“If you expel the Jews, Spain will be cursed. No person, Isabella, has ever cursed the Jews without bringing a far more powerful curse upon themselves—that of Almighty God.” Mary said. In horror, Mary continued to show Isabella visions of her future. Her son, Juan, dead at a young age, a mere five years from now. Juana, her daughter, succumbed to madness, queen of Castile in name only, a prisoner, as had been Isabella’s mother. Isabel, her eldest, dead in childbirth. Catalina, her youngest, crying many tears in England, as she bore dead child after dead child, and eventually being replaced by a bewitching night crow who appeared so very French that Isabella hated even to look at her. Isabella hated the French as much as she did the Jews, perhaps even more so, but she was beginning to wonder if hate was truly a good thing as Mary spoke to her.
“What if I choose instead to allow them to stay?” Isabella asked. She saw then, in this strange Limbo, that this would not be worth it.
“Then you will be blessed.” Mary said. Isabella then saw a different vision. Her son, Juan, was still dead and Juana still shut away, deemed unfit to rule. But Isabel was the Queen of Portugal once again, Maria the Queen of Portugal and Catalina queen regnant of Spain. Furthermore, Spain was a blessed land, and England and France shared in her blessings. That night crow appeared in England as the wife of a great man —his only wife, but not his only woman, and she and Catalina, Spain’s queen regnant, shared many friendly letters.
“Catalina is the youngest, not the eldest.” Isabel said, although she liked this vision much better than the first.
“But of all your children, she is most fit to be queen of Spain. You cannot save Juan or Juana, sadly, but you can save your other three children. You are the queen, Isabella, and the choice is yours. Choose wisely and choose life, so you and your children may live.” Mary said, turning her back.
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