Chapter Three

"A rchduke, you will be pleased to know the treaty is signed," Charles said, striding into the library and addressing Ferdinand. "Finally, my deepest wish for peace may be about to become a truth now that I have Francis, the aggressor, tied up with words and no longer able to wage his wars."

"He is not just captured with words," Ferdinand said, picking at a bowl of shiny, black olives and stabbing the toe of his boot into the air as he sat beside the fire. "You, brother, also have the King of France behind bars." He raised one eyebrow.

"But that is a problem." Charles poured wine. " He is a problem. Now that I have succeeded in humiliating him, I do not want to let him loose."

"Because you cannot trust him."

"No further than I could trust a scorpion set beneath my bed covers."

"And you have poked the scorpion by not allowing him to pay for his release."

"A cash ransom would never have worked. It had to be a deal of territory and…" Charles huffed. "And I know he'll continue to sack Italy if I release him." He glugged some wine. "Italy is now leaderless, lawless, crushed, despoiled, torn, overrun—"

"A situation you, as emperor, can rectify. Especially now that you have Pope Clement on your side."

"That is my hope." Charles walked to the window of the darkly paneled room and stared out at the Spanish skyline. The sun was setting, sending pink and lilac shards streaking over the horizon. "And having Eleanor marry King Francis is part of that plan. He has agreed to it. There was some resistance, but he knew that was futile."

"It is true, having our elder sister in French court, as queen, no less, will be a great advantage." Ferdinand nodded slowly.

"But will she be enough to ensure he abides by the treaty when I release him?"

"Perhaps that is a risk you must take." Ferdinand threw an olive into the air and caught it in his mouth.

"I am not partial to risk."

"I know that, but Eleanor is loyal to you. She will do her best."

"That is true."

"As am I." Ferdinand stood. "Loyal to you."

"And for that, I am grateful each and every day, brother." Charles paused and turned to him. "But I am sure you'll agree it is time for you to return to Flanders. I need you there taking council with Aunt Margaret. She is not getting any younger."

"I wish to go. My wife awaits." Ferdinand raised his eyebrows. "And I have royal duties of my own—do not forget that. Vienna is calling. Soon, we will relocate there."

"Of course." Charles turned. "And I have lingered here negotiating with King Francis and Louise of Savoy for too long."

"His mother has been an astute regent."

"As some mothers are."

Ferdinand nodded a little sadly. "True."

"Have you been to see our mother of late?" Charles asked.

"No." Ferdinand shook his head. "But I intend to before I leave."

"You should. She looks in fine health, physically at least, but we have no knowledge of God's plans for her."

"I will visit."

Charles squeezed his shoulder. "You are a good brother. I am glad that we know each other well in adulthood, if not in childhood."

Ferdinand stared at him, his eyes searching. "You know it still greatly unsettles the people of Castile that you have no wife…no heir. Perhaps…" He paused. "Before I leave, it is time to…"

"It is time for what, Ferdinand?"

"For you to name a successor."

"I fully intend to sire legitimate sons." Charles felt his jaw tighten. He knew that Ferdinand was pushing for himself to be that namesake.

"But until then, you need someone who can take over immediately should the worst befall you."

"It is treason to talk of the death of your emperor." There was a warning spike in Charles's voice.

Ferdinand squeezed his shoulder again as though trying to soften that spike. "Perhaps when we first met and I thought you arrogant and pompous as you stood there smugly holding your new Nuremberg musket, my words could have been considered snide, but now, now I speak only common sense, something our grandfather Maximilian was well known for. We should continue that good sense for the sake of our bloodline."

A familiar twist coiled in Charles's stomach. How could he argue? It was true. He needed heirs. He needed them soon. "I have a plan."

"You do?"

"Yes, I am marrying Isabella of Portugal. It is a good match both politically and financially." He tipped his chin. "Word has already been sent. Papal dispensation acquired. God willing, I will have a son within the year."

Ferdinand didn't hide his surprise. "I will pray for your son's speedy arrival into this world. And you will have pleased the Cortes of Castile greatly with this decision to marry within the Iberian Peninsular. It does indeed free me to leave Spain, much as I love the place of my birth." He hesitated. "But the King of England? Was he angered by the dissolution of your engagement to his daughter?"

"Of course Henry was angry." Charles waved his hand flippantly. "But what do I care? It was his own foolishness that's caused his distress. Did he really believe that I'd wait for so many years for a child to grow into a woman? No…she is not the one for me and I have heard…" He paused and closed his eyes. "I have heard…"

"What? What have you heard?"

"Eleanor told me that Princess Isabella is very beautiful, that her skin is as smooth and delicate as porcelain and her hair kissed by the colors of sunset. That her eyes brim with intelligence and that she is versed in many things." He opened his eyes and smiled. "In all honesty, I am eager to meet this bride of mine."

"And when will you wed?"

"I am journeying to Seville within days. We will have a big ceremony and much feasting. I will show her how luxuriously she will live as my empress. She will want for nothing in return for her service to the faithful people of Christendom."

"I hope you find her to be everything you dream of." Ferdinand smiled. "I really do."

