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!
