Even as very little girls, Juana and Katherine were aware that one day they would leave Spanish shores permanently to wed for the good of their country and their dynasty. In 1490, when Juana was eleven years old and Katherine almost five, they were given their first taste of what that really meant.
Throughout the spring and summer of that year, Ferdinand and Isabella hosted a series of magnificent celebrations. There was jousting, there was feasting, there were torchlight processions to accompany the every move of the cloth-of-gold-clad queen and her eldest daughter, Princess Isabella, together with the seventy court ladies, themselves shimmering in brocaded dresses and fine jewels, who were constantly at the side of Isabella and the princess.
And, on Easter Sunday, there was a solemn Mass held in the cathedral of the formerly Moorish city of Seville. Surrounded by guards and members of the court, all sporting their most impressive garments, the royal family went in procession through the crowded and decorated streets to the great church where Juan had been baptized more than twelve years before. Once inside the cool, candlelit building, with the scent of incense heavy in the air, the children listened as the Latin words echoed around them. This was no ordinary service: it was a proxy marriage for Katherine and Juana’s elder sister, the girl who had been playing such a prominent part in all of the events her parents were organizing. Ferdinand and Isabella had agreed that their firstborn should marry the Portuguese prince Afonso, heir to the throne then occupied by his father, King John II. Only when she arrived in Portugal would the true marriage ceremony take place, but it was customary for a proxy service to be held first.
The extended festivities continued for some months. Since this was the first time that the Catholic Monarchs had married off one of their brood, they took every opportunity to flaunt their wealth, success, and might to the other nations of Europe. No foreign power could be left in any doubt of the benefits a Spanish match could bring.
The goodbyes could not be postponed forever, though, and in November 1490 the princess left Spanish territories and entered Portugal. Once she was there, and married in person rather than by proxy, the round of merrymaking started all over again. We know exactly what happened because several of the banquets and entertainments laid on for the young princess were very well documented by the Portuguese chroniclers.
One evening, there was an extravagant court entertainment called a mummery. King John started things off by appearing disguised as the Knight of the Swan. To the accompaniment of mock gunfire, trumpets, horns, and minstrels, he came into the hall at the head of a fleet of large model ships that were affixed to cloth painted with waves and foam. The quarterdecks of the ships were made of brocade, with sails in the princess’s colors of white and purple; the ships’ rigging was of gold and silk, and their flags displayed the arms of both the king and Princess Isabella. Challenges for the next day’s jousts followed before King John danced with his new daughter-in-law. After yet more dancing and jollities, everyone retired to their chambers to get some sleep before the jousts began.
The chronicler Garcia de Resende described two of the special banquets held in honor of the young couple, and again, magnificence was the order of the day. At the first banquet, the royal family, sitting at a brocade-draped table, were waited on by the leading nobles’ young sons, all elegantly dressed in the richest of fabrics and all conscious of the honor of serving their king and his special guests. Even those seated at other, lesser tables were served by attendants whose liveries were of brocade and silk.
Every major dish was ushered into the hall with elaborate ceremony, much bowing and doffing of caps, and fanfares from musicians playing trumpets and drums. Indeed, the noise was so loud that it was impossible for people to carry on conversations. The gourmet food, although perhaps not to modern taste, was the most expensive and enticing that the palace cooks could provide. Roasted peacocks, still adorned with their magnificent tails, together with other game birds and poultry, sweetmeats, and fruit, were all proudly conveyed to the tables. And it did not stop there. A golden cart filled with roasted sheep with gilded horns was brought in. The cart had been so skilfully constructed that it looked as if it was being pulled by two roasted whole steers with golden hooves and horns. For sheer theatricality, the banquet was outstanding. And it was but one of many.
Ferdinand and Isabella could have had no reason to complain of the way in which their daughter was welcomed. However, it was no more than what they expected, and what Juana and Katherine would one day expect too. A precedent had been set.
If Princess Isabella’s wedding was a blueprint to which Juana and Katherine might aspire, what followed was not. In June 1491, King John was swimming in the River Tagus near to the town of Santarem. Afonso, who was riding close by, suddenly challenged one of his companions to a race to see who could reach the banks of the river first. As he hurried off with his friends, the prince was thrown by his horse and killed. Princess Isabella, a wife for only seven months, was now a widow.
The princess and Afonso’s parents were heartbroken. The banquets were no more, the music stilled, the tilting fields silent. And Isabella, her hair cut off to show her sorrow and cloaked all in black, returned home to the arms of her mother, arriving in time to be present when the city of Granada fell.
