I didn’t need my mother’s reminder that her Castilian lords did not approve of her husband. Aragón and Castile had been separate kingdoms and sometime foes until my parents wed. Though smaller in size, Aragón had its Mediterranean holdings and a fierce independence, while Castile held most of central Spain and was therefore the greater power. My parents’ union had joined the kingdoms, though their marriage treaty stipulated Aragón could retain its own body of elected representatives, its Cortes, and right of succession. Upon my parents’ deaths, my brother, Juan, would succeed as the first ruler of both kingdoms; his dynasty would ensure Spain never separated again. Until then, my father was king consort of Castile and king of Aragón in his own right and he never let anyone forget it. The Castilian nobles’ dislike of him was only augmented by the fact that my mother had allowed him this concession.
Over the years, I’d heard other tales, not meant for my ears. That my father had an eye for women was evident; my mother had brought his illegitimate daughter, Joanna, to court and made his illegitimate son an archbishop. Yet such peccadilloes hardly mattered in a marriage that was the envy of all who beheld it. My mother never raised an objection and their reunions were always joyous occasions. Papá was a merry companion, who relished a bawdy joke, a good cup of jérez, and the company of his children, none of whom loved him more than I.
I peered through the screen. He’d removed his cloak and was conversing with my mother’s trusted adviser, the emaciated Cisneros. His noblemen stood apart from the Castilians, testament to their mutual antipathy. Then my mother entered with my sisters. My father immediately left Cisneros to go to her. Her pale cheeks flushed as he leaned in. To me, it seemed as if there was no one else in the hall, no other lovers in the world. They walked hand in hand to the dais. A smile played on my father’s face as the Castilians came to bow before them.
I melted against the screen. If only I could wed a man like my—
My mother’s voice echoed into the sala: “And where, pray tell, is Juana?”
Quickly smoothing my rumpled skirts, I descended into the sala.
My father grinned as I approached. He’d shaved his beard and his face was bronzed from his travels, giving him the air of an adventurer. I didn’t dare look at my mother. Coming to the foot of the dais, I curtsied. “Su Majestad, I am overjoyed to see you.”
“Your Majesty!” he exclaimed. “What is this, madrecita? I don’t care for ceremony from you.”
“Fernando,” chided my mother. “Stop calling her that. She is not your little mother.” As she spoke, she motioned the nobles aside, leaving me on my knees. Then she said, “You may rise. I’ll not spoil your father’s return by asking you where you’ve been.”
Papá chuckled. “She was probably bribing the stable boy for a stallion, so she can ride back to Granada and hide in the hills like a bandit. Anything not to wed the Habsburg, eh?”
I couldn’t help but smile.
“She is impossible,” declared my mother. “She is headstrong and too temperamental by far, and you, my lord husband, only encourage it, when you should set an example.”
Papá laughed. “She’s as you were at her age, my love. Can you fault her? A Spaniard to her core, she no more wants traffic with foreigners than you would.”
I wanted to laugh aloud. Papá would help me. He’d put an end to this odious betrothal.
He held out his hand. “Come, let us walk alone.” He winked at my mother; her frown eased. She beckoned my sisters. “We’ll wait for you in the solar,” she said, and with my father at my side, I went out into the bailey.
THE WHITE-HOT SUN scorched the cobblestones. I winced, searching my pocket for a ribbon to tie back my hair. My father reached out to coil the heavy mass in a knot at my nape. “I used to do that for my mother,” he murmured. “She had hair like yours, thick as a mare’s mane. It was her only vanity—after her love for me, of course.”
I threw myself into his arms. “I’ve missed you so.”
“I missed you too, madrecita.” As I felt his callused fingers stroke my neck, I had to bite back the humiliating tears that were never far from my eyes these days.
I drew back. “I didn’t see Juan in the hall. Did he not come with you?”
“I left him resting in Segovia, though you’ll be happy to know that while in Aragón, he made quite an impression. He so astonished my Cortes with his erudition, they were rendered speechless, a rare event for them. But the trip back to Castile has tired him.”
