Chapter Text
"Your Majesty, we must renegotiate," England insisted. "The treaty clearly favours the Spanish. Did you see how González was smiling? They must be laughing at us this minute!"[1]
The king smiled at him like an affectionate father.[2] "It is the Spanish who are doing us a favour, child. The support against France is only a sweetener. The crux of the treaty is Princess Katharine. That daughter of Isabella and Ferdinand holds the key to securing our future."[3]
He was unconvinced. "Why should we marry Arthur off to the Spanish? They are a most irascible people. I have heard that Jewish and Moorish blood has tainted even the highest branches of the royal family."
Henry Tudor sighed. "Ours is a tenuous position, England. We need legitimacy. Spain is young, but powerful. He is fresh off his victories against the Moors and his energies will not be contained within the peninsula for long. It would be wise to ally ourselves with a nascent power on the continent."
England recalled his brief encounter with the Kingdom of Spain earlier in the day. A swarthy young man who looked slightly underfed, all day he had trailed behind the Spanish ambassador like an obedient dog. At first, he had dismissed the other as a mere page boy. Only the flash of those dark green eyes as they met his had made him realize he was in the presence of another nation. The boy couldn't speak a lick of English, and England's grasp of Castilian wasn't much better. They had awkwardly bowed and introduced themselves before allowing the adults to steer the conversation.
England had become aware of a growing dislike as the other sat there, straight-backed and stiff-necked, sanctimonious as a priest. The young man had looked upon Henry and his courtiers with an air of disdain that made England clench his fists. Like all Spaniards, he was arrogant and bad at hiding it. Two centuries ago, who had even heard of Spain?[4] Now here he was, presuming to barter with and demand concessions of him, England! England, whose proud Anglo-Saxon ancestors had emerged from the rubble of Roman rule to carve out a life on this windy island… no, not just life—civilization. While Spain was being passed around by the Visigoths, the Moors, and his siblings, he had always been Albion.
"And besides," the king added, "do not forget the Pope himself is Spanish."[5]
"The Pope," muttered England with some disgust. He flung himself into a chair and studied his hands. Long, bony fingers. Although he had shot up in height since recovering from the ravages of the plague and the war with France, the rest of him had been a slow to catch up. Lanky, awkward, even now he did not yet feel like himself, and he hated the idea of relying on someone else. Especially Spain. "If this Spain is as important as he carries himself, why has he failed to create alliances with Portugal? with Austria?"
"Aha," the king smiled down at him affectionately. "So little England does pay attention to politics on the continent! You'll soon see, my child. There will be no shortage of nations beseeching Castile and Aragon for their brother’s hand in marriage."
"Your Majesty is wise," the Englishman said, with an expression of doubt that belied his words. "I trust your judgment, though I do not pretend to understand."