Chapter Four

I sabella raised the lavish bouquet of orange blossom to her nose and drew in the familiar, citrusy scent. The delicate, white flowers symbolized her virginity and with that, her own personal, long-held belief that Charles would eventually pick her as his bride. She was grateful he had, and also that even though the wedding ceremony had had to be quieted, she hadn't had to compromise on her choice of floral decorations.

"It is time," John said, from the door to her bedchamber. "Your new husband awaits."

"And he will not be disappointed," John's wife, Queen Catherine, said, smoothing her hand over her swelling belly. "You have never looked more beautiful, dear sister. Don't you agree, husband?"

"I do." John set his hand protectively on the small of his wife's back. "A vision to behold. I pray our parents are looking down from heaven on this day."

"I am sure they are." Catherine touched John's cheek, an intimate, loving gesture that summed up their new but deep love for one another.

"I thank you." Isabella smiled. A confident, optimistic smile. The king and queen were proof that political matches could also be love matches. Also, since her confession the night before in the palace's private chapel, she'd experienced a new sense of calm. Her nerves had been soothed by the soft voice of the priest. He'd made her feel safe, heard, and justified to have waited patiently for Charles to come to her.

Which meant she'd slept well, risen early, and broken her fast with bread, eggs, and olives. And as the sun crept higher, she knew she was on her final moments of maidenhood.

"Here." Luisa fussed with Isabella's black, lace mantilla veil, straightening invisible creases. "It is time to cover your face."

"And pray to God the emperor likes what he sees when it is removed." Isabella stood still as the veil was drawn, giving her a gauzy view of the world. The veil matched her silk dress to perfection, the lace details continuing on the cuffs of the black sleeves and around the neckline.

"How could he not like what he sees? He is a lucky man." John held out his elbow. "Allow me to walk you to your imperial husband."

Hushed conversation murmured toward Isabella as she arrived at the entrance to the chapel. Her stomach fluttered with anticipation and she had to concentrate on steady, deep breaths.

"I am sorry it is not the fanfare we'd hoped for, you becoming an empress," John said. "Mourning has dulled the festival of the occasion, but hopefully, that will not shadow your joy."

"It will not, for it does not matter. The outcome is the same, whether or not there are crowds, trumpets, and straining tables of food. I will still be Charles's empress at the end of today."

"And for many days to come." John squeezed her hand. "Are you ready?"

"Yes." She swallowed tightly and clutched her bundle of flowers. "I am."

A harpist began to play.

Her brother walked her through the entrance she'd stepped into in near darkness the night before. Now it was light and when she looked at the small congregation, their faces were lit by the sun streaming through the rose window. But her attention didn't linger on the wedding guests, or the bishop, or the lavish floral decorations, it went straight to the man standing at the end of the aisle with his back to her.

He was tall and broad and his red, velvet cape held his great coat of arms—an elaborate crest showing a shield of flags signifying all of his lands, behind which soared a black eagle with two heads, the wings fanning out in great, feathery flicks. His boots were also black, as was the beret set upon his dark hair.

She concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, glad of the veil that gave her a sense of concealment from the curious eyes turning her way.

A step before she reached her groom, he turned to face her.

Her breath hitched and her stomach tightened. Her heart beat so fast, she wondered if it would fly right out of her chest.

Charles was indeed a handsome man. His features were strong and angular and his skin clear. His lips were tipped in a slight smile and his kind eyes studied her curiously.

Around his neck, he wore the heavy insignia of the Order of the Golden Fleece, and his cape was held in place with a heavy, golden buckle. He reached out his hand, signet rings on two of his fingers, and allowed John to place her small hand in his.

This first touch had her knees weakening, the moment suddenly so real…finally. After all of the years of waiting and hoping.

"Before God, and as king, I give you the hand of my sister Princess Isabella of Portugal," John said. "And I trust, that before God, you will promise to always treat her with respect and kindness."

"I will," Charles said, his attention still firmly on Isabella. "That is my promise before God and to you, King John of Portugal."

John stepped away.

Isabella took a deep breath and locked her knees, hoping she didn't look as though she were swaying. She gripped the stems of her flowers.

Charles tipped his head slightly, as though trying to see through the haze of the veil.

She sucked in a breath, composing herself. This was the face she would look at until her dying day. She knew that in her heart.

"Kings, queens, lords, ladies, noblemen, and councilors," the bishop said in a booming voice. "We are gathered here today in the house of the Lord Almighty to witness the marriage of Charles of the House of Habsburg, our most illustrious Holy Roman Emperor, to Princess Isabella of Portugal. Now, if you would all join me in a prayer of commitment and thanks…"

There was a shuffle to Isabella's right as people knelt or bowed their heads.

Charles continued to stare straight at her.

She blinked, emotion welling, and was glad of the long prayer the bishop read out as a chance to recover herself from the overwhelming moment.

When he'd finished a hymn was sung by a choir, the words all melting into one for Isabella.

"And now for the vows," the bishop said, turning the page of his small, red book. "Now if you could—"

"I know what to say," Charles said, his voice sure and steady. "Thank you, Bishop."

"Oh…well…of course." The bishop cleared his throat and closed his book.

"I, Charles, take you, Isabella, to be my empress, my wife, to be the mother of our children, to be the companion of my heart from this breath until my last. I promise to love you and to be true to you in good times and in bad and to cherish our time together on God's sweet Earth." He moved closer and took a hold of her veil. Then slowly, very slowly, he lifted it, revealing her face.

For a moment, she felt shy, naked, but then he smiled and a new softness filled his eyes.

"My beautiful bride," he said quietly, almost as if the congregation weren't there at all. "I promise to forsake all others, to know only you in my bed from this day forward."

