Chapter Fifteen

I sabella lifted the hem of her dress and ran from the dark room. A scream grew in the depths of her chest as she took the stairs. Her heart bled, her skin burned, and her stomach threatened to bring up her breakfast.

"Isabella!" Dona called after her.

She kept on running, agony infusing her blood. She wanted what had just happened to be reframed. To be undone. To be taken back.

Her poor baby.

"Please, wait…" Dona's footfalls. "I beg you."

But it was as though the devil himself were carrying her and she gained speed, rushing down a corridor, then taking a doorway out onto the rooftop terrace.

Still, the scream grew. A feral pain that was a fist inside of her. It would never go. She'd never be rid of it.

The sun beat down on her face, but she didn't feel its heat. The air was filled with the soft sent of flowers, but she didn't notice. She ran to the rampart wall and leaned over it.

At that point, her scream could no longer be contained. It poured from her. Guttural torment. A misery that now lived with in her. No amount of screaming could get the suffering of grief from her system, but on and on she screamed. Eyes screwed up tightly, fingernails clawing the stone work. Tears pouring down her cheeks.

"Your Majesty, please." Dona's voice. "Please, I beg you, come inside." She wrapped her arms around Isabella, but Isabella shook her off.

The screaming continued, tearing at her throat. Deafening her. Never again would she nurse her baby, Ferdinand. He'd been taken to heaven before his time. His innocent little body lifeless at dawn.

"Empress…please…I beg you." Dona was crying too. Isabella could hear it, but she didn't care. She didn't care about anything at that moment other than trying to rid her soul of the python of distress that coiled around her.

Eventually, she became breathless. Tears dripped from her chin and her body shook. She slumped to the floor, curling into a ball and shaking.

"Your Majesty." Dona dropped next to her and stroked her hair. "What can I do to help?"

There was nothing anyone could do to help. She must bear this alone.

Charles. She needed Charles more than she'd ever needed him.

"Oh, please…please…" Dona said. "You mustn't distress yourself so."

If Isabella had had the energy, she'd have admonished Dona. As if she had any control over her distress. It was alive within her. A palpable, evil being.

More footfalls. "I just heard." Alvaro's voice. "Oh, Your Majesty…"

He was next to her too, his hand on her back. "I am so sorry. So very sorry that you must bear this pain. This awful pain in your soul."

She sniffed and dashed at tears, tried and failed to hold in a gulping sob.

"Your little boy is with God now," he went on, rubbing a circle on her shoulder. "He is at peace with Our Father."

Silent tears fell now, dampening her cheeks. She was locked in her dark, torturous world. A curled up ball of pain. If she never moved again, that would suit her. If she died and went to her son, that would also suit her.

"Come, Your Majesty, let us get you to your bedchamber," Dona said, trying to dab Isabella's cheeks with a kerchief. "Your grief should be a private affair."

"I do not care…" Isabella wailed. "Who sees my grief." She raised her head. "The whole of Spain will mourn with me. The loss of their little prince is a tragedy of national import."

"Yes, yes, it is." Dona nodded, her eyes red-rimmed.

"We will make the death announcement," Alvaro said. "An official three days of mourning will follow."

"It is the least he deserves." Isabella sat onto her knees and hugged herself tightly. If she didn't, she was in danger of falling apart.

"He deserved the world," Alvaro said. "And everything in it."

"And now it will never be his." She looked at Alvaro's kind face. He was clearly distraught and much paler than usual. "How can I bear this without Charles at my side?"

"Let me help you," he said softly and he held out his hand. "Let us, your closest and most loyal friends, help you, Your Majesty."

"Friends," she repeated. Her mind was fogged with grief, as though thoughts about anything other than her loss couldn't quite form. "I have lost him, my baby."

"I know." Alvaro nodded and his mouth downturned. "I know. Now come, let us get inside." He took her hand then helped her, along with Dona, to stand.

She allowed it. Her knees were weak and she was suddenly exhausted. The thought of bed appealed, to be in darkness, to cry until she could cry no more and unconsciousness stole her away.

Perhaps she would wake and it would all be a bad dream. Maybe Charles would be sitting on the end of her bed when a new dawn arrived.

They led her indoors. She stared down at her dusty, creased gown, her vision blurred and her eyes stinging.

The cool darkness of her bedchamber was a relief for a split second, then the agony came back over her in a huge wave. Her arms ached to hold her child. Her breasts ached to feed him.

"Come. Come." Dona helped her lie down then gently covered her in a blanket.

Alvaro removed his hat then sat on the bed and took her hand in his. A bold move for a man who was not her husband, but she had other things to worry about.

"What can I do to help?" he asked.

"There is nothing?" Dona said. "Nothing we can do."

"Dona," Alvaro said. "Get Her Majesty some wine, fortified, a good strong one from Jerez."

"Yes, good idea." Dona quickly rushed to the door and called instructions to a servant.

