The Madrid sun beat down relentlessly on the royal palace in that spring of 1651. Inside the thick stone walls, where the heat barely penetrated, Queen Mariana of Austria breathed with difficulty while the midwives moved hurriedly around the royal bed. Philip IV, with his long face and characteristic melancholy, waited in the next room, pacing nervously on the polished marble floor.
“It’s a girl, Your Majesty,” announced the head midwife with a deep bow. “The queen has given birth to a baby girl.”
The king’s face showed no disappointment, even though Spain desperately needed a male heir. After 20 years of reign, his only son, Baltazar Carlos, had died of smallpox 6 years earlier, leaving the succession in jeopardy.
“How is the queen?” he asked.
Her voice was barely a whisper.
“Weak, but he will live, Your Majesty.”
The little princess, who would be called Margarita Teresa, cried loudly as the ladies of the court wrapped her in fine silk blankets embroidered with gold thread. No one could have known then that that small body already carried the seeds of its own destruction.
At a young age, Margarita Teresa had become the jewel of the Spanish court. Her blond hair and pale complexion, inherited from her Habsburg ancestors, contrasted with the typical darkness of the Spanish nobility. Diego Velázquez, the court painter, had begun to immortalize her on canvases that captured her charming childlike presence.
“Stay still, Your Highness,” murmured Doña Juana, her lady-in-waiting, as she adjusted the complicated farthingale that artificially widened the young Infanta’s hips, following the Spanish fashion of the time. “One day you will be Empress, and you must learn to pose like one.”
Margarita Teresa tried to obey, but her natural childlike restlessness made it difficult to maintain her posture. Her large, clear eyes followed Velázquez’s every move, fascinated by how the painter transformed pigments into images that seemed to come alive.
“My legs hurt, Doña Juana,” the girl complained after almost an hour of immobility.
The lady-in-waiting exchanged a concerned glance with Velázquez. It was not the first time the Infanta had complained of pain in her limbs. The royal physicians had assured her that they were simply growing pains, but some older courtiers murmured about the Habsburgs’ inbreeding and its consequences.
The Imperial Ambassador, Count Pötting, was watching the Infanta closely during the celebration of the girl’s eighth birthday. Her eyes, trained in court intrigues, missed no detail of the slight limp that Margarita Teresa tried to conceal while dancing with her father.
“She is a charming princess,” she remarked to the Countess of Olivares, who remained by her side. “Emperor Leopold will be pleased with the reports about his future wife.”
The countess nodded, although her face reflected a shadow of concern.
“His Highness is the very image of Habsburg grace and beauty.”
What he failed to mention was that that same Habsburg beauty, the prominent chin, the slightly protruding lower jaw, distinctive features of the dynasty, were the result of generations of marriages between close relatives. Philip IV had married his niece Mariana, and before him his ancestors had followed similar practices to keep power and territories within the family.
“They say the Infanta is having difficulty chewing properly,” murmured another courtier who had joined the conversation. “The doctors have recommended special diets for her.”
The ambassador frowned. Any information about the future empress’s health was of vital importance to Vienna. Emperor Leopold, Margaret Theresa’s cousin, anxiously awaited detailed reports about his betrothed.
In her private apartments, away from the bustle of the celebration, Margaret Theresa sank into an armchair as her lady-in-waiting removed her heavy, pearl-embroidered shoes.
“My feet ache as if I had walked from Madrid to Seville,” the young girl complained, massaging her swollen ankles.
“It’s the price of royalty, Your Highness,” Doña Juana replied with a sympathetic smile. “But you danced beautifully. The imperial ambassador seemed very impressed.”
The Infanta looked out the window at the palace gardens, where some courtiers were strolling by torchlight.
“It’s true that the Emperor is twice my age.”
The lady hesitated before answer.
“His Imperial Majesty is young to be Emperor, Your Highness, and he is your cousin.”