She nodded slightly. How had he known that was such a worry for her?

"Do you believe me?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Good, because it is a truth." He pressed one hand to his chest, his fingers pressing the heavy, golden chain of his insignia against his cloak.

"Princess," the bishop said.

She nodded, and with a sure and steady voice, said, "I, Princess Isabella of Portugal, take you, Charles, Holy Roman Emperor, to be my husband, to be the father of our children, to be the companion of my heart from this breath until my last. I promise to love you and to be true to you in good times and in bad and to cherish our time together on God's sweet Earth."

Charles smiled, his lips curling easily, as though it was something he did often, and small creases darted from his eyes to his temples. He still had a boyish look despite his twenty-eight years.

"The rings." The bishop held his leatherbound book forward, two rings set upon it. He made the sign of the cross over them.

Isabella reached for the larger, golden one and placed it on Charles's right ring finger. "With this ring, I further pledge commitment to our unity."

He looked at it for a moment, fingers spread, as though unused to a jewel on that finger, then he reached for the other blessed ring.

He took her right hand in his and held the ring at the tip of her finger. "With this ring, I further pledge commitment to our unity."

Her stomach tightened as he slipped it on, hardly able to believe that she was finally his empress, his wife. And she could tell that his heart was kind. Despite his great power and vast lands, he was a good man with a moral compass steered by his faith.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife," the bishop said, his voice suddenly loud. "And I give you, dear flock"—he cast his arms wide—"the illustrious emperor and his celebrated empress."

There was sudden loud clapping and a few shouts of congratulations.

Isabella smiled, tension slipping from her shoulders and her heart swelling with joy.

Charles, seeming to utterly ignore the commotion, moved closer still and cupped her face in his big, warm hands. "We should get one thing straight between us," he said, his face so close, she could feel his breath. His gaze bored into hers with an intensity that heated her from the inside out.

"We should?" She felt consumed by him in that moment. He was all she saw.

"Yes…" he whispered against her lips. "I am already hopelessly, fervently, ridiculously in love with you."

And then he kissed her. A soft press of his warm lips as he held her face tenderly.

She dropped her flowers to the altar floor and clutched his shoulders, feeling, beneath the thick material of his cape, his solidity and strength.

He loved her.

Already.

It was more than she could have ever dared hope. For she knew in her heart, she loved him. She had always loved him. She'd been created to be his wife. She knew that in her soul. And now here they were, married, a lifetime of love and, God willing, children ahead of them.

He pulled back, his eyes flashing, pupils wide, and swept his tongue over his bottom lip, as though searching for any lingering taste of her. "We should receive our congratulations."

She nodded. Though what she really wanted was for him to kiss her again.

"And we should feast," he said, "though you should know that I will spend these daylight hours consumed by the anticipation of our first night together."

"You will?" The nerves she'd pushed away each time she'd thought of lying with Charles suddenly reared their head.

"Yes." Stooping, he reached for her bouquet. He brought it to his nose and breathed deep. "But do not fear, Isabella, for I will ensure your first time is as pleasurable for you as it is for me."

A strange tingle went down her spine, filling her with a new sense of need that weighed heavily in her abdomen. It wasn't unpleasant—in fact, she wanted to explore it more.

Dressed as Charles was in his finery, she couldn't imagine him naked, yet later, when the sun set she wouldn't have to imagine. She'd get to find out if the whispered morsels of bedchamber information about men were true.

"Here." Charles handed her the flowers. "Give me your hand, my love."

She took the bouquet and felt his hand wrap around hers.

He turned to their audience, who were still clapping and calling. He waved and stepped down from the altar.

Isabella went with him, smiling at her brother and his wife, at Luisa, and then some of the noblemen who had traveled from Lisbon for the ceremony.

She felt as though she were floating as she walked from the chapel, happiness filling every corner of her body and soul. As they entered the Gothic-style courtyard, a few courtiers threw rice at their feet, sending them good wishes for fertility.

"Thank you, thank you," Charles called jovially.

Three trumpeters on a balcony started to play. Flags holding the image of Charles's family crest hung from their instruments.

Charles waved up at them then turned to Isabella with a smile. "It is beautiful here in Seville, and had I not been in mourning, we would have spent the first moon of our marriage feasting and hosting and taking to the streets in carriages so the people could see their new empress, but I fear that is not going to be possible."

"I understand, and I am sorry for your loss."

He dipped his head, his eyelids heavy for a moment. "The loss of my sister is a sadness my whole family will have to bear."

"God rest her soul."

He pulled in a deep breath. "So I have decided, we will go to Granada."

"Granada?"

"Yes, to the Palace of Alhambra. It is the only place I can think of that will be beautiful enough for my beautiful bride."

"I thank you for the compliment."

"It is not a compliment—it is a truth." He ran the back of his index finger around her jawline, slowly, delicately.

Her breath caught and her nipples tingled. She was his to touch, and already, he appeared to like touching her.

"I have spent many nights wondering about you, Isabella," he said quietly, "imagining you in my dreams, but now…now I know I would never have been able to dream up such beauty, such regal-ness, for you are truly exquisite, and I have to confess…" He frowned.

"Go on."

"I have to confess that I know now how remiss I was in not marrying you sooner. I hope you will forgive me for my delays and dallying and that you will let me make it up to you."

"There is nothing to make up for. We stand here, on this day, as man and wife, do we not?"

"Yes." He stepped closer and rested his hands on her waist. "But my empress deserves the best of everything I can give. And when we reach the palace in Granada I will ensure we are free to be together, solely and undisturbed." His smile dropped for a split second but then was back. "And I will pray to God that you will find a piece of your heart with which to love me, even just a little."