A courtier appeared holding a silver tray. Upon it was a scroll.

"Where is it from?" Charles asked, reaching for it.

"An envoy from Flanders."

"Flanders?" Ferdinand looked at Charles. "I hope it is not ill news of our Aunt Margaret."

Charles tensed. His aunt had been like a mother to him, a constant and loving support. He opened the seal and quickly unfurled it. He read the few lines quickly, his mouth drying. "Here." He passed it to Ferdinand.

Ferdinand read it. "Oh, no, our poor, poor sister. Poor, sweet Bella. She was so young."

"Too young. And her children…what sadness for them."

"They are now in Margaret's care. I thank the Lord for that."

Charles was quiet as he stood with his hands on his hips, staring at a tapestry of a falcon on the hunt over the palace of Granada.

"Our sister died a true Catholic," Ferdinand said. "Margaret says so here."

"I will ask for the strength to believe that," Charles said. "Though Bella's interest in Luther's teachings are etched upon my memory." He sighed. "Perhaps I should not have ordered her so far away."

"You have a large empire—there was nowhere close by." Ferdinand paused. "But you do realize what this means."

"Yes." He sighed sadly. "We are in mourning."

"Many weeks of mourning. It would not look good to have a grand wedding while our sister's body is still warm."

"I agree." Charles reached for the scroll and threw it into the fire, watching the flames curl the edges then ash claim the writing. "But I cannot keep Isabella waiting much longer to be my bride. I have been remiss enough."

"What are you saying?"

"The wedding will be a small, private affair and we will retreat to be alone, somewhere away from prying eyes, but it will still be beautiful and befitting of an emperor and his new empress." He racked his brains. "I will think of the perfect place before the day is out."

"I am sure you will." Ferdinand stood at his side. "And I hope that you find love with Isabella, as well as gaining sons and a rich dowry."

"You have found love?" Charles peered closely at his brother.

"With Anna, yes. She is gentle and patient and the only woman I could and would ever want." He pressed his hand over his chest. "I love her very much."

Charles studied his brother's wistful expression, heard the gentle tone of his voice, and for the first time, he hoped that his heart would also be filled with love when he saw his bride, Isabella.

*

Charles stood at the entrance to the small, private chapel at the Royal Palace of Alcázar. Dusk had settled early over Seville and with it came a winter chill that cooled his cheeks. He glanced upward. The moon was a lean crescent hanging in the east.

Tomorrow, he would marry and he hoped the delicate new moon was a good omen for his fortunes. He also hoped his new bride would be as captivating as his sister had described her to be.

He stepped into the dimly lit foyer and again paused as his eyes adjusted to the candlelight.

He'd asked the clergy to make themselves scarce for his private evening worship and they'd done as instructed, leaving incense burning amongst the huge urns of frothy, white orange blossom that had been arranged ready for the marriage ceremony.

He walked along the aisle, his footfalls dull thuds on the woven carpet. When he reached the altar he bowed his head before the image of Christ and paused.

He waited.

And waited some more.

The usual sense of calm he found in church didn't come over him. Still, his heart pounded. He was full of thoughts of tomorrow, his limbs fidgeted, and his stomach was a tight knot. A thousand questions for the Holy Father about his bride sprang into his mind. These thoughts scrubbed away all of his worries about Francis, his funding of wars and armies, anxieties about his mother and siblings. All that was in his mind was Isabella of Portugal and how their first meeting would be.

The entrance door creaked.

A small gust of wind.

A footstep.

For a brief moment, irritation needled at him. He'd asked for solitude. But then he saw that it was a woman who had entered the chapel. Her small, cloaked silhouette paused, as he'd done, no doubt to let her eyes adjust to the buttery candlelight.

Barely thinking of the reason why, he ducked into a confession box to his right, the middle booth, and closed the door. He swallowed tightly and stared straight ahead.

He'd heard that Isabella and her cortege had arrived at the palace only the day before. And being a religious woman, with a strict and pious upbringing, it was no surprise she'd entered God's house the evening before her marriage.

And it was her. He knew it in his bones, in his blood, in every sinew. How, he could not explain. This was Isabella. His bride.

His breaths were shallow as her soft footfalls came closer. He hoped to hear her voice or catch the scent of her perfume—anything to know something more of her before they stood with the bishop and exchanged vows.

Would God give him that blessing?

And then one of the penitent's doors to the confession box opened. The rustle of material filled his ears and he was besieged now not just with the perfume of incense and orange blossom, but also with lavender.

His heart did a strange skip, then a beat to catch up. He clasped his hands in his lap, unused to the nerves that were running amok through his body.

"Bless me, for I am sorry for these and all my sins, Father."

He held in a gasp at the sound of her voice. Clearly, she thought him a priest awaiting her confession.

"It has been one week since my last confession," she said, her whispered voice sincere and sweet.

Charles closed his eyes and blew out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. "Go on," he managed.

"I have been traveling from my home in Portugal, the road long and dusty, but now I am here to marry the only man I vowed I would ever lie with at night and stand beside during the day."

"The only man?"