“So you share the same noble blood as my parents,” Margarita Teresa murmured, repeating what she had heard many times. “Habsburg blood must be kept pure.”
Doña Juana did not reply, instead attending to the jewels adorning the Infanta’s hair. It was not her place to question the marriage choices that had sustained the power of the House of Austria for generations, even though she had seen with her own eyes the consequences in some members of the royal family. Deformed jaws that made speaking and eating difficult, bodies weakened by mysterious illnesses, infants who did not survive beyond their early years.
The years passed, and by the age of 13, Margarita Teresa had blossomed into a young woman of fragile, aristocratic beauty, immortalized in numerous portraits by Velázquez, but her body was beginning to show more evident signs of the problems that the Habsburg blood had sown within her.
“I can’t breathe with this corset,” she often complained as the maids tightened the ribbons that molded her torso according to the beauty standards of the time.
“Should we ensure your figure is perfect for the portraits to be sent to Vienna, Your Highness?” insisted the Duchess of Terranova, her chief lady-in-waiting. “The Emperor expects to see a bride worthy of the imperial throne.”
What the portraits didn’t show were the deformities that were beginning to appear: her increasingly prominent lower jaw, making eating difficult; the slight curvature of her spine, concealed by her elaborate gowns; the growing weakness in her legs, making it harder each day to maintain the upright posture expected of her. Royal physicians frequently visited her chambers, prescribing bloodletting, ointments, and potions that barely relieved her discomfort. None dared name the true cause: the inbreeding that had characterized the dynasty for generations.
In the dim light of her bedchamber, illuminated only by a few candles, Margaret Theresa examined her face in a polished silver mirror. Her fingers traced the contour of her jaw, noticing how it protruded more than months before. Her crooked teeth made her lower lip appear permanently swollen.
“Will the Emperor find me beautiful?” she asked her confidante, Maria Bernardina, who was brushing her long, ash-blonde hair.
“You are the most beautiful of all the princesses in Europe, Your Highness,” replied the young lady, though they both knew it was a half-truth.
Margaret Theresa placed the mirror on the table.
“I’ve heard that the wealthy court is very different from ours—more austere, more German.”
“You’ll have time to get used to it. The marriage won’t be for another two years, when you turn 15.”
The Infanta nodded. Although a knot of anxiety was forming in her stomach, the pain in her joints had worsened with the arrival of winter, and at times she felt as if her own body were an ever-tightening prison.
“They say it snows for months in some places,” she remarked, changing the subject. “I’ve never seen snow, except in distant mountains.”
“You’ll observe the northern climate well, Your Highness. They say it strengthens the constitution.”
Margarita Teresa smiled weakly. They both knew that her constitution needed all the help it could get.
The Alcázar of Madrid was buzzing with activity that summer of 1666. After years of preparations, diplomatic negotiations, and strategic delays, the time had come for the Infanta Margarita Teresa to depart for Vienna to become the wife of Emperor Leopold I, her uncle and cousin. Having just turned 15, Margarita Teresa sat while an army of maids put the finishing touches on her traveling attire. Her face, carefully made up to conceal the sickly pallor of her skin, she displayed a serenity that contrasted sharply with the whirlwind of emotions she felt within.
“The imperial ambassador has sent another message,” Doña Juana announced, rushing into the room. “The entourage is ready to depart at dawn.”
The young woman nodded, unable to find her voice to reply. The past few weeks had been a whirlwind of farewell ceremonies, advice on how to behave at the imperial court, and long sessions with her confessors to prepare her spiritually for her role as empress.
The procession accompanying Margarita Teresa on her journey to Vienna stretched for miles along the dusty road. More than 1,000 people comprised the retinue: ladies-in-waiting, doctors, confessors, cooks, musicians, and guards—all necessary to maintain the standard of living and protocol befitting a Spanish infanta and future empress. In her carriage, adorned with the coat of arms of the Spanish Habsburgs, Margarita Teresa surveyed the landscape shifting through the silk curtains. Each jolt of the vehicle over the uneven road sent sharp pains through her body, especially in her back and deformed hips.