The change in the princess was obvious to everyone. Before her marriage, Princess Isabella had enjoyed court entertainments and had willingly danced in public. Henry VII of England’s envoy, Machado, had remarked on her performances in his journals. The Catholic Monarchs had asked her to dance for Henry’s ambassadors, and Machado described her partnering a Portuguese girl whom “she liked best” of all her ladies. On another occasion, he wrote, she took the floor with all of her ladies, effortlessly executing “a low dance.” With Afonso’s death, however, she became the personification of raw misery. Thin, listless, weeping, she “determined not to marry” ever again. All she wanted was to devote her life to God and never risk another such crushing bereavement. Faced with her daughter’s torment, Isabella supported her as best she could, and she did not immediately rush to betroth her again. For once, the queen put politics aside.
But not for long. Afonso’s accident was more than a personal tragedy for Princess Isabella; it meant that the much-heralded alliance with Portugal was in tatters. It was not, however, beyond repair: the solution was obvious. The new heir to the Portuguese throne, Prince Manuel, was a bachelor who was already acquainted with the widowed princess and had always liked her. He was only too willing to take her as his wife. The only problem was trying to reconcile the girl to her duty.
Neither Katherine nor Juana was particularly close to their elder sister. The age gap of nine years between Princess Isabella and Juana, and almost fifteen with Katherine, meant that Princess Isabella was virtually out of the schoolroom even before Juana could read. Nonetheless, both had played their part in the wedding celebrations and both witnessed their elder sister’s spectacular collapse. Katherine was still much too young to understand what had happened to change the princess so radically, but Juana, at twelve, saw only too clearly what it could be like to lose a husband. And both girls were aware that the question of husbands for their daughters and a bride for their son was very much occupying the minds of their parents.
The crux of the matter was how best to use their five children to further Spanish interests. Clearly the alliance with Portugal had to be resurrected, but the Catholic Monarchs were also considering how to counter a growing threat from the Valois kings of France. Although still developing in strength and expanding its territory, France was fast becoming the key player on the European stage. The trouble was that this brought France and Spain into conflict. Two main areas were in dispute: having seized the Aragonese provinces of Roussillon and Cerdagne, most of which are now in southern France, in 1463 from Ferdinand’s father, the French went on to invade Italy in 1494. Ferdinand not only was resolved to win back his lost provinces but was also hoping to gain Naples to complement his existing Italian lands of Sicily and Sardinia. Because clearly France would not sit back and let Ferdinand do whatever he wanted to redraw the map of Europe, encircling the French by marrying off his children to France’s enemies might be the solution. At least Ferdinand would then have allies in useful strategic spots.
So as Juan played chess in his apartments, he and his sisters were becoming living pawns on the board of international diplomacy. Gender would play its part, for the one sibling who would not have to leave Spain was Juan. “They do not like to part with their only son, and to send him to a foreign country,” was said to be the reaction of Ferdinand and Isabella when a match with the teenage Duchess of Brittany was suggested for him. As he was their heir, the Catholic Monarchs could demand that his bride come to him rather than the other way around.
And they selected that bride and the girls’ husbands with considerable care. Maria would be held in reserve, just in case Princess Isabella continued to decline and refused to marry the new Portuguese heir; to save one princess for emergencies was prudent. For Katherine, it was to be an English wedding. Henry VII, who had won the crown from the Yorkists on the battlefield at Bosworth in 1485, had two sons, Prince Arthur and Prince Henry. Katherine would marry Arthur, the elder, and eventually would become England’s queen. The alliance would be valuable for Spain since England and France had been enemies for centuries. Then, for Juan and Juana, a brother and sister team was chosen: Archduchess Margaret and Archduke Philip of Burgundy.
The duchy of Burgundy was rich in trade and culture. It had also once been huge, originally straddling much of northeastern France and most of what we now think of as the Netherlands, Belgium, and Luxembourg. Geography alone made Burgundy and France uneasy neighbors in the 1470s and had brought the Burgundian duke, Charles the Bold, into direct confrontation with Louis XI of France. Casting his ever-avaricious eyes on those Burgundian areas that abutted his own, Louis had taken his chance to grab what he could of Charles’s lands when the duke died in 1477. Charles’s heir was his only daughter, Mary, who had married Maximilian, the son of the Holy Roman Emperor, Frederick III. The union was happy, Maximilian finding his wife enchanting. In a letter to a friend, he described her as tall, slender, “lovely, good and virtuous.” Although Maximilian had tried to recover his beauteous wife’s conquered lands, he failed. Yet despite her losses, the territories Mary still retained were substantial, chiefly comprising the Netherlands or Low Countries, and consolation had come to the young couple in the form of two healthy children, Philip and Margaret. It was these children who Ferdinand and Isabella thought would be suitable partners for Juan and Juana.
