Falling Pomegranate Seeds: The Duty of Daughters (The Katherine of Aragon Story Book 1) by Wendy J. Dunn
Authors: Wendy J. Dunn
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Maria asked, gazing back at the slow dance of the king and queen and around the chamber blazing with candlelight. Music throbbed and soared, and then plummeted to speak to all hearts.
“I hate it...”
Bewildered, Maria looked at Catalina, and then up at Beatriz. “Hate?”
“What do you hate, child?” Beatriz asked the infanta.
Catalina knotted her hands together. “My sister is leaving.”
Gazing back at Princess Isabel now talking animatedly to Cardinal Mendoza, Beatriz tried to think of words of comfort. Nothing came to mind.
···
Beatriz stood a short distance behind Catalina on the royal dais near the high altar. In the cathedral of Sevilla, a thousand and more lit-candles, reflected by mirror, gold and silver, mimicked the brightness of day. The smell of incense was heady and sickly sweet, making her head spin and ache, adding to her depression. Called back to battle, Francisco had left that very morning. Beatriz hoped it would not be long before the king followed after, or that it was true that the king had found himself a new leman. She had never been that. She was but the bitch he kicked in passing.
Below, her hand atop the king’s, Princess Isabel walked down the aisle of the cathedral to Alfonso’s proxy. Isabel, pale and petite like her three sisters, was so beautiful she could have been a figure painted in an illuminated book. Beatriz had never known her other than as an adult, but today, on her wedding day, the stillness of Isabel’s face made her appear utterly young, and vulnerable. Thank God she possesses her mother’s strong mettle. The girl will need it.
With her head held high and eyes fixed straight ahead, Isabel displayed every iota of her usual pride as she paced towards the taking of her vows. The measured steps of Isabel and her father seemed a strange dance timed to the slow chanting of monks.
Isabel’s slender form gave her the illusion of height, an illusion aided by high chopines. With every step she took, gold-patterned heels peeped out from under her gold-cloth gown. Each short, determined, cautious step bespoke constraints, constraints her position placed upon her. Even if she wanted to run away, her chopines forbade it as surely as if she wore fetters, fetters no one saw, but securely locked upon all the daughters of the queen. Beatriz sighed. Fetters placed too well on all women. But for the daughters of the queen the fetters were merciless.
Isabel stepped closer to Alfonso’s proxy, and closer to her heart’s desire. This marriage was one she never dared to voice and hope for. Taking her place next to the prince’s proxy, Isabel, her face solemn, knelt for the cardinal’s blessing.
The Princess Isabel now utterly and indissolubly joined to Alfonso in marriage, the weeks of celebrations arrived at an end. Another week passed and the queen and king and their two courts accompanied their eldest daughter to the border of Portugal and Castilla. Following closely behind Catalina and the rest of the royal family, Beatriz rode her mule to crest the last hill of their journey. Spread out far and wide on the green, lush valley below shimmered the colourful pageant of the richly dressed courtiers of Portugal. Mounted on horses, the king and prince were far more richly dressed than the superbly garbed men and women of their court.
Prince Alfonso leaned forward, eyes scanning the approaching company. The wind blew his long blond hair around his tanned face. He smiled – a smile of joy blazing out across the distance. The seventeen-year-old prince forgot royal protocol. With a loud cry he heeled his horse into a gallop, heading towards the mantle-covered, slender girl riding down the hill.
Reaching level ground, Isabel halted her mount. She bent low, patted the mule’s neck and murmured soft words, all the time watching her prince ride to her. Coming close, he vaulted from his horse and ran the short distance separating them. A gentle wind lifted Isabel’s thin veil and
“I hate it...”
Bewildered, Maria looked at Catalina, and then up at Beatriz. “Hate?”
“What do you hate, child?” Beatriz asked the infanta.
Catalina knotted her hands together. “My sister is leaving.”
Gazing back at Princess Isabel now talking animatedly to Cardinal Mendoza, Beatriz tried to think of words of comfort. Nothing came to mind.
···
Beatriz stood a short distance behind Catalina on the royal dais near the high altar. In the cathedral of Sevilla, a thousand and more lit-candles, reflected by mirror, gold and silver, mimicked the brightness of day. The smell of incense was heady and sickly sweet, making her head spin and ache, adding to her depression. Called back to battle, Francisco had left that very morning. Beatriz hoped it would not be long before the king followed after, or that it was true that the king had found himself a new leman. She had never been that. She was but the bitch he kicked in passing.
Below, her hand atop the king’s, Princess Isabel walked down the aisle of the cathedral to Alfonso’s proxy. Isabel, pale and petite like her three sisters, was so beautiful she could have been a figure painted in an illuminated book. Beatriz had never known her other than as an adult, but today, on her wedding day, the stillness of Isabel’s face made her appear utterly young, and vulnerable. Thank God she possesses her mother’s strong mettle. The girl will need it.
With her head held high and eyes fixed straight ahead, Isabel displayed every iota of her usual pride as she paced towards the taking of her vows. The measured steps of Isabel and her father seemed a strange dance timed to the slow chanting of monks.
Isabel’s slender form gave her the illusion of height, an illusion aided by high chopines. With every step she took, gold-patterned heels peeped out from under her gold-cloth gown. Each short, determined, cautious step bespoke constraints, constraints her position placed upon her. Even if she wanted to run away, her chopines forbade it as surely as if she wore fetters, fetters no one saw, but securely locked upon all the daughters of the queen. Beatriz sighed. Fetters placed too well on all women. But for the daughters of the queen the fetters were merciless.
Isabel stepped closer to Alfonso’s proxy, and closer to her heart’s desire. This marriage was one she never dared to voice and hope for. Taking her place next to the prince’s proxy, Isabel, her face solemn, knelt for the cardinal’s blessing.
The Princess Isabel now utterly and indissolubly joined to Alfonso in marriage, the weeks of celebrations arrived at an end. Another week passed and the queen and king and their two courts accompanied their eldest daughter to the border of Portugal and Castilla. Following closely behind Catalina and the rest of the royal family, Beatriz rode her mule to crest the last hill of their journey. Spread out far and wide on the green, lush valley below shimmered the colourful pageant of the richly dressed courtiers of Portugal. Mounted on horses, the king and prince were far more richly dressed than the superbly garbed men and women of their court.
Prince Alfonso leaned forward, eyes scanning the approaching company. The wind blew his long blond hair around his tanned face. He smiled – a smile of joy blazing out across the distance. The seventeen-year-old prince forgot royal protocol. With a loud cry he heeled his horse into a gallop, heading towards the mantle-covered, slender girl riding down the hill.
Reaching level ground, Isabel halted her mount. She bent low, patted the mule’s neck and murmured soft words, all the time watching her prince ride to her. Coming close, he vaulted from his horse and ran the short distance separating them. A gentle wind lifted Isabel’s thin veil and
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