Isabella stared straight ahead at the unlit fire. Tears still rolled down her cheeks, but she'd given up swiping them away.

"I will prepare a statement and have it pinned to the gates of the palace," Alvaro said gently. "With your permission."

"Yes. You have it." She nodded.

"And send message to the bishop that a funeral must be planned."

A sob choked her.

"Oh, Your Majesty, my beautiful empress, I am so sorry. So very sorry."

She gulped. "I need you to do one more thing, Alvaro."

"Anything. Anything on God's good Earth that I can do or give to you, I will. You know that is my promise to you."

"Yes, Alvaro, I know." She squeezed his warm hand. "I need you to write to Charles for me." She paused as her heart squeezed. "He needs to know he has lost the son he never met."

Alvaro lowered his head, his eyes closed. "I will write him, though every word, every letter, will pain me."

"I thank you for taking on the burden, one that I could not bear at this time."

"I will carry whatever weight I can for you." He kissed the large, ruby ring on her finger. "Most beloved empress."

*

The years passed by. Isabella bottled up her grief as though it were a scream trapped in a jar. Always present but hidden from the outside world. She had two other beautiful children to whom to tend and to educate. Her heart swelled with love at their joy when they discovered simple pleasures in the palace gardens. Philip and Maria were a balm to her grief.

Charles's aunt, the archduchess, had passed on soon after little Ferdinand. Isabella was busy with council and court. Being at the helm meant many decisions had to be made. Seasons came and went, as did Christmas and Easter celebrations, which the children enjoyed, though she always felt hollow—there were too many loved ones missing.

Her nights were long and lonely. Cold, too, during the dark winter months.

And despite her writing to Charles often, his replies were sporadic and infrequent—something which irritated Isabella more than it should have and she was repentant about this often at confession.

She thought of his most recent letter. After reading it one hundred times, the words were etched in her brain.

Most beloved wife, Isabella,

I pick up this quill with a heavy heart that misses you so. If I could mount the fastest steed in the stables and gallop to you, I would this day. But the Turkish menace has increased so much that I have even considered coming to an agreement with the Lutherans in order to prevent worse disaster.

Suleiman and his troops have once again marched east from Istanbul. I am planning a great expedition against the sultan to fulfill my role as Holy Roman Emperor and Master of the Order of the Golden Fleece. I have honor to uphold as leader of Christendom and I have decided that if the Turk comes in person, which he can only do at the head of a great force, I will go forth with all the forces I can find to resist him.

I am planning on assembling an army headed by my best commanders at Regensburg, with troops summoned from Germany, the Low Countries, and Italy, then I will navigate down the Danube to meet the enemy head on.

Please pray for me, and the brave Christian soldiers who fight for our reputation and our God, my love. When this is over I will be at your side again. You will be in my arms again. And we will love and laugh and be at peace the way we were in Granada all of those years ago.

May God protect you and our children on Earth and in heaven.

My emperor's heart, body, and soul is yours.

Charles

When would Charles return to Spain?

Impatience clawed at her. Irritation needled her. Frustration itched.

There had been word from other sources that there had been a great gun battle at Koszeg before her husband had even gotten that far west. It had damaged the sultan's army so much, he'd retreated, his show of aggression and parade of strength not achieving anything for him.

Surely, after all of this time, Charles would see he was needed here. There was nothing for him to do in Vienna now.

"Your Majesty, have you made a decision?"

"I beg your pardon?" She looked up at the five councilors who sat around the long, polished table.

"About raising taxes to fund defenses in Granada."

She brought her mind back to the matter at hand. "It depends how real we think the Ottoman threat from the sea is." She looked at Alvaro. "Have we had further news?"

"There have been no reported sightings of Turkish galleys in the area, but we must remember they can build them quickly and sail as fast as the wind."

"The stories of Turkish plundering around the Mediterranean have spread throughout my kingdom." She tapped her fingers on the table. "I believe the people will be willing to fund these defenses to stop it from happening here. Or at least, hope that we can stop it from happening here." What would Charles have done? That was a question she often asked herself. But she had to answer the question herself because Charles had left her as regent. She had the final say on all such matters.

"Your Majesty?" Alvaro pressed.

A knot had formed in her right shoulder, a darting pain that made her wince as she tried to get it more comfortable.

"What is it?" Alvaro asked worriedly.

"A pain. Tension, I presume." She cupped her hand over her left shoulder and rubbed.

"Allow me?" Alvaro reached toward her, closing the gap between them.

"No!" she snapped. She held his eye contact until he looked away. "That will not be necessary." Alvaro had to be careful. He could be too familiar at times. The last thing she needed was gossip.

A silence extended. And then some more.

"Your Majesty, the taxes," one of the councilors said eventually.