"Yes, the Holy Roman Emperor, Archduke of Austria, King of Spain." She paused. "Charles." Another pause, though the moment seemed to swell with the last word she'd uttered. His name.

"If it were not his hand being offered," she went on, "I would be entering the convent to devote my life to God. The emperor is the only mortal to whom I will ever betroth myself."

"And why is that?" Charles hardly dared hear her answer.

And she kept him waiting for several long moments before she did. "Because he is my destiny and I have saved myself entirely for him. I will be his wife, his lover, the mother of his children and on top of that, his empress."

"And are you ready for such a commitment?"

"Yes." No hesitation this time. "I am well educated and of an astute nature. I see the things that happen around me. The only thing I ask myself, and I pray for God's forgiveness, is…"

"You must say." Charles turned to his left, toward the latticed screen, and could just make out her profile through the shadows. She stared straight ahead, hands steepled as if in prayer, her fingertips touching her chin. "Tell me your sins," he whispered.

"My sin is that I wonder if he is ready for such a woman as I."

Charles nearly laughed at her words but managed to keep the sound locked inside. "A sin indeed to think… presume … such a thing of an emperor."

"Yes. I know, Father." She turned to face him.

Quickly, he looked away and adjusted his hood to ensure it was pulled up snugly.

"I have heard of his kind nature," Isabella said, "and ambitions for power. Of his quarrels with King Francis and his success in battles. But his empire is so vast and I fear he is not decisive enough to control his territories, especially with threats from the Ottomans."

"It is true, he is kind natured and ambitious—"

"You know him, Father?"

Charles cleared his throat. " Of him, my child. I know of him."

"Then tell me, can he summon respect for a woman who has the love and command of her people? Will he be threatened by my ability to hold council, make decisions, study facts with a curious mind?"

Charles closed his eyes and pulled in a deep breath. In that moment, he knew that he had made the right choice. Isabella, if she spoke the truth, would be someone upon whom he could depend and with whom he could leave great responsibility when he went to Rome. But one thing bothered him. "You said you fear he is not decisive enough to control his territories. Why do you think that?"

"Because it has taken him so many years to go forward with his proposal of marriage to me, his head and his heart, so it seems, flitting to other potential wives and taking many to his bed to indulge in pleasures of the flesh and—"

"That is over," Charles said, defensive and harsher than he'd intended. That was in the past and she'd have to know this. "The emperor is here, in Seville, and will marry you tomorrow. There will be no more talk of his indecision or doubts of his fidelity."

"No more talk of it?"

"No." Charles closed his eyes and blew out a breath. He took hold of the cross at his neck. "There will be no more talk of it because the emperor will, before you, before God, before many witnesses, take you, Isabella of Portugal, as his one and only love. He will honor you with body and soul and heart until the day he dies." He paused. "His loyal devotion will be greater than you can have ever imagined."

"Father…I…but how do you—?"

"The emperor knows that you will make a faithful and wise empress and will return that commitment."

"I will. Oh, I will. I will promise never to doubt him and to always be loyal and loving and…" Her words trailed off, as though she were battling to control her emotions.

Charles looked at her again, this time letting his gaze linger as he took in her small, straight nose that was perhaps a little snubbed at the end, the shape of her full lips and the thick curls of hair that lay over her shoulders. The urge to show himself, to open the door and know every detail of her face, was almost overwhelming, but he controlled his impulse.

And as much as his heart was thudding, a sense of calm washed over him. His bride was immaculate, beautiful and intelligent. He had indeed been blessed.

"Oh, mighty Lord, I am sorry for these and all my sins," she whispered, kissing a rosary. "Our savior, Jesus Christ, suffered and died for us. In His name, our Lord have mercy."

"May our Lord and God, Jesus Christ, through the grace and mercies of His love for humankind, forgive you all your transgressions." Charles clenched his fists, knowing at some point he'd have to confess his sin of pretending to be a priest, or would he? He was Holy Roman Emperor, after all. Wasn't he, surely, above everyone, allowed to take a confession?

"But, Father…what is my penance?" She turned to the delicate latticework.

Quickly, he looked away. "You have acted contrite," he managed. "And repented." He paused. "I suggest two Hail Mary s and when you meet your new husband you look upon him without judgment for his past and only with faith in your future together."

"You are very wise, Father. I thank you and bid you goodnight." She gently set the palm of her hand against the lattice with her small fingers spread.

He covered it with his own, the need to be near to her, touch her, as acute as needing to breathe.

Suddenly, she withdrew, then stood and his heart squeezed as he dropped his hand back to his lap.

He didn't want her to leave. Sitting in the darkness, listening to her soft voice, had been magical, spiritual. A moment he'd never forget.

But it was over and she'd left the confession box, her presence seeming to take with it the warmth that had surrounded him.

He waited a moment then stood and opened the door. He was just in time to see her sweeping gracefully from the chapel, her cloak flowing and her hair streaming behind her.

Charles pressed his hand over his heart. It was fuller than it had ever been. As though the dark void that had been there was suddenly brimming with warmth, light, and hope.

His wedding day could not come soon enough. For now that he had met her, he knew he would not be complete until he held Isabella of Portugal in his arms.