“Shall we request a rest, Your Highness?” asked Maria Bernardina, noticing the expression of pain on her mistress’s face.
“We mustn’t keep up this pace,” replied Margarita Teresa, straightening up with effort. “The emperor is waiting, and we have already postponed this trip too many times.”
What she failed to mention was that every delay had been strategically planned by her father, King Philip IV, who had used the marriage as a diplomatic tool, postponing the wedding while he negotiated political advantages with the Holy Roman Empire.
The journey lasted months. The entourage traveled through Spain, crossed the Pyrenees into France, continued through Italy, and finally entered the imperial territories. With every kilometer traveled, Margarita Teresa’s health seemed to deteriorate a little more.
“The Infanta has barely eaten a thing in three days,” the Duchess of Terranova reported with concern to the royal doctor who was traveling with them. “Her pains are becoming more and more frequent.”
“I have prepared a new infusion that might relieve your discomfort,” the doctor replied, though his face reflected skepticism. “But the real medicine will be getting to Vienna and being able to rest properly.”
What he didn’t dare to say was that the Infanta’s problems went far beyond travel fatigue. Margarita Teresa’s bone structure, the product of generations of consanguinity, showed increasingly evident defects. Its prognathous jaw had become more pronounced, making feeding even more difficult. Her spine had a curvature that no corset could completely conceal, and her increasingly weak legs barely supported her during the brief stops on the journey.
Finally, in December 1666, the entourage arrived on the outskirts of Vienna. Despite the intense cold and the snow covering the roads, a crowd had gathered to welcome the new empress. Inside the imperial carriage that had been sent for the last few kilometers of the journey, Margaret Theresa trembled both from the cold to which she was not accustomed and from the anxiety of the imminent meeting with her husband.
“How do I look?” she asked Maria Bernardina as she adjusted the elaborate hairstyle that crowned her head.
“Your radiant majesty,” replied the lady, using for the first time the title befitting an empress. “The emperor will be dazzled.”
Margarita Teresa tried to smile, but the gesture turned into a grimace of pain when the carriage hit a pothole. Throughout the journey he had memorized the portrait of Leopold that he had been shown. A 27-year-old man with typical Habsburg features, a thick lower lip and a prominent jaw, but described as intelligent and devout.
“They say he’s a great musician and a lover of the arts,” he commented, trying to calm his nerves. “And who speaks perfect Spanish because of her mother.”
“You will be the perfect couple, Your Majesty, the Habsburg blood united again for the greater glory of the dynasty.”
That same blood that was destroying it from within, thought Margaret Theresa, although she would never say it aloud.
The first meeting between Margaret Theresa and Emperor Leopold I took place in a richly decorated room of the Hofburg Palace. The young woman, dressed in a crimson velvet gown embroidered with gold and silver threads, advanced with difficulty towards the throne where her future husband awaited her. Leopold, tall and thin, with the characteristic Habsburg chin, even more pronounced than hers, stood up to greet her. His curious and intelligent eyes studied the young Spanish woman as she performed a deep bow, concealing the pain the movement caused her.
“Welcome to Vienna, dear cousin,” the emperor greeted in perfectly modulated Spanish, although with a slight Germanic accent. “Your journey has been long, but your presence now illuminates our court.”
“It is an honor to finally meet you, Your Imperial Majesty,” replied Margaret Theresa, keeping her gaze lowered as she had been taught. “My father, King Philip, sends me his best wishes for your reign and our union.”
Protocol dictated every word, every gesture of that first meeting, but even through the ceremonial rigidity, both tried to form an impression of each other. Leopold immediately noticed his fiancée’s physical frailty, while Margaret Theresa was surprised by the genuine kindness in the emperor’s eyes, so different from the coldness she had expected.
