Low Countries (4): The Virgin Queen's Parchment
A symbol the size of a house door scrawled across the parchment from the Low Countries. I knew that symbol all too well.
How it had slipped past my brother's watchful eyes to reach me here, I had no clue—but now that it had arrived, noticed or not, I had to read it.
"Haa... of all the damn times for a nibble..."
The baggage who "married her nation," the infamous Elizabeth I. It wasn't from her hand directly, but from a figure equivalent to her court chamberlain, making it as good as her own seal.
No official proposal, so no envoy—just this lone sheet of parchment. My head throbbed at the sheer headache of it all.
Her reason for writing me? Obvious without opening it.
"Everyone's scrambling to milk me dry from every angle..."
My uncle, tormenting me with "inheritance rights" to Luxembourg lands he had no intention of actually handing over.
And this witch of a woman? She wanted me as her husband.
"Haa..."
But it made sense. I knew exactly why she was angling for marriage.
Elizabeth I. The newly crowned 25-year-old virgin queen.
Wed her, and I'd bask in the glory of co-ruling England—but even glancing at my brother showed how impossible that was in practice. Distance alone killed it.
Her sister Mary I wrote endless letters pining for her husband—my fifth cousin Philip II—and he never once visited. Why? Distance.
In a nutshell: a paper marriage to slam the door on future suitors.
And there I was, at Iberia's southernmost tip—a convenient match.
Plus, from Elizabeth's view, gearing up to defy my brother, I was a prime card to play. Better than that madman of the Russian tundra, Ivan the Terrible, at needling him effectively.
Reject brother's suit and marry me? Nothing would screw him harder.
I knew the history. She played the protector of Catholic faithful now, wary of mighty Spain—but she outdid even sister Mary as a killing machine. Ten years in, her true colors showed: the Catholics she ground underfoot was legend still.
Her cruelty wasn't the problem. The marriage's downsides just outweighed upsides.
One big one...
"This throws the Battle of Lepanto into chaos..."
"What was that, my lord?"
Isabel Gomara reacting to my mutter. I waved it off like nothing.
"Just cluttered head—muttered a quick prayer."
"Truly a devout Christian, you are."
Dodged that nicely. Watch the soliloquies from now on.
Lepanto. One reason I couldn't burn bridges with brother entirely: he'd name me admiral of the fleet—commander of what they'd dub the Invincible Armada.
Holy League's first anti-Ottoman boss was Andrea Doria, but Philip II sacks him and taps his friendly me instead.
Relations icy now, sure—but with me groveling to tickle his ego, the shot remained.
Betroth to Elizabeth I? I'd cross an irreversible river, no doubt.
Julius Caesar style: the Rubicon.
Dodge at all costs.
Rejecting made logical sense.
But I spun my wheels, scheming to wring max value from this mess.
"When did this parchment arrive, steward?"
I shook the British vellum; Isabel approached, eyed it, nodded in recall.
"Two weeks past, my lord."
Early modern post: reports didn't zip up instantly. Two weeks? Fresh enough—but couldn't rule out brother's spies spotting it in that window.
"Good. I'll be gone awhile. Aid the chancellor and war minister with home affairs, steward."
"Gone...?"
Head tilt from that beauty. I answered gladly.
"Toledo-bound."
Horse overseers flickering past the carriage door. I scowled at the acrid horseshit stench wafting in, shoving my face back inside.
Anyone who's ridden knows: horses shit mid-stride like clockwork. Face out the window? Puke city.
"Haa... am I playing this smart?"
Felt like shoving my head in a tiger's jaws.
Sighing at the parchment in hand.
Standard territory novel? No way I'd ditch my budding power base early.
But mine? No base-building needed. Malaga County already run by war minister and bishop. I was the scarecrow.
So bottom rung? Cool—off to Toledo, brother's lair.
Excuse: New Malaga count paying respects. Plus housewarming gift for his Madrid move.
"Hope brother sees this as the gift."
The parchment. British stock, probing marriage vibes.
Not from Elizabeth direct, but chamberlain-grade? Solid housewarming troll for brother.
"Milord Count of Malaga, pardon."
I braced thighs, lifted butt. Carriage jolted. Cursed this era's roads again.
"Need Roman highways to skip this crap..."
Grumbling at the Visigoth hack-job paths.
Iberia: long Roman province. Second to Italy in Roman polish.
Prime exhibit: those roads. Still linked to capital Toledo.
Toledo: natural fortress since Rome. Visigoths ditched Aquitaine loss, made it capital.
But brother eyed its history as dead weight. Madrid prep bustle visible pre-arrival.
"Due soon, milord."
Malaga to Toledo: fortnight by carriage. Walking? Month easy.
"No camp tonight—lucky."
"Aye."
Horseman chuckled ahead. I pondered opener for brother.
A touch hollow, the Toledo Alcazar. "Alcazar" meant fortress outright—no need for "Alcazar Castle."
Philip II—Felipe II in Castilian—sat throne in the guest hall, welcoming me.
"Come in, brother."
"Honor to meet again the great sovereign of Spain, the Low Countries, and Burgundy; guardian of the Catholic faith and Golden Fleece Knights master, Felipe II."
Power erases brothers. I groveled utmost—respect, faith full body. Spare me.
Worked: brother's tone pleased, bid me rise.
"Forgot Father's words? 'Family strength is unity.' I trust you always—no need for excess."
Words said; lip corner near ascension. Knowing his two faces, I bowed deeper.
"Nay, Your Highness."
"You... anyway, grateful you came."
"As Malaga count, Your Highness's loyal vassal—my duty."
Centralizer brother. Royal councils (Consejos)—his pet project. Me, a noble, kowtowing? He liked.
Lingering grudge. Cued max flattery.
"Wish other nobles matched you."
"Your wisdom heaven knows, omnipotent God knows—ignorant nobles like Judas pre-doom."
"Precisely."
Flattery 101: Echo their tongue. Company life drilled it.
Philip unvaccinated still. Trustworthy face locked.
"Rough trip. I'll tell chamberlain prep rest."
"Grateful, Highness. But..."
Glanced 'round cueing; Philip sharp.
Gestured attendants back.
"What?"
"Naught but..."
Pulled bosom item; guard neared wary. Brother waved off.
"My brother's no traitor. Noble sworn under God."
Guard retreated. Chamberlain checked proxy.
Prodded my parchment—silver rod thorough—no read, but handed brother.
"No poison, no peril."
Nod. Brother intrigued, unfolded to scan.
But Philip II's limits: Castilian heavy, Italian/French light. Forgot.
French—diplo tongue.
Back via chamberlain.
"Private chat."
Philip's French weak. We shifted spots.