Falling Pomegranate Seeds: The Duty of Daughters (The Katherine of Aragon Story Book 1) by Wendy J. Dunn Page B

Holy War. Gazing at men in battle gear, hoping to find Francisco at the camp, Beatriz remembered Maria recounting her father’s conversation with her mother Josepha on their last visit home: “Castilla belongs only to those of the true faith. Soon our land will be cleansed of those heathen unbelievers.”
    “Mother was sitting by the fire, sewing a new shirt for Father. Flames reflected in her eyes, and she looked at my father with fear. I could see my father’s eagerness to share the thrill of battle did not enthral her. When she returned to sewing, her needle flew in and out of my father’s shirt in unspoken anxiety.
    “She hates this war, Teacher. But she is a soldier’s wife. Her duty binds her to silence just as Father’s duty means for him to go back to war.
    “Mother does not like women who farewell their men with whining and beating their breasts for what none can change. She told us she will not be like Andromache, the wife of Hector of Troy, and plead with our father not to fight. She always bids my father, ‘Godspeed’ when he rides away from our home.
    “As soon as we see him no more, Mother goes to her chamber. I believe she weeps there.”
    Beatriz stopped the pull of memory. Up ahead, Queen Isabel, mounted on a chestnut mule covered by trappings of crimson edged with gold embroidery, gently rocked within her stately saddle-chair. Catalina’s proud gaze was all on her mother.
    A beat of drums, a swelling of trumpet notes and a roar of thousands rose to the heavens at the queen’s approach. Many soldiers broke rank, rushing towards her, kneeling, uncaring of the dirt, along the road bringing her to them. Beatriz caught the answering cries of dismay from the defended citadel of the Moors in the wind.
    His dark eyes alight with grim merriment, and garbed in a crimson doublet with breeches of yellow satin, the king rode his favourite black stallion towards his wife. A group of proud grandees closely shadowed the king. The men galloped their mounts as if invincible.
    Queen Isabel tossed aside her deep scarlet mantle, freeing one arm to rein in her mule. Her agitated movements opened up her black velvet brial to its skirt of scarlet brocade underneath. Her three daughters wore gowns similar to the queen, even down to wide black hats with thick gold thread worked around top and edge.
    The queen straightened her shoulders. Beatriz noticed pain flickering across her face. Travelling about Castilla caused the queen immense discomfort, swelling her legs to almost twice their normal size. Days of journey forced her to stay abed for as many days. She became sicker and sicker with every new year.
    Coming within speaking distance and pulling hard at the reins of his horse, the king saluted her. King Ferdinand’s huge black beast pranced beside the queen’s mule as if eager to return to battle. “Did I not vow to you I’d pick out the seeds of this pomegranate? One by one, I have done so until there remains only one seed left.”
    Angry shouting came from the walls of the fortress. On the battlement flashed the glint of armour and scimitar. Clusters of men waved lances, threatening to throw them on the queen’s soldiers below. Tossing his brocade mantle over his shoulder and displaying his sword with its eagle-winged hilt, the king grinned. His missing front tooth caused a slight whistle when he spoke. “Hear the Moors, wife! They rent their clothes and tear out their hair at seeing you come hither. They know time runs out for them. By sword or gunpowder, be assured, lady wife, conquest will soon be thine.”
    Studying the citadel of their enemy, she offered a smile half-shadowed by her sunhat. Her bow almost touched her mule’s neck. She gazed back at the king. “Yours and mine together, husband, as it has been for every day since we first joined hands and our two kingdoms.”
    The nearby stallions disturbed Beatriz’s nervous mule. Calming her mount before it decided to break away, she wondered yet again