The wedding took place a week later, on December 12, 1666, in St. Stephen’s Cathedral. Despite the cold that penetrated even the thick stone walls, the temple shone with thousands of candles and was decorated with tapestries and flowers brought especially from the imperial greenhouses. Margarita Teresa, supported by the most rigid corset her maids had been able to design, advanced through the central nave with measured steps, concentrating on not showing any signs of the pain that constantly accompanied her. Her dress, a creation of white silk and silver that had required months of work, concealed the deformities of her body, while her face, carefully made up, projected an ethereal and fragile beauty. Leopoldo awaited her at the altar, dressed in his finest imperial attire. During the long ceremony in Latin, Margarita Teresa remained standing thanks to sheer willpower, repeating the ritual words in a clear, though weak, voice.
“You look beautiful, my Empress,” Leopold whispered during a moment when the chorus was singing, allowing them a brief private exchange. “You have brought the sun of Spain to our winter well.”
She smiled gratefully at the kindness. Perhaps she thought, “This political marriage could become something more, a true alliance between two souls united by the same blood and the same destiny.”
The first few months in Vienna were a painful process of adaptation for Margaret Theresa. The cold, damp climate aggravated her joint pains, while the rigid etiquettes of the imperial court, different from the Spanish ones she was familiar with, added stress to her fragile constitution.
“The Empress has barely eaten again,” Maria Bernardina reported worriedly to Countess Harrach, the Austrian lady assigned to facilitate Margaret Theresa’s integration. “He doesn’t like the local dishes and his jaw makes it difficult for him to chew meat.”
The countess nodded understandingly.
“I have ordered the cooks to prepare more Spanish-style dishes with more tender meats and familiar spices for His Imperial Majesty.”
What they failed to mention was that even with proper food, the progressive deformity of Margarita Teresa’s jaw made every meal an ordeal. His teeth, misaligned and some already missing, despite his youth, could not chew properly and he often suffered from pains that took away his appetite.
Despite the physical difficulties, Margaret Theresa strove to fulfill her primary duty, as empress, to provide an heir to the imperial throne. The nights with Leopoldo, although marked by the consideration he showed for her fragility, were another kind of test for her battered body.
“The imperial physician has recommended these herbs to aid in the conception,” Countess Harrach remarked one morning as she prepared a dark-looking, bitter-smelling infusion. “His Imperial Majesty must take it three times a day.”
Margarita Teresa nodded, already used to the constant potions and remedies they gave her. Her life had become a succession of treatments. Bloodletting to balance the humors, poultices for joint pain, increasingly rigid corsets to support her deformed spine, and now brews to increase her fertility.
“Has there been any news from Madrid?” he asked, trying to distract himself while drinking the unpleasant mixture.
“An email arrived this morning, Your Majesty. Your father, King Philip, sends his blessings and eagerly awaits news of a pregnancy.”
The young empress closed her eyes for a moment. The pressure to conceive came from both Vienna and Madrid. The alliance between the two branches of the Habsburgs depended on the continuity of the dynastic line, and all eyes were on its belly, conveniently ignoring that that same belly was housed in a body increasingly deformed by family consanguinity.
To the surprise and delight of both courts, just 7 months after the wedding, Empress Leopold’s first pregnancy was announced. Genuinely in love with his young wife, despite the obvious physical problems that afflicted her, he ordered celebrations throughout the empire.
“You look radiant this morning, my dear,” the emperor remarked during a private breakfast, one of the few occasions when they could speak without the strict protocol that normally surrounded them.
Margarita Teresa tried to smile, although the gesture was always affected by her jaw.
“I feel better when I don’t have to wear the tight corset. The doctor says it could harm the baby.”
It was a little white lie. In reality, the pregnancy had intensified her pains and added new discomforts. Her body, already compromised by genetic deformities, could barely withstand the additional stress of carrying a new life.
“I have composed a piece of music to celebrate the future prince,” continued Leopold, known for his talent as a composer. “The orchestra will perform it this Sunday after Mass.”
“It will be beautiful, I’m sure,” she replied, touched by the gesture.
