Welcome to my story: Red Roses! (Also, on Quotev soon, btw, hint hint!).
This is going to be my first story where I attempt to write at least 100k words (not going to happen but let's pretend for a bit, how about that?). Updates are going to be super slow because I often forget that I have a story that I'm still writing on . Please comment because comments are awesome and they also remind me that I have a story here.
All events and settings are either fictitiously used, fabricated, from secondary sources or taken inspiration from Philippa Gregory's works, especially her book The Constant Princess.
Also, there will be a bibliography when I'm done because why not?
xXx
Prologue – Catalina de Aragon
xXx
"I hate you!" I scream, eyes blurring and throat aching from screaming.
But all that hurt is nothing – nothing – can compare to what was hurting on the inside. Alex gives me a regretful look as if it is my fault. If I hadn't seen them with my own eyes, perhaps I would have believed that it is me at fault. That it is anyone but Alex that is at fault. But that isn't true.
"Why did you do it, Alex?" My voice breaks.
Give me a reason, I beg silently. Give me a reason to take you back, Alex.
"Rosie," he begins helplessly. "I'm sorry, okay? It was foolish."
"It was foolish." I spat. "That is all that you are. A fool! I wish I had never met you. I wish you didn't even exist! How could you do this to us? I suppose you enjoyed it, huh? Stupid little Rosaria who was naïve and didn't know anything, you must have thought. Beautiful, wonderfully sexy Hanna who was always up for a lap dance, you must have compared!" I shriek.
"Don't bring her into this!" He snap.
"Why not, huh, Alex?" I ask, hurting everywhere. "Hannah was my best friend. I don't understand."
"Then come here and I'll explain everything." Alex's voice goes soft; alluring.
For a moment, I almost cave in. Yes, yes, yes, I think stupidly. Go to him and forget all this ever happened. Let him caress you and touch you and make you forget everything but him. It's all Hannah's fault anyways – that slut. But it wasn't true because it had happened and Hannah... it wasn't entirely her fault. She'd been drunk and anyway, Alex should have known better than to sleep with her.
"Go away, Alex. Before... before I do something we'll both regret." I say angrily.
"Why should I go? This is my place!" He barks, a mask of fury replacing that tantalizing expression of softness that promised love and a blind happiness I do not want.
"Fine then! I'll go!" I snap. "And don't fucking call me Rosie ever again!"
Huffing angrily, I stride outside, slamming the door behind me with a loud bang. Heavy droplets of water cascades down upon me, everything dreary and grey and horrible. I shove the car door open and climb in, putting the keys into the ignition and starting the car. The sound of tires against the gravel can hardly be heard over the pounding rain.
I drive without seeing, without watching, without any care whatsoever.
My eyes sting with blurring tears, trickling down in streams like silver rivers of moonlight. I sniff, wiping the already drying tears off my cheeks with my left palm. "I'm fine. I'm fine." I tell myself.
I'm not fine. Not at all.
The rain keeps thundering down, colouring the skies a blur of grey and then suddenly, as if it had just appeared from thin air, a bright, yellowish light erupts. A scream of horror rips through the air from my lips, as violent as if someone had stabbed a human and dragged the knife through flesh.
I can't stop, I can't stop, I can't stop, I can't – !
A horrible shriek of metal scraping against metal resounds in my ears. The impact is instantaneous, tearing all air from my lungs. I am hyperventilating, the glass blowing back against my skin and tears my flesh. I feel the warm blood drip down my face, sliding between my lips until I taste the copper of blood.
The blood pounds in my ears. It is as if someone has lit me on fire and I am burning, burning, burning. Everything is a blur as black splotches seep into my vision...
I turn around, surveying the horror show around me. The blood soaked earth stains my bare feet red as if I'd gone wading in blood – which may not have been too far from the truth. I am standing at the edge of a river in a battlefield, peering at the cold streams that rushed down endlessly.
The woman comes out of the river, her flowing white dress seeping with blood. As they do.
Her lucent grey eyes bore into mine, framed by pale hair shimmering like sunlight on water. She is strangely dry, as if she had not just climbed out of a river. My breath catches in my throat.
"I am the nymph of Genil, River Goddess Kapheira." She announces.
"River Goddess...?" I murmur wonderingly.
"Come, blood of my line." Kapheira sighs in her rich, mellifluous voice.
"Where?" I ask.
"Trust and you will not go astray," she says.
I raise an eyebrow. "I have trusted but I have gone astray."
"You have my oath to not take you astray." Kapheira promises. "You will not be alone, blood of my line. Come, daughter of mine, and trust in the rivers that nourish the world. The past is far but it is just another journey."