Juana counted herself lucky: she could have been married off to the father rather than the son. When Philip was just four years old, Mary of Burgundy died following a hunting accident. Not one to succumb to the sin of excessive mourning, Maximilian contemplated a substitute with almost indecent haste. A Spanish princess, he thought (and he was not too particular about which one), might fill the vacant slot. When the Catholic Monarchs demurred at this, he married elsewhere, and so Juana was earmarked for Philip.
On paper, it seemed an excellent bargain for both sides. Conveniently sited on France’s doorstep, Burgundy was a promising ally for Spain, and Maximilian hoped to count on formidable support should the French attack those (still extensive) lands that remained. True, Juana would be an archduchess rather than a queen, but if Philip became Holy Roman Emperor sometime in the future, she might become an empress. She should do well in the personal sphere as well. Just a year older than herself, Philip took after his mother in looks and in love of sporting pursuits. Later known as “Philip the Handsome,” he was, wrote the Venetian ambassador, “above the middle stature, of fair proportions, handsome, and of a most pleasing appearance, and most gracious both in manner and language.” No royal princess could ask for more.
And with Juan marrying Philip’s sister, there was an additional reason for satisfaction. A double marriage was financially advantageous: dowries could be dispensed with, and the fleet that took Juana to Burgundy could bring Margaret back to Spain, which meant that yet more money could be saved. That was ideal too.
Once all was decided, there was the matter of Juana’s trousseau and travel arrangements. For sixteen-year-old Juana, all was bustle and excitement. Ferdinand and Isabella were determined to send their daughter off in style, so Juana and her mother spent hours choosing the jewels, fabrics, and clothes she needed to create the right impression once she reached Burgundy. Ample provisions for the voyage were amassed as well. Two hundred cattle, one thousand chickens, and four thousand barrels of wine ensured that Juana and the crew would not starve. Juana’s household also included Moorish slave girls; after capturing the city, Isabella had allocated some of Malaga’s people as living gifts to her own family and privileged nobles. Having the girls in her entourage was comforting for Juana; it meant that she took part of Spain with her as she entered an unfamiliar world.
Knowing that they might never see Juana again, the entire royal family accompanied her to the northern port of Laredo, where she would board the ship that would take her to her new life. For Katherine, it was a taste of what to expect when it was her turn to leave home. Although she had known that such a parting was inevitable, Isabella found the process heartbreaking. As she watched the small fleet gradually sail out of view on August 22, 1496, the battle-hardened queen wept. She treasured every last moment she spent with her daughter. And she worried terribly over the perils of the journey. The French might attack, the seas were dangerous, anything could happen. She sent several letters to Henry VII begging him to look after Juana and Margaret as though they were his own children should either of them be forced to seek refuge in an English port.
The queen was right to be worried. The French did not attack, but freak winds caused one of Juana’s ships to be wrecked on a sandbank within sight of the Burgundian coast. Although unhurt, Juana lost some of her precious baggage along with some of the ship’s crew. It was hardly a triumphant start to her marriage. To make matters worse, when the apprehensive princess looked for her betrothed, Philip was nowhere to be seen: he was miles away in Germany. It was to be several days before they met. But Juana had been well schooled: she knew exactly how to behave and set herself to win the hearts of the people who must now become hers.
The ships that took Juana to the Burgundian Netherlands then braved the return voyage, with Margaret on board. Just like Juana, she too had a terrifying journey. Bowing to Isabella’s entreaties, Henry VII was quick to offer help to the young archduchess when the Channel became so rough that she was compelled to shelter in Southampton. With his son’s marriage to Katherine in his mind, the king was eager to please the Catholic Monarchs in any way he could. So he sent servants to help Margaret, begging her to take “all and everything” she wanted and “to order any service” she required. He even offered to visit her if she stayed long enough in Southampton, but she did not.
Katherine first met her new sister-in-law when Margaret landed at Santander, on Spain’s northern coast, in March 1497. It was difficult not to like her. Margaret was seventeen, bubbly, clever, spirited, charming, and very attractive. Ferdinand and Isabella were delighted with her. Juan was entranced. Married less than a month after her arrival, the two were inseparable, the physical side of their relationship so intense that his doctors were concerned for Juan’s health.
Weddings were very much the order of the day in that year. As Katherine greeted Margaret, she prepared to bid farewell to Princess Isabella. Patience had paid off. The widowed princess at last agreed to marry Manuel of Portugal. Following the death of King John II, Manuel had become king, so Princess Isabella would become queen of Portugal. Now that she had made up her mind to do her duty by her homeland and her family, the Catholic Monarchs set off to escort her to the frontier.
