but many others would stay. Including her entire family.

“Be brave, child,” her mother said, sitting on her throne. “Don’t forget who you are, or where you came from.”

Juana nodded and curtsied as deeply as she could. When she rose again, she was ready to leave. She looked at her father and nodded, trying to hide her smile.

She was going to Portugal.

 

[pandizzy]

Castelo de Ródão, Portugal. September 1496.​

“Well,” Manuel asked, opening his arms as he stepped into the room, “How do I look?” He twirled around.

The King of Portugal was wearing a red and gold doublet and a brown hat, with a large ruby pinned to the front. His dark brown hair was neatly brushed as it fell to his shoulders, his face cleaned and hands washed, with the nails trimmed just the past night. Manuel had begun to wear a beard since he came to the throne, and he had it trimmed as well, to look clean. He had long dark pants of fine silk and embroidered shoes, the very best for a man that was expected to meet his bride that same day.

Manuel had taken care to look like a king on that day. Although both of the infanta’s parents had come to their thrones with some difficulty, especially her mother, they were children of kings and established in their thrones. He had no desire to seem lesser than them, especially since the King of Aragon would be accompanying the exchange of the Infanta.

His mother smiled as she walked to him. Manuel smiled gently in return as she adjusted the lapels of his dark surcoat.

“You look well,” Dona Beatriz said at last. “Juana will soon realise how lucky she is.”

“Hopefully,” Manuel said. Knowing who her mother was, he imagined the Infanta was a strong and confident person. Well-educated, as the Princess of Portugal was, even if hidden for her entire life under the protection of her powerful parents. He wondered what her character was like, if she enjoyed charity or frivolities. Juana was sixteen to his twenty-six, a young girl by all rights, but she was to be his blushing bride. He wanted to make her happy.

“You are a catch,” his mother insisted. Her smile turned sad. “If only your father could see you now.”

“If my father could see me, lady mother, he would be King of Portugal, not me,” Manuel answered. His mother chuckled lowly.

He didn’t know what else to say. He wasn’t even two when his father died and João became the Duke of Viseu and of Beja and he had no memories of Fernando, brother to King Afonso. Of his childhood, he mostly remembered João and then Diogo, successive dukes of their family’s holdings. And Isabel and Eleanor, their surviving sisters. There were more siblings, Simão, Duarte, Catarina and Dinis, but they didn’t live. Neither did João or Diogo, the latter having been murdered by King John. Only Manuel, Eleanor and Isabel remained, although Eleanor had decided to stay in Lisbon while Isabel, whose son Jaime was Manuel’s heir until a child was born to Manuel, remained behind at her son’s lands due to concerns for her own health.

By all rights, it should’ve been Eleanor as his heir, since she was the older sister, but without children, Eleanor had refused the opportunity to be sworn in favour of Isabel. And Isabel, without any desire for intrigues and politics after the death of her husband, petitioned the cortes to accept her son instead. Jaime was with them, though in another room, as Manuel had asked for a moment alone with his mother.

“I hope you will love the Infanta as your own child, mother,” said Manuel.

Dona Beatriz smiled. “You’re my son,” she answered. “No matter who you married, I’d love them.” Manuel smiled.

He might’ve said something else if the door to their private room was not opened and one of his grooms entered with a bow.

“Your Highness,” the man said. “The Castilians have arrived.”

Manuel said and nodded. He looked back at his mother.

“Well, my lady,” he said. “It’s time we met the one who will be the Queen of Portugal.”

---

Juana rubbed her sweaty palms on her skirts, taking in deep gulping breaths of fear. Nearly fifty people would be watching her carefully, with round judging eyes, although she supposed she should be thankful. The meeting had been arranged to be private and intimate; usually, two hundred nobles were permitted to observe the first meeting between a royal couple.

She knew she looked pretty, but she wanted Manuel and his court to think her beautiful. As soon as they arrived, her father allowed her to prepare herself and Juana surrounded herself with her trusted servants to prepare.

Her auburn hair was braided and pinned around her face with emerald pins, similar to a crown. One of her maids had whispered to her to pinch her cheeks to make them appear redder, and more flushed with life and good health, so that’s what she did. Juana was wearing a heavy green velvet dress, trimmed with cloth-of-gold and a bodice encrusted with emeralds. Her sleeves were slashed to show the fine white fabric of her shift, with drooping silk undersleeves.

She looked at her father and he must have seen the fright in her expression, because he smiled and walked to her.

“Don’t worry, madrecita,” said the King of Aragon. “There is nothing to fear.”

“What if he doesn’t like me?” she asked.

“He won’t,” her father assured her. “My sweet girl, you are beautiful and intelligent. What more could a man want?” She remembered her sister’s words. It will never be enough. Never enough. Never enough.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Do you really think he will like me?” She looked up at her father, full of trust for the King. He smiled and squeezed her cheek as he did when she was a little girl.

“He will,” he answered. “Now, let’s go.” He took her hand in his and they walked together out of the private room. A herald banged his staff thrice against the floor, announcing her father’s titles and her own, while another announced the arrival of Manuel de Avis, by the Grace of God, King of Portugal and the Algarves and his mother Infanta Dona Beatriz, Dowager Duchess of Viseu and Beja.

Juana held her breath as all bowed for her father and the King of Portugal, although she barely moved. She looked at the man before her, the man that she had dreamed and prayed for for so many months. Manuel. Her betrothed, the man that was promised to her.

Her heart skipped a beat.

He was tall and strong, with broad shoulders. His hair was a dark shade of brown and he had fair skin and a sharp jawline, but an easy smile. He was not exactly as handsome as she expected, but there was something in him. An air that spoke to her. It was his expression that softened his rugged features and made him attractive, someone that wasn’t beautiful until you truly looked at them and saw the soul within.

“Cousin,” her father began, “Allow me to introduce you to my daughter, Infanta Juana of Aragon.”

Juana curtsied. “I’m here to serve you, my lord,” she murmured as had been practiced. The Iberian families could speak amongst themselves, for they always took care to teach their children all the Romance languages of Spain, so she spoke in Portuguese. It made Manuel smile.

“Juana,” he said, her name sounding sweeter than honey in his lips. He stretched a hand forward, a velvet box clutched between his fingers. “This gift doesn’t even come close to the happiness I feel in marrying you.”

Juana looked at her father and the King of Aragon nodded in permission, before she leaned forward to take the gift.

She opened it, not wanting to look too eager, and held back a gasp. It was a necklace of pearls and rubies, the precious stones as large as a goose’s egg. Expensive, certainly, and fragile. She was terrified of dropping and possibly breaking the necklace.

“My father, may the Lord have him, gave it to my mother when they were wed,” Dom Manuel explained. “I hope it is up to your standards, my lady.”

Juana looked at him with tearful eyes, an unstoppable smile curling up her lips.

“It’s perfect,” she answered.