"Where am I going?" I repeat.
"Spain but when would be a better question." She answers.
"When am I going then?" I oblige.
Kapheira smiles. "I cannot say but you will not be along. I have sent a companion for you. He will be your partner. So come and trust me, last of my line, daughter of the rivers, misfortunate one. Come." She holds out her pale hand.
Hesitatingly, I hold out a hand and clasp hers in mine. A muffled gasp slips from between my lips as I make contact with her. Her skin is as cold as the rushing waters of a river in winter. Kapheira smiles widely and grips me tightly, pulling me over to her. I try pulling back her grip was of iron as she drags me past the broken bodies and bloodied earth. I flail as she drags me under the water, the cold sinking me.
I scream but no one hears. I cry but no one sees. I beg but no one cares.
The water floods into my lungs as Kapheira drags me down. She drags me down with her weight and all I can do is fight her, scratching at her arms and pulling violently at her pale, shimmery hair.
Kapheira pins me down against the riverbed and I thrash beneath her, clawing angrily until – I realise that I am not drowning. I can breathe. How?!
Trust and you will not go astray, the words of Kapheira float back to me.
Trust. I blink in surprise.
Slowly, I gulp and embrace the river goddess who holds me tightly in her arms. She smiles and says: "You have chosen well, my child."
And then I close my eyes, letting a weariness I did not even know of take over.
xXx
1496 Alhambra Palace, Granada
xXx
"Tell me a story."
"What do you want me to tell you?" Isabella of Spain, Warrior Regent Queen and my mother asks. "Shall I tell you of my Champion and Yarfe's battle? But you were there, were you not, my child?"
"I would like to hear it anyway." I reply, sitting at her feet.
"How about I tell you of our conquest of Granada? I do not think you were there at the battle?" Isabella says.
"I was not and I would like to hear it." I nod as if to confirm it.
She laughs softly. "Very well then, my daughter. I will tell you of our final conquest at Granada. God had given us His favour that day. Their champion was dead and their people starving and Granada – the fort glinted beautifully in the rising sun as we took it for our own…"
I drift out of attention as she goes on to tell how the Moor king, Boabdil, had finally caved to them, the victors. Absentmindedly, I finger the sleeves of my clothes, leaning my head against Isabella's knees. Truthfully, I have actually heard this story many, many times so I need not listen.
Eleven years, I think. Eleven years as Catalina, Spanish Infanta and the future Princess of Wales. This is the journey that Kapheira promised and even though it has been so many years, I miss the comforts of a modern life for who cannot? There were showers, chocolate – oh candy, I had almost forgotten those sweet delights! –, technology, cars, proper toiletries and everything to live for that this place does not have. Kapheira had told me that I would not be alone in this journey and she holds true to her word. Much alike to I, Arthur is from the future. A descendant of the River God Thames… and my betrothed. The idea makes heat rise to my cheeks which I quickly beat down.
I twirl a thick strand of hair around my finger as I think of Arthur. I have never met him in real life of course but we have the ability to visit each other in our dreams. A small chuckle slips from my lips. I suppose he is, quite literally, the boy of my dreams.
"Why are you laughing?" Mother asks and I realise she heard me.
"Nothing, lady mother. A mere jest Juana told me." I reply smoothly before turning to look outside the window.
Soon, I think. I shall meet my prince soon.
xXx
4th of November 1501 Dogmersfield, England
xXx
"Infanta Catalina?" A lady asks, curtseying as she does.
"Yes, what is it?" I ask, bidding her to stand.
"The Prince of Wales has arrived with the English king." She whispers as the others instantly lean forwards, desperate to hear while not looking like they are eavesdropping. "They demand for Your Highness' presence."
"Well, pray tell, why are we still seated then?" I demand, setting down the book gladly and waving for the ladies to drape the veil over my face. It is uncomfortable and horrid, true, but it was also my lady mother's wish and my duenna will not allow me to go out without it anyways.
I step out into the receiving room, nodding to my herald. "Announce me."
He bows, impassive as ever as he throws open the door. "The Infanta Catalina, Princess of Spain and Princess of Wales!" He bellows.
Curiously, I peer at the two men as I curtsey deeply. The king I have met before and has small, blue eyes and a sallow face. He is clothed in rich clothes, as I expect him to be, and overall seems immensely aggravated. My attention quickly turns to the prince beside him, finding little interest in a grumpy king that, while grand, seems awfully unhappy.