I nodded in painful understanding. Juan’s health was a constant concern. In Castile, a woman could inherit the throne, as my mother had, but Aragón abided by the statutes of Salic Law, which prohibited female succession. Should, God forbid, Juan die before he wed and sired a male heir, Castile and Aragón could be torn apart once again.
My father shielded his brow with his hand. “By the saints, it’s hot as Hades. Let’s go into the shade before you break out in freckles. We can’t have a spotted bride on our hands.”
I turned away. He took my chin, brought my face back to his. “Are those tears I see?”
I wiped at my eyes. “It must be the dust,” I muttered. “I hate this time of year in Castile. There are dust and bugs everywhere.”
“Indeed,” he remarked, and he steered me to a bench under the portcullis’s shadow. Perched beside him, I was acutely aware of his strength, which he exuded, like a bull.
He cleared his throat. “I must speak of an important matter.” He looked at me intently. He had a puckered scar on his temple, and the cast in his eye that I had inherited—only his was pronounced—made it look as if he were squinting. I thought him the most handsome man I’d seen, nonetheless, because when he looked at me, it was as if I was all he wanted to see.
“I know this union with the archduke has brought you no joy,” he said. “Your mother tells me you were most upset, and spend all your free time wandering about like a lost soul.”
I grimaced. “What free time? I scarcely have a minute to go to the privy, I’m so busy trying to learn my French and perfect my music and dance.”
“So, is that where you were earlier, learning your French? Come now, will you not open your heart to me? You know I won’t chastise you.”
His words softened the defenses I’d hidden behind since learning of my betrothal. “I don’t mean to be difficult,” I said with a catch in my voice. “I realize how important this marriage is.”
“But you’d rather wed a Spaniard, or so your mother says.”
“Spain is home. I can’t imagine leaving. And if I marry the archduke, I will have to leave.”
He sighed. “As different as you and your mother are, you share this one thing: Isabel also loves Spain, with all her heart. Sometimes, I think, more than anything else on this earth.”
Hearing an old pain in his voice, I said, “Then we are not so alike, for I love you more than anything else.”
His smile revealed uneven teeth. “You live up to your name. Not only do you look like my mother, but you are loyal, just like her.”
“Am I really?” I liked being compared to my namesake, the late queen. Though she died before my birth, her passion for Aragón and my father was renowned. It was said she’d connived to have him wed my mother years before my parents met, foreseeing they would share a greater destiny together than if they ruled apart.
“You are. To my mother, devotion to country was the most important thing in life. She told me, it’s the only love that lasts.” He patted my hand. “That is why if you don’t want to wed the archduke, we’ll not force you. No matter how important this marriage may be, I’ll not abide it if it makes you unhappy.”
I sat in silence, pondering his words. When I failed to feel the overwhelming relief I’d expected, I asked, “Mamá spoke of France threatening Aragón and our need to prove our power. Is that true?”
“Ah, madrecita, what does it matter? If you do not wish it, it’s as good as over.”
“But it does matter. It matters to m
e. I want to understand.”
He rubbed his chin. “Very well. You know that while your mother and I are titular monarchs of Spain, my kingdom of Aragón has kept its independence. But in truth, we must remain united for the good of our country. We have your brother to ensure this, but it wasn’t too long ago that Aragón and Castile were avowed foes and the grandes conspired against the Crown and Cortes.”
I nodded. “Yes, I know. But then Mamá and you wed and made Spain strong.”
“We did, but there are some who would love to see us fail, so they can return us to the days of lawlessness. We took liberties from the nobility; we reduced their holdings, and we made them swear fealty to us before their own interests. And yet we couldn’t have succeeded without their support, and not a few of them would conspire with Lucifer himself behind our back to achieve our downfall. Plus, Aragón once lost its claim to Naples to Charles of France.”
“But you won it back. Naples is yours now, by treaty.”
“Lamentably, treaties are only as good as those who sign them. While in Aragón, I received word that my old enemy Charles is dead. He named his cousin Louis d’Orléans as his successor. Louis is a true Valois, without scruple or conscience. He despises my hold on Naples and has proclaimed he’ll fight me for it. Any war he starts over Naples will be a war with Spain.”