The expectant expressions around the table helped her concentrate. After a moment, she nodded. "Yes, let us raise the tax. We will also print pamphlets explaining why we need to do this. I will sign it myself as the people's queen and empress. This will show them of my promise and my duty to protect our lands." She balled her fists. "We will not be at the mercy of the Turks."

"Very good, Your Majesty," Alvaro said. "Your people are lucky to have you."

"I thank you." She stood and brushed the creases from the front of her gown. Glancing out of the window, she saw a figure riding into the courtyard. Dressed in a black cloak, hood up, he was followed by several knights in full body armor.

Her heart skipped.

Could it be?

Was it?

She rushed to the window, pressed her palms onto it, and stared out, unblinking.

The figure drew to a halt on the cobblestones. The horse threw up its head and whinnied, its lustrous, raven mane shimmering in the sunlight.

"Charles?" she whispered.

Alvaro was at her side, gripping the windowsill. "Is it he?"

She didn't need to answer because the figure dropped his hood and looked directly up at her.

Her heart stuttered. Her breath caught.

Finally.

"Oh, thank the Lord." She kissed the cross that sat around her neck. "The emperor has returned to us."

The councilors rushed to the window in a scrape of chair legs and banging footfalls.

Isabella felt as though she'd been nailed to the spot. But even though she was perfectly still, a rush of emotions raced through her. Had he not thought to tell her of his intentions to return? She could have prepared herself for him. Been ready in every way.

But then her body took flight. Almost of its own volition. She gathered her gown and rushed from the room. She took the steps much faster than she should, careening past servants setting a table for luncheon, and then ran out into the courtyard.

He was off his horse, his cloak over the arm of a stablehand who now held his horse's reins. He was as tall and broad as ever, though more tanned, likely from days in the saddle. His boots were dusty, as were his black breeches and his brown leather belt held a sheathed sword and a bone-handled dagger.

He spun toward her. His eyes widened and he stepped forward, arms outstretched. "My love!"

The sound of his deep, husked voice had a sob springing from her throat and she threw herself at him.

The embrace that caught her was tight and desperate. He pulled her close, their bodies aligning. A low groan rumbled from his chest as his mouth captured hers. It was a passionate, desperate kiss that reminded her of all the times they'd been together sweating, naked, finding pleasure.

She moaned softly and filled her fingers with his hair, pulling him nearer—all thoughts of the knights, councilors, and courtiers around her evaporating. Finally, with him at her side, she'd be able to breathe, to sleep, to live again.

He broke the kiss and pulled back, holding her face in his palms. "I am so happy to be here." He smiled.

"And I am happy that you're here." She gazed into his eyes. "But why didn't you send word that you were coming?"

"I wanted to arrive incognito. I wanted no fanfare from the city."

"But…but I'm your wife. You should have told me." She frowned and remembered all the times she'd watched the entrance to the palace, wishing for an envoy to arrive with a letter from Charles. "You should have told me so much more than you did. You barely wrote to me and it's been many years."

"I am sorry." He raised his eyebrows. "If that bothered you."

" Bothered me!" She pushed at him and stepped away from his embrace. "Yes, it bothered me. Considerably. I am empress, queen, and your wife. You should have written often, the way I did to you." She stabbed her thumb against her chest. "You made me feel forgotten, forgotten by you, my husband."

"Forgotten?" He frowned and shook his head. "How could I forget you, Isabella? You are the love of my life. The mother of my children and—"

"Yes, the mother of your children. Children who barely know you." A vat of bottled-up grief bubbled inside of her. "And when our child died, where were you? You didn't come even then to my side."

"Isabella, please." He held out his palms. "If I could have—"

"You are Holy Roman Emperor—you can do whatever you want." Her voice raised, she waggled her index finger at him. "So do not tell me you could not have come to me. Could not have grieved with me. Do not tell me that because I do not believe it."

"I wept." He touched the cross at his neck. "I wept and I sent prayers to God to look after our little Ferdinand."

"That is not enough." She tipped her chin, battling to hold back tears. "Your distant sorrow and your prayers were not enough." She set her lips in a tight line then spun, once again gathering the hem of her gown. "Nowhere near enough." She stomped back over the courtyard, her vision blurring as her eyes misted.

"Isabella!" Charles called. "Wait."

But she didn't. It wasn't that she wasn't pleased he was home safe after what must have been a long and arduous journey—she was—but that didn't mean she couldn't still be angry with him.

His lack of communication had been hurtful and frustrating. So many times she'd had to make important decisions in his absence. Not that she couldn't make them—it just would have been nice to have had his council the way he so often asked for hers.

"Your Majesty, would you like a—?" a servant asked.

"No." She waved away a bowl of stuffed figs. "Is there cold wine in my chambers?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. Of course, Your Majesty."

"Good." She stamped up the staircase, her anger a blustering frenzy. Charles called her name again, but she kept on going.

She reached her room, burst in, and threw the bolt.