The prince does not look unlike his father, with his slender face, sensitive mouth and fine golden hair. He gave me a nervous smile, his hazel eyes friendly, and I smile back though he likely cannot see the smile through the thick veil. In his hand is a drink that some servant had likely pushed into his hand. I feel heat rise to my face as I blush. He is beautiful, I think. And kind and smart and poetic, I add mentally, thinking of our dream conversations and letters.
"What is this?" The King immediately demands.
My brows draw together.
"What do you mean, Your Majesty?" Doña Elvira asks smoothly.
"The Infanta! Why is she veiled?" He demands.
"In Spain, it is custom for an unmarried woman to wear –" she begins.
The King explodes at that, fury twisting his features. "Yes, well, she is not in Spain, is she? She is in England and is to be married to an English prince and will become an English queen. What kind of custom is this? Why should a man be denied to see his own wife's face? Unveil her this instant, Madam!"
Wife? It is more you, sire, that is complaining than the actual groom-to-be, I think but do not say.
"Majesty, I am under the queen's command –" Elvira insists.
"She is very short." He interrupts, looking doubtfully at me. "Why, I could be marrying my son off an ape that stands like a lady, for all I know! I will not stand for this, madam."
I clench my fists at the insult.
"Her modesty –" The duenna protests desperately.
"Has she some blemish I was not told of?" He questions. "Some awful mark? Is she scarred by the smallpox and they did not tell me? Madam, I demand to know."
He strides forwards, as if about to rip the veil from my headdress altogether but he won't. It will be a disaster and a scandal.
"Your Majesty!" Elvira cries and strides forwards immediately.
Sensing that this was all going to collapse into chaos unless I do something quickly and soon, I throw my right hand up to stop Elvira. She halts in her step immediately, and as does the king.
"If the prince wishes to see his bride, who am I to deny?" I ask calmly, thoroughly enjoying the drama of all this. At this cue, Arthur strides forwards smoothly, close enough so that I can see the green and gold flecks in his hazel eyes. Gently, slowly, tantalizingly, he lifts his hands up to the black veil, holding it between his forefinger and thumb.
"May I, princess?" He murmurs, voice seeming to be only for me to hear, yet echoing through the room.
I dip my head in the smallest nod.
With the same careful precision as before, Arthur draws back the dark veil, throwing it back against the heavy headdress, drinking in my appearance slowly. I hold his gaze with a self-assured confidence partially from my past life and partially from the Spanish courts. With dark blue eyes like depthless oceans, porcelain-like skin and hair the colour of liquid gold, I am the epitome of what the English sought for in beauty.
"Catherine," breathes the prince. "You are beautiful."
"You flatter me, Your Grace." I say, blushing and lowering my eyes demurely.
He flushes as if he had not meant to say that. "It is true."
And, I think, he is as sweet as he is in my dreams.
xXx
November 1501 Baynard's Castle, England
xXx
Upon the invitation of His Majesty the King and the Queen, I visit the English royal family for the first time at Baynard's Castle which is really more palace than castle. I am wearing aSpanish dress, a reminder of my roots, the duenna says. It is a velvet gown with slashed sleeves over a chemise embroidered in black silk at the neckline and in bands down the wide sleeves. Once again, Doña Elvira has been able to force a high headpiece upon my head.
I curtsey low to Queen Elizabeth of York, a pretty woman with fair skin and blonde hair and kind brown eyes, before kissing her on her cheeks. Then, I repeat the gesture to the King's Mother, Margaret Beaufort, a woman of dark hair, pale skin and steel eyes, much akin to that of her son's.
Then it is little princess Margaret, only twelve years old. We give each other curtseys that are carefully judged and kiss each other on one cheek, then the other. As I lean into her, I am struck with the memory of my own sisters and find my eyes are stinging. She must have seen and gives me a comically stern look, as if reprimanding me.
Mary, the youngest Tudor of them all, makes a curtsey and I got down onto my knees so that our faces are level, and I can hear her childish whisper. She is pretty girl, with wide eyes and golden hair.
"Thither," Mary lisps, wrapping her arms around my neck, and kissing my cheek.
We then settle down for entertainment as the queen calls for music. Margaret and Henry, or Harry, as he enthusiastically tells me to call him, start a round. It is an English country song, very tuneful and bright.
"Your Grace," I nod to the prince.
He smiles shyly. "You may call me just Arthur."
"Arthur then." I repeat, rolling the words around. He shivers ever so slightly, cheeks tinting red.
God, this boy blushes easily, I think but do not say. "It is nice to meet you at last. I enjoyed getting your letters. It is nice to be able to have proof that we actually know each other."