I flared at once. “If he declares war, then we’ll defeat him as we did the Moors!”
“Unfortunately, it’s not that easy. Naples is the gateway to the African trade routes. It’s far away and Louis knows we can’t afford to wage war on two fronts without emptying our coffers and exposing Aragón to a French attack. Remember, Aragón shares a border with France and Italy. Louis can march his armies straight through my kingdom. And as soon as he’s crowned, I fear he’ll do just that. He’ll make us divide our resources and we haven’t the money or the men.”
I clenched my fists at the image of the French swarming into my father’s kingdom, as they had since time immemorial, implacable in their hunger for spoil and blood.
“It’s quite simple, really,” he went on. “Isabel and I expended our treasuries on the Moorish crusade, and both our Cortes refuse to sanction further taxes. They do have that right: they are the voice of the common people and unlike other rulers in Europe, we rule by their consent. Spain has given us all she has, and wars cost money, lots of it. Hence, the Habsburg marriages.”
I frowned. “The Habsburgs will give us money to fight the French?”
“Not money. Security. Through the marriages, we’ll be allied to them. Trust me when I say Louis will think twice about declaring against me if he thinks the Habsburgs will turn on him. The emperor is canny: he’s a friend of everyone and confident of no one. For now, he sees the advantage in Spain, but should Louis convince him to join the French cause instead, together he and the Habsburgs could bring us no end of trouble.”
I considered this. Unlike my sisters, who rarely looked beyond their apartment doors, I’d always had an ear for the goings-on at court. I’d often overheard nobles discussing the fact that while rich in land, Spain’s treasury never overflowed, its deficit increased by the demands of the Reconquest.
“What about Admiral Colón’s colonies?” I asked. “Isn’t there gold to be had there?”
“That charlatan?” He blew air out of the side of his mouth. “A New World, he calls it, when all he’s found is a parcel of mosquito-ridden isles. He may have earned himself a title for discovering land beyond the Ocean Sea, but whether there’s any gold there remains to be seen.”
I marveled at this disparity in my parents’ characters. To my mother, Cristobal Colón’s New World represented thousands of heathen souls awaiting the word of God; to my father, it was but an inordinate expense, better directed to the defense of Spain.
“Don’t tell your mother I said that,” he added with a wink, as if he’d read my thoughts. “She’d have my head. She’s convinced one day Colón will discover a city paved in gold, filled with savages clamoring for Cisneros and his pyres.”
As my laughter pealed out, I felt my cares lift from me for the first time in weeks.
“There,” he said. “That is how I like to see you. You must laugh often, my daughter. It is good for the soul.” He paused. “Do you now understand why the marriage is important?”
“I do. By marrying me to Philip, and Juan to his sister, the Habsburgs will lend us their power, and France will be forced to negotiate with us rather than simply declare war.”
“Indeed. And who better to teach that Flemish archduke the way of the world than you?”
I had to contain my desire to please him. I’d hoped for release, and instead I now faced a difficult choice. “I’ll do whatever I can to help Spain,” I ventured.
“Yes, but you don’t need to sacrifice yourself. We’ll find you a Spanish husband instead and send—whom did you suggest? Ah, yes: we’ll send your sister Maria. She’s an infanta too, and as you told your mother, it’s not as if Philip will know the difference.”
“Maria!” I rolled my eyes. “She doesn’t know the first thing about these matters. She’ll try to soothe Philip with psalms and embroidery, and end up boring him to death.”
He chuckled. “Am I to understand you could harbor a secret affection for our fair archduke?”
“Bah. He means nothing to me.” I took my father’s hand in mine. “But for Spain, Papá, I will do it. For Spain, I will marry him.”
“Madrecita,” he murmured, and he kissed my lips. “You give me great pride this day.”
WHEN WE ENTERED THE SOLAR, my mother glanced up from her chair. Isabella and Maria sewed nearby; at their feet, Catalina dangled yarns over the batting paws of a calico kitten.
