Dreadful English weather. 

The infanta of Spain pursed her lips at the wayward seabreeze, riotously blowing out into the blue expanse behind her. Her figure stood still, her face felt cold as the unforgiving English wind mercilessly ravaged her slender form, as if it’s pushing with all its might to expel her to where she came from. 

As soon as she stepped off the royal ship responsible for the safety of the Spanish princess’s entourage, commotion arose from every part of the dock. Jarring shouts in English traveled across the port back and forth, a rigid language that is mournfully missing the warm cadence and twists of her native tongue.

The seasickness that had been relentlessly plaguing Catalina on the journey here subsided almost immediately when she stepped on solid ground, making her stomach roil in relief. Her first step onto English soil had fared her well. However, one surveying glance at her surroundings immediately caused something in her chest to dip.

Gone was the bright Castillian sunlight; rays of gold with a motherly embrace to warm one’s insides like butter. Gone was the lush vitality blessed by a favorable growing season; the vivacity in her homeland an epitome of God extending his Grace. Gone was the crispy Mediterranean breeze joined by the familiar fragrance of fruits, calling out to the blissful part of her childhood in the shades of the pomegranate tree, away from the smoke and devastation of her parents’ ravaging conquests.

One step behind her, Maria and Lina chattered away excitedly, throwing a fuss over the smallest of differences in their observations of their new home compared to Spain. Her ladies, dutiful as they are to cheer their young princess up, tried to include Catalina in their conversations.

The Infanta was not to be appeased. Nothing could appease this gaping hole in her chest that grows larger by the minute, threatening to explode and overtake her. All of a sudden, the light lace mantilla draped over her face almost seemed to restrict her breathing, huffs of air stuck in her throat.

What a dreadful place. Do they not know how to be happy? Mused by Catalina, ignoring her ladies.

Back home, as she recollected her memories with renewed colors, everything was full of life. From the vibrant hues and designs worn on the street and palace alike, the lively chatters and boisterous laughs of her courtiers, even her mother, with a high spirit and willful temperance, was like a flaming torch that could be reckoned to outshine the Castillian sun. All her life, Catalina was groomed to be the perfect royal bride: to be accommodating, to be pleasing, to be full of arts and grace, and of course, to possess the same remarkable wits as her parents. Amidst the gray-blue sky and somber faces that looked to be on the verge of cracking if they were to smile, she stuck out like a sore thumb in this new country she was meant to rule. Her fire-gold hair, a derivation of her warrior mother, boosted of magnificent victories. Her gold gown reminiscent of the brilliant Spanish sunlight and the sweeping yellow seagrass of the moors. Despite her petite stature of a summer rose, her determined blue eyes shone with the willful pride of a Spaniard. Of home. 

And this is not home. 

A light nudge to her side.

“What do you suppose the English prince will be like, Infanta?” Catalina was startled at how close Lina was standing to her. She had been so immersed in her thoughts that her lady-in-waiting’s brown skin and dark eyes at her shoulder caught her off guard.

“I suppose he’ll look like an English prince,” Catalina responded swiftly in Castillian, not falling for the bait of girly teasing. 

Next to her, Maria’s wild brown curls swayed in the wind. “God forbid he looks anything like them.” Her mischievous hazel eyes traveled to the awkwardly-gaited English courtiers muttering among each other, oddly disproportionate in their wide cloaks and long coats. 

“Maria!” Lina lightly whacked her fellow lady-in-waiting, her tan Moorish face in shock. 

“Que? The British are so dull.” Maria let out a smirk, “I can hardly believe they rode those horses on the way here. Poor rides.”

The topic of horses brought another pang to Catalina’s chest. How she missed her little Canción back at home, who was her parents’ gift to her for her 12th birthday. At the time, she was just a pony hardly around Catalina’s height. It took the span of three years for her to emerge into the sleek Andalusian beauty she is. She was a piece of home that Catalina was not allowed to bring to her new country, and she regretted not galloping with her dear companion more often when she had the chance.

In the distance of the incoming road, Catalina saw a train of carriages traversing in her direction of the dockside commotion. The welcoming party spared no expenses or personnel in making this journey to greet the future queen. 

It was not difficult to distinguish the different Houses coming her way. The most magnificent carriage, the lord’s train, in each traveling group held different house banners atop the roof of the carriage. For each lord’s escort, there were at least three other more humble carriages in front or following the lavish ride of their lord. On top of that, there were at least two dozen or more rider guards trailing to the side or behind the train. All the servants and attendants were dressed up in the livery of their noble House; they were on horseback or directing the horses pulling the carts filled with what appears to be gifts. These people were to be a part of her court, her subjects one day. Catalina braced her shoulders back in one practiced movement and readjusted her mantilla. 

Her mind quickly flashed through the etiquette lessons she learned of the English custom. As if sensing her discomfort from afar, her mother’s trusted ambassador and the head of her Spanish household, Pedro Manrique, quickly darted away from the other men and stood by her side. He and his formidable wife, Doña Elvira Manuel, were responsible for the English transitioning of their royal princess as well as upholding the favorable terms of the Spanish-English marriage treaty.

They patiently waited against the wind for the lords to arrive and come to a stop. The first one to emerge from his carriage was an aged man of medium stature in a wide frilly doublet. His hair had already started the transition of turning all white, and his pace was slow and measured. When he finally stood before the princess, he dipped into a deep bow and muttered a greeting in English.

“The Duke of Norfolk would like to tell your Highness that it is his greatest honor to be able to welcome you to his duchy, and he would do everything to ensure your journey to London is comfortable.” Don Manrique skillfully translated for Catalina.

Catalina nodded warmly and extended her hand out for a kiss. “Please tell His Grace that I am honored by his hospitality.” 

The greetings of honorifics proceeded until the Infanta had to sit. She didn’t realize how shaken she was from her long months of travels until the last cart of gifts was wheeled away by her English attendants to the luggage of items that will be traveling with her to the palace. Though she had been expecting an encounter like this from the local nobles, their foreign language and names couldn’t help but remind her of the sense of longing in the pits of her soul. Longing for the governesses she had grown up with, the tutors and great Castillian scholars she had studied under, the friendly aristocrats and courtiers in her parents’ inner circle who have been always quick with a kind word to the youngest royal child. 

While the gaze from the lords and ladies have been curious, friendly, or benign at worst, Catalina was reminded of the great undertaking her mother had entrusted to her in the state of European dynamics. It was her sworn duty as her mother’s daughter and the princess of Castille-Aragon to secure this treaty with England, including building her own station in this foreign nation and charming these people. Her marriage was a key to fortifying her mother nation, and she understood the gravity of the situation since the day her royal parents were introduced to the betrothal.

But some part of her was still back at home. Real sunshine on her face. Indulging in her studies and arts under the watchful eye of Don Carlos. Laughing with her siblings. Feeling the wild moor wind send ripples of bliss into the depths of her Spanish soul. The echoes of her joy on the horizon, in a land that she can no longer hope to lay eyes on. 

Farewell, España.