"I was ordered to write them," he blurts out awkwardly.
"And I was ordered to reply," I return with a smile of amusement.
"Don't mock me," he mumbles.
"I am not mocking you. I am speaking the truth." I say sharply. "Would you rather I lie? Do not be so ridiculous. I am not going to stroke your ego." I snap under my breath when he purses his lips in annoyance.
He bows his head as if agreeing with me but snaps: "I do not expect you to."
I lean forward as if we were conversing pleasantly and whisper, "I do not believe you. Anyway, why are you being so awkward? Are you honestly nervous?" My voice softens. "I am still the same person you spoke to in your dreams. There is not need to act nervous. We are friends, are we not?"
A small smile deigns his lips. "Yes, we are. I am sorry for being snappy."
"As am I." I say, smiling. "Now... let us make some better conversation. How are you?"
xXx
14th of November 1501 St. Paul's Cathedral, England
xXx
The prince and I talk for the whole night, re-finding the ease that we had in talking together in our dreams. But I do not see him again until the wedding day. My ladies wake me up early, but I have already been awake from the moment the frosty skies awoke, cloaked in misty blue and the wintry sun. They draw up a great bath, its steam curling up in tendrils, like misty dreams.
"The English are all so amazed you are bathing on your wedding day," María de Salinas, my close friend, informs me.
"I cannot believe they bathe so little!" I declare.
I am very glad that my lady mother has always wanted us clean. Thank all the deities, especially Kapheira, that it is the Spanish court I'd been born in. I sink into the tub of water, a small moan of pleasure escaping from between my lips, brushing the floating rose petals away. Privacy is something I have learned to quickly lose in this century for my ladies bathe me and dress me.
Honestly, it is good that they do too for I will not be able to put on any of the gowns they wear.
"If only we had a proper bathhouse," Doña Elvira mourns. "Hot water on tap and somewhere for you to sit and be properly scrubbed. I can't believe England doesn't have them!"
"Don't fuss so," I reply as the ladies help me from the bath and pat me all over with scented towels. One maid takes my hair, squeezes out the water, and rubs it gently with red silk soaked in oil to give it shine and colour.
"Your mother would be so proud," Elvira cries tearfully.
A dress of white satin embroidered with pearls and gold thread which is pleated in the Spanish style hugs my curves tightly. Underneath the dress are hoops, the first ever seen in England apparently. A white silk veil they call a mantilla falls to my waist which has a border of gold and precious stones. It is elegant and fine, I suppose, but the many jewels makes it border onto gaudy, not a look I quite fancy.
Prince Harry is to escort me up the aisle. He wears a white taffeta suit, his chest puffing up proudly. Ahead of us is a raised pathway and up the long aisle to the altar stands Arthur, six hundred slow ceremonial paces away.
My hand grips tightly onto Harry's proffered arm, knuckles white, nervousness rising up in my throat. He winces a little but says nothing on it. He pauses for a moment, until everyone in the enormous church realises that the bride and prince are at the doorway, waiting to make their entrance. A hush falls, everyone craning to see me and then, at the precise, most theatrical moment, Harry leads me forwards.
It is a walk that I have practised many, many times with Juana and Margot, my sister in law, giggling at my solemn face as I finally crack up and shove them ungraciously. But this is not a mock ceremony, a pretend game. It is the real thing.
I will be lying if I say I did not enjoy the attention, how all eyes are trained onto me.
Then we are both at Arthur's side, and Harry has to step back, however reluctantly, as we face the archbishop together, kneeling on the specially embroidered white taffeta cushions.
After we exchange our vows, I feel the cool metal of the ring weighing down my finger.
Arthur presses a soft kiss upon my lips.
When I walk down the absurdly grand aisle, I let out a long shuddering breath.
We go from the cool dark of the cathedral to the bright wintry sunlight outside and hear the roar of the crowd, delighted by their prince and new princess, the pretty Spanish bride, so dainty and smiling so happily.
Everything is such a daze and dizziness floods me. Never have I ever seen a more lavish event. The feast! Oh, it is a wonder that everyone are not as fat as pigs with the amount of food we all ate. But I suppose it is a special event, my wedding. There is a masque and dancing – oh, so much dancing! We dance all day and steal the spotlight from each other, swirling skirts and coats floating everywhere with joyful dances.
"It would be a great pleasure to us if you dance," Queen Elizabeth murmurs.
"A pleasure to me as well," I say, curtseying.
I gather at the middle of the great hall with my prettiest ladies and we dance the pavyn, a slow and processional dance that I favour more than others as I trip less in this. Though I can now say that I can dance most Spanish dances without tripping after Juana made me perfect them until my feet blistered horribly.