Despite the circumstances, she had developed a genuine affection for her husband, who treated her with a tenderness few would have expected from the powerful Holy Roman Emperor.
The pregnancy progressed with difficulty, and she was increasingly confined to her apartments. Margaret Theresa spent her days reclining, surrounded by doctors, midwives, and ladies-in-waiting who monitored every aspect of her failing health.
“The baby moves a lot,” she remarked one afternoon to Maria Bernardina, who remained faithfully at her side, refusing to return to Spain, as many other ladies of the original retinue had done. “Sometimes I feel it struggling inside me as if seeking more space.”
The lady placed a hand on her mistress’s swollen belly.
“It’s a good sign, Your Majesty. It indicates the child is strong.”
What she didn’t say was that she feared that this strength might be too much for the Empress’s weakened body. Imperial physicians had privately expressed their concerns. The narrowness of Margaret Theresa’s pelvis, another consequence of inherited deformities, could seriously complicate childbirth.
On March 28, 1668, after a labor that had kept her asleep for two days and nearly cost her her life, Margaret Theresa gave birth to a daughter. The little girl, whom they named Maria Antonia, was surprisingly healthy, considering the circumstances, although she already showed signs of the characteristic Habsburg prognathism.
“Beautiful,” Margaret Theresa whispered when the newborn was presented to her, wrapped in silk blankets and lace.
Her voice was barely audible after the hours of agony. Leopold, who had been praying in the chapel during the delivery, entered the room, his face tense with worry. The doctors had informed him of his wife’s critical condition.
“Our daughter is perfect, just like her mother,” he said, bending down to kiss Margaret Theresa’s sweaty forehead. “You have been very brave, my love.”
The young empress tried to smile, but she didn’t have the strength even for that simple gesture. Her body, pushed to its limits by the pregnancy and during childbirth, she had suffered damage that the doctors feared was irreparable.
“You must rest now,” Leopoldo gently ordered, noticing his wife’s eyelids closing involuntarily. “Our little Maria Antonia and I will be here when you wake up.”
Margarita Teresa nodded slightly before sinking into a restless sleep. What she did not know was that this first birth, although successful in producing a live heiress, had dramatically accelerated the deterioration of her malformed body, marking the beginning of the end for the young Spanish woman who had crossed Europe to fulfill her dynastic destiny.
The years following Maria Antonia’s birth were a continuous cycle of pregnancies, abortions, and traumatic births for Margarita Teresa. Her body, increasingly deformed by her Habsburg genetic heritage and weakened by successive pregnancies, seemed to be wasting away before the eyes of the Viennese court.
On a cold January morning in 1670, the 19-year-old empress lay in her bed, unable to get up without help. Her third pregnancy had ended two weeks earlier with the birth of a child who barely survived a few hours, showing such severe deformities that imperial doctors ordered him to be kept hidden even from his parents.
“His Imperial Majesty must drink this infusion to regain his strength,” insisted Countess Harrach, holding a steaming cup. “Dr. Marchese has added special herbs brought from the Indies.”
Margaret Theresa turned her head slightly, a movement that even now was painful due to the increasing stiffness in her neck.
“Has the Emperor come this morning?”
The lady exchanged a glance with Maria Bernardina before answering.
“His Imperial Majesty has had to attend to urgent Council business. The Turkish threat in Hungary requires his full attention.”
It was a half-truth. Leopold, though genuinely distressed by his wife’s suffering, found it increasingly difficult to witness her decline. Doctors had privately warned him that another pregnancy would likely kill Margaret Theresa, placing the Emperor in the difficult position of choosing between his dynastic duty to secure a male heir and the life of the woman he had, against all odds, come to love.
Despite the medical warnings, political pressure prevailed. The imperial couple’s only surviving child, Maria Antonia, could not inherit all the territories due to the Salic laws that governed parts of the empire. Spain, meanwhile, still lacked a clear male heir after the death of King Philip IV in 1665, making Margaret Theresa’s descendants potential claimants to the Spanish throne.