My mother said, “There you are. Did you have a nice walk? Come join us, Juana. Your father hasn’t had a chance to bathe or change his clothes yet. Let us leave him to his squire. We’ll dine together later in my rooms as a family, yes?”
I nodded and went to a chair. Picking up my embroidery hoop, I began to thread my needle when Isabella bent to me and hissed, “Well? Are you going to marry him or not?”
“Yes, I am,” I hissed back. “And I don’t want to hear another word about it till my wedding.”
FOUR
The bells of Valladolid clanged in unison, echoing into the brooding sky and ringing in my betrothal day. In my apartments in the casa real, I plucked at my white skirts, surrounded by ladies as I waited for my escort, the stalwart and handsome Don Fadriqué, admiral of Castile, who’d fought for my mother at her accession and been one of her most devoted supporters.
“I’m going to be late,” I said, rising from my chair.
Doña Francisca de Ayala, one of my matrons of honor scheduled to travel with me to Flanders, replied, “His Excellency the admiral will be here soon enough, although if Your Highness doesn’t sit still, the gown will be hopelessly wrinkled by then.”
I curbed my retort. This wasn’t a day to wield my temper. Today I was to be formally betrothed by proxy; joined by holy vows, at least on paper, to a man I had never met.
Philip was not here. My mother had informed me that a prince never fetched his bride, particularly as the royal wife—unless a sovereign queen—must live in her husband’s country. All the same, I didn’t like it. What kind of man did not attend his own betrothal ceremony?
I didn’t dwell on it, however. I wanted to get through the ceremony without mishap. Turning from Doña Francisca, I beckoned to the young auburn-haired woman sitting on the window seat. “Beatriz, would you come loosen my stays? I feel like a trussed hen.”
With a smile, Beatriz de Talavera came to me.
I’d taken to her the moment she was appointed to my service, the only one of my new attendants I felt any affinity toward. Younger than me by a year, Beatriz had a disposition that matched her lively looks, her dark eyes framed by curling lashes, her figure lithe and graceful. Born the niece of the Marquise de Moya, my mother’s intimate head lady, Beatriz posse
ssed all the requisite blood and skills of a royal lady-in-waiting, and a healthy wit most of these women lacked.
With nimble fingers, she loosened the stays. “Does that feel better, mi princesa?”
I leaned close. “It’s not as if that fat old Flemish my husband sent as his proxy will care either way. Unless one happens to be a barrel of beer, he seems most oblivious.”
Beatriz chuckled, turning me to the mirror. “Nevertheless, I vow the fat old Flemish has never seen a more beautiful bride.”
I hadn’t looked at myself yet, despite the hours others had spent primping and dressing me in my elaborate costume. Now I gazed in awe at my slim figure in its pearl-encrusted bodice, scalloped sleeves, and silver damask overskirt. About my throat I wore a large ruby given to me by my mother, one of the few jewels she hadn’t sold or pawned to finance her wars. Yards of silvery veiling drifted from my coif; within this excess, my face shone pale as bone. To denote my virginity, my hair tumbled to my shoulders, a recent wash of ash and henna coloring it sinfully red.
“Blessed saints,” I whispered. “I hardly recognize myself.”
“Neither will the Flemish. He’ll think the Virgin herself has descended from heaven.”
“Then maybe if he thinks I’m the Virgin, he’ll not make the same mistake our envoy did in Flanders during my brother’s proxy wedding.”
We giggled, recalling how the Spanish ambassador in Brussels had, during the symbolic laying of his bare leg over the archduchess Margaret, unfastened the wrong button of his hose and exposed himself to the Flemish court. The laughter helped ease my nerves, and I offered Doña Ana a smile when she bustled in moments later, plump as a partridge in her new velvets.
“His Excellency is coming down the corridor. Hurry, ladies, to your feet. Beatriz, cover the infanta’s face with her veil and join the others.”
Beatriz curtsied, though she couldn’t stop her giggle when she saw me wink.
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