Flushed and beaming, I finish the dance with a curtsey, everyone clapping delightedly.
"Now Harry and Margaret," commands the king.
The musicians quickly pick up speed, striking up a bright and lively tune. A galliard, the two dance, as I am later told by the queen. The two young royals are quite excellent partners, well-matched and clearly well-taught. Neither of them misses a step and when Margaret is circling, her feet and ankles showing by her swirling gown, Harry leaps off to one side and throws off his bulky jacket, stripping down to his billowing shirt like a peasant as he steps neatly back into pace with Margaret.
María gasps in a scandalized whisper but the English merely smile and giggle at the antics of the young prince.
The dance ends and the two bow to each other, making a pretty picture.
We feast and, eventually, the dusk settles in, rosy fingers of the night stretching over the sky as the moon chases the sun, her entourage of stars behind her. Then, it is dark, the moon a thin crescent slice across the night.
My ladies pull me away from everyone else and undress me until I was in a thin, silk dress they called a chemise. It is thin, true, but I had worn far more revealing clothes than this as Rosaria. María gives me one last goodnight kiss and Elvira gives me the mother's blessing that Isabella of Spain, my lady mother, could not give me. Gently, the woman brushes a strand of hair behind my ear.
"I am so proud of you, Catalina," she murmurs in Spanish. "Be brave, little princess."
"I am not afraid." I reply stubbornly with a hint of smile.
"Of course you are not, little princess," Elvira says fondly.
With one last brave smile, I step into the bedding chamber.
.
There is nothing to fear, of course. I know what to expect and I do not expect a night of passion and lust. I am no virgin – not in mind, at least. I close my eyes in an attempt to detach myself from the fear of sex when there is clearly nothing to fear. It is not some unknown horror waiting for me and anyway, I like Arthur. He is kind and beautiful and smart and a great many things that I like to find in men. I do not mind this, I tell myself.
Ha. I cannot even lie to myself convincingly, I think bitterly.
Slowly, I slip into the bed silently next to the prince. Mutely, I cringe at the sight of curious people peering in. If they watch, then I will certainly not be able to do it, no matter the false reassurances I give myself. But, to my great and immense relief, the door shuts in on us after the archbishop comes and sprinkles holy water over the sheets, praying over us as we sit awkwardly next to each other, about as opposite of intimate as you can get.
There is a silence as we wonder what to do.
"So..." I say, never being one for awkward pauses. My voice sounds too loud.
"Are you tired?" Arthur asks politely, voice thin with nerves.
"Not particularly. It is quite early. Are you?" I reply.
"No." After an awkward pause, he says: "Would you like some ale?"
This is ridiculous, I think but say, "I am not fond of ale."
"It's different; they call it wedding ale. It is for courage and sweetened by mead and some spices or something." Arthur informs me. "You may like it."
"Oh, to hell with it. Yes. Shall I pour it?" I ask, smiling.
He smiles back. "I'd be a poor husband if I let my wife do all the work."
I give a huff of laughter. "Is this not an era where women are supposed to do all the domestic work?"
"It is but I did offer the ale so it would be strange if you poured it." He retorts. Then he slips out of bed and pours me a cup.
I take it in my hands, sipping the heady drink. It tastes of cinnamon and sweet mead. Smiling, I rest it on my lap, stilling holding the cup. "It's good." I admit, breathing in and sighing as I take another sip.
"Shall I put out the candle now?" He asks.
I set the cup down to a table. "If you want to."
A sudden darkness engulfs us as the candle was put out.
And there is silence. A horrible silence of apprehension as I wait for something to happen. But it never does. I lean my head back and close my eyes in impatience. But still: nothing. It is a thick, heavy silence that hangs around the two of us and I can hear him breathing, the slightest shift of the sheets telling me that he has moved – but barely.
"I will sleep on the floor if it makes you more comfortable." I finally snap when it seems rather clear that he is not going to do anything.
"What? No!" He says, startled.
I purse my lips. "You seem very uncomfortable with me."
"I… I do not." Even in the dark, I can tell he is red with blush.
"Well, are you going to do it or can I sleep?" I ask desperately, turning to look at him.
"What?!" He stammers. "No, you can sleep… You don't have to force yourself into doing something you don't want to."
With a shrug, I say: "Fine. Goodnight, Arthur." Then I turn over and tug the sheets over me and pretend to fall asleep. I think he says something to me then but I do not hear as a real weariness takes over me and I drift into sleep.