“The letters from Madrid insist on the need for a male heir,” commented the Empress’s confessor, a Spanish Jesuit who had remained with her since her arrival in Vienna. “The Queen Regent believes that only a prince of your blood could reunite the crowns if necessary.”
Margarita Teresa, seated in an armchair specially designed to accommodate her increasingly curved back, gazed at the snowy gardens through the window. His prematurely aged face showed the ravages of his physical suffering and the heavy burden of his dynastic responsibility.
“Can’t you see I’m dying, Father?” he asked with unusual frankness. His voice was distorted by the progressive deformation of his jaw. “Each child I try to bring into the world takes me one step closer to the grave.”
The priest looked down uncomfortably.
“God in his infinite wisdom…”
“Don’t talk about the wisdom of God,” she interrupted him in a burst of emotion that surprised them both. “Tell me about the folly of the men who created this sick dynasty. Look at my hands, father.”
He extended his visibly deformed fingers, with swollen joints and an almost translucent pallor.
“This is the pure blood of the Habsburgs. This is the legacy we pass on to our children, if they survive.”
The Jesuit, shaken by the Empress’s frankness, murmured a Latin prayer before replying:
“Your Imperial Majesty speaks from pain, and God in His mercy understands this. But remember that your sacrifice serves a purpose greater than ourselves. The dynasty, the faith, the empire.”
“The dynasty dies with me, Father,” Margaret Theresa replied, turning back to look out the window. “I feel it in my bones.”
Despite her failing health, the Empress became pregnant again in the autumn of 1670. The news was met with mixed feelings at the imperial court, official joy expressed in public celebrations, but genuine concern among those who knew the sovereign’s true condition.
“We must limit the Empress’s public appearances during this pregnancy,” Leopold ordered his chief chamberlain. “Her health is too fragile to withstand the rigors of protocol.”
The chamberlain nodded. Although he knew that such a decision would fuel the rumors already circulating in Vienna.
“I must also cancel the celebrations for Her Imperial Majesty’s birthday in July.”
Leopold hesitated. By then, Margaret Theresa would be in her seventh month of pregnancy, if indeed the pregnancy progressed that far. Her previous pregnancies had been increasingly complicated, the last ending in a painful miscarriage that nearly cost her her life.
“I will consult with the doctors,” he finally replied, “but prepare for a more intimate celebration than in previous years.”
In the Empress’s private apartments, the ladies-in-waiting were preparing the medicinal bath the doctors had prescribed to alleviate the pains that tormented their mistress. The water, infused with herbs brought from all over the empire, gave off an intense aroma that permeated the entire room.
“She hasn’t been able to keep down any solid food for three days,” Countess Harrach whispered to Maria Bernardina as they warmed towels by the fire. “Dr. Spinola fears that both the mother and the child are malnourished.”
Maria Bernardina, who had aged prematurely during these years in the service of her suffering mistress, nodded with a grave expression.
“I have written to Madrid informing them about the situation, but the replies only talk about prayers and masses for his health, as if that could straighten his bones or strengthen his blood.”
The pregnancy had accentuated all of Margarita Teresa’s deformities. His already prominent jaw seemed to have projected even further forward, making it almost impossible to completely close his mouth. Her spine, increasingly curved, pressed on her internal organs, making breathing and digestion difficult. Her legs, weak and with swollen joints, could barely support her, confining her to the bed or to specially adapted chairs.
“They say there is a Jewish doctor in Prague who has treated similar cases,” the emperor remarked one afternoon to his closest advisor as they watched from a discreet distance as two robust maids carried Margaret Theresa from her bed to an armchair by the window. “Cases of extreme consanguinity in some noble families of Bohemia.”
The advisor, aware of the sensitivity of the issue, chose his words carefully.
“I have heard of your methods, Your Majesty, but bringing in a Jewish doctor to treat the Catholic