Negotiation (1)
In the room containing only the guards, my brother, and me, I gazed at Philip II.
My brother, who knew at least a tiny bit of French. So when he first saw the parchment, he must have gotten the gist right away. The coat of arms of the United Kingdom of England and Ireland. I figured Philip would fly into a rage at the sight of it, grab his cross, and charge off to the island—but unexpectedly, he remained calm.
"This parchment..."
I tried to translate it in my halting Castilian, but Philip II—my brother—raised a hand to silence me.
"I already knew it had been sent to you."
"..."
"Fortunately, I've confirmed you're still on my side."
It had been a sort of test. If I'd received it and kept silent or failed to act, he would've used it as an excuse to strike at me. Thankfully, I'd passed unscathed. He hadn't extended his grip to the provincial governments yet, but he'd already consolidated most of the internal security in Castile. My brother at 31. Four years younger than he'd been before I possessed this body in the game, yet he showed the mettle of a true king, laying the foundations that would let idiot successors manage the realm after his death.
"What... do you mean by that..."
"I've been gauging which side a clever boy like you would take since childhood."
"..."
He turned to stare at the massive world map. I watched him contemplate the vast territories of the Spanish Empire—stretching from distant Asia across the New World, Europe, and beyond.
"Our lands extend from far-off Asia to seas unknown."
Then, shouldering an invisible burden, he circled the map. I listened intently, heart pounding, wondering what on earth he would say next.
"To hold such vast domains requires a king of equal strength. Someone to bridle the wild, wayward horses and lead them down the righteous path."
He spoke as if that someone were none other than himself. Well, even in original history, he hadn't just been some Jesus freak—he saw himself as God's own messenger. A sense of divine mission wasn't surprising.
"Fortunately, you're no such untamed beast."
There was no easy reply to that. I could only bow my head and prostrate myself tightly.
"The heathens falsely claiming to be the new Rome beyond the seas, the heretics stirring in the Low Countries to the north, and those who aid them... I haven't enough bodies to go around, even if split a dozen ways."
"You mean..."
He turned to face me, eyes fixed steadily as he spoke low.
"I'll give you a choice."
"What do you..."
"Will you accept that arrogant Puritan witch's proposal and keep them from straying from the family fold? Or..."
He paused. I swallowed dryly, watching him.
"...marry your sister and become Governor of the Low Countries, purging the rebels in the name of God from this earth?"
It felt like a hammer blow to the skull. Both options led to ruin—an absurd dilemma that left my mind blank.
The first command: marry the Puritan witch. It meant using me as a controllable piece on his board. Marriage to Queen Elizabeth. Philip himself had wed his much older cousin Mary I for a reason: priority claim to the English throne. Right now, the only viable Tudor heirs were the deposed Mary I, imprisoned in the Tower of London, and the current queen, Elizabeth I. As queens, they'd always been plagued by the succession issue. Unlike the game's twisted history, real history had Elizabeth dying childless and unmarried, ending the Tudor line. But if I pretended to defy Philip and wed her... if she met some "tragic accident," the English crown would naturally fall to me. That would bind England to the Habsburgs. And with Elizabeth gone, I could slot in a relative by my side. The prime candidate: Catalina de Habsburg y Trastámara, widow of Portugal's João III, who died a year ago. With her grandson, the three-year-old King Sebastian, on the throne after João III, she was ripe for the picking. Pure speculation on my part, of course...
His proposal to marry my sister Margarita—the one who'd bullied me as a bastard since childhood. Hearing it from Philip made my wild fancies feel all too plausible.
The second option: wed Margarita and become governor. Antoine Perrenot de Granvelle, a commoner, had been advising her lately, drawing the ire of the nobility in the seven northern provinces of the Low Countries. Philip's inner circle trusted Antoine's talents despite his low birth. But Philip knew nobles needed nobles to handle them, so he'd sent Margarita—yet recent unrest showed she wasn't enough alone. The perfect man to quell it? Me.
"I'll recognize your claim to Luxembourg. In exchange, marry your sister."
Marry her to bind me. If either of us died, the claim would pass straight to Philip's son. Logically, any child of ours would inherit—but an incestuous one between siblings two degrees apart? Zero chance of outliving genetic curses. Unless the rumors were true and I shared not a drop of Charles V's blood... but no need to verify that with my own eyes.
In short: become Low Countries governor with Margarita, smash the Protestants, then forfeit my claims upon death. He meant to strip me to the bone. I shuddered at his words. Both paths spelled doom for my survival. I racked my brains, summoning every scrap of knowledge. My conclusion: bet on the slimmer chance—the first option.
But accepting outright would scream betrayal. So I played the loyal retainer, fretting for my brother's sake, and broached it cautiously.
"Do you see the Low Countries as the greater threat, brother? Or the islanders?"
Thrusting the choice back left him pondering. He stroked his chin.
"Doesn't sending Antoine there tell you enough?"
"Yet you proposed marriage the moment Elizabeth ascended."
"Hmmm..."
He eyed me steadily. I met his gaze and pressed on carefully.
"I believe your top priority is crushing the heretics. The Low Countries reactionaries are a temporary matter."
"Indeed."
He laughed heartily—too heartily; his jaw trembled slightly. His chronic genetic affliction. Knowing it well, I avoided staring.
"The Low Countries have the loyal Knights of the Golden Fleece."
"Yes. The Prince of Orange proved his nobility under Father."
Philip still trusted his Golden Fleece knights there. I knew the future and their false hopes, but no need to say it.
"Whereas Habsburg influence hasn't touched England. And..."
I trailed off, glancing at the map. Sensing it, he nodded.
"Scotland's tied up with France—we can't touch it."
"Exactly."
Scotland and France, traditional allies, bound by marriage: Scotland's Mary I to France's François II. If François had lived longer, a Franco-Great Britain mega-alliance might've formed. Elizabeth held the United Kingdom of England and Ireland. Upon her childless death, it reverted to Mary I, whose first husband was François II. In real history, François died young; her second marriage produced James VI, who united the crowns. But now, with François and sports-mad Henry II alive, that hadn't happened. I pitched myself as the wedge: consort to a childless queen, scratching Philip's itch.
"Spain's reputation in England is poor, though."
Philip knew it better than anyone. Even Mary I's marriage had sparked backlash—talk of handing the throne to Spain on a platter. His image there was in the gutter.
"But you're a suitable piece."
Easy to manipulate, from England's view. My direct holding, Malaga County, was too distant; Luxembourg was just a claim. No real leverage. England, meanwhile, gained much: offload Low Countries rebels fawning over Elizabeth onto me. I'd shield between Philip, the rebels, and her—drawing aggro. For Elizabeth, it dodged friction with Philip, letting her focus inward.
"It frees me to crush the Low Countries revolt and those heathens. Not bad at all."
The Ottomans' recent expansionism grated; those bearded Muslims kept stirring. They'd besieged Vienna under Charles V—the Siege of Vienna that threw Europe into chaos. Repelled, but their aggression persisted. Philip was one who dreamed of wiping them from the map.