As the royal party set off, all seemed well. Only Maria’s future was still under discussion. Juan was blissfully happy with Margaret, Juana was secure as Archduchess of Burgundy, and it would not be too long before Katherine left for England. But then Katherine was brought face-to-face with tragedy. Her first experience of death had been when Prince Afonso, her sister Isabella’s husband, had died so unexpectedly, but Katherine had been barely five then and had never even met Afonso. What happened now was very different, and at eleven, she was old enough to share the grief that shattered her family.
The disaster came very suddenly. As the royal party progressed happily to the Portuguese border, a messenger reported that Juan had been taken ill. Instead of going with everyone else, he and Margaret had gone to Salamanca to show themselves to their future subjects. It was there that Juan became sick; even today no one can be sure quite what was wrong with him. Perhaps it was an infection, perhaps tuberculosis, it is impossible to say. All anyone knew at the time was that whatever it was, it was very serious. Ferdinand rushed to his son’s bedside, leaving Isabella to complete the journey with their eldest daughter.
When Ferdinand arrived in Salamanca, he found Juan weak from fever but conscious and able to talk. Horrified by Juan’s decline, Ferdinand desperately tried to encourage the boy to fight the sickness, telling him that it would soon pass. Juan was more fatalistic. Realizing he was in the throes of his last illness, the twenty-year-old prince stoically surrendered to God’s will as he had been taught that a good Catholic should, bravely spending his last days preparing himself for death. That death came on October 4, 1497. The deep happiness he had shared with Margaret had lasted for only six months.
His mother’s response to the loss of her only son was also in good Catholic mode: “The Lord hath given, and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be His name,” she was reported to have said. Yet Juan’s death hit his parents terribly hard, their own misery compounded by fears for the succession. “Never was there a death which occasioned such deep and general lamentation throughout the land,” wrote one unknown chronicler of the day. Briefly, the focus switched to Margaret; as Juan had lain dying, his baby had been growing in her womb. But, to the family’s anguish, Margaret miscarried.
Scarcely had Princess Isabella reached Portugal than she heard of her brother’s death. Somehow she had pulled herself together after her widowhood; now she had to do so again. And this time, she had to cope with more than personal sorrow, for Juan’s inheritance was now hers. Together with Manuel, she traveled back to Spain so that her claim to her future legacy could be recognized by the various regional parliaments, the Cortes.
It was a sad homecoming. But there was hope that good fortune would return: Isabella was expecting Manuel’s child. To universal joy, the child was born safely and was a boy. But death had not yet finished with Katherine and Juana’s family. Still reeling from Juan’s demise and Margaret’s miscarriage, they had another blow to bear: Princess Isabella died shortly after giving birth. The only comfort was that the child, who was baptized Miguel, seemed healthy, and Manuel agreed that his son could be raised in Spain so that he could learn about the lands that one day would be his. Two years later came the unthinkable: the little boy sickened and died, cradled in his grandmother’s arms.
For the Spanish royal family, so much had changed so quickly. Mourning the loss of two of their five children and a grandson, Ferdinand and Isabella tried hard to accept God’s will. Yet they had little time to grieve, for state business had to carry on, the dynasty had to be secured. Each of their three remaining children would now have to play her part.
If potentially the most glorious, Juana’s task was the most challenging. After kissing her mother goodbye at Laredo, she had had to put thoughts of Spain out of her mind. Now she was her parents’ heir and would have to return to be acclaimed by the various Cortes, just as her sister had done before her. As the Catholic Monarchs’ third child, this was something she had never contemplated.
The placid Maria, providentially unmarried, slipped seamlessly into King Manuel’s bed in her dead sister’s place; widowed and childless, he needed another wife and she was available. Through her, the alliance between Spain and Portugal could be maintained.
Katherine was the last to leave home. Perhaps Isabella wanted to wait until Arthur had reached at least fourteen, considered a suitable age for marriage; perhaps she wanted to be certain that Henry’s grip on his throne was firm enough to risk her youngest child; perhaps, and quite likely, worn down by the stream of deaths within her family, she found comfort in Katherine’s company and wanted to keep her remaining child with her for as long as she could. Whatever her reasons for delay, Isabella knew that Henry VII would not wait forever, and the English match would bring advantages to Spain. It could not be allowed to disintegrate. So, on April 8, 1501, Isabella wrote to Dr. de Puebla, her ambassador in London, to say that Katherine would be leaving from Coruna, the port that allowed “the shortest passage from Spain to England,” as soon as practicable. It was now Katherine’s turn to serve her country and her family. She had not yet reached her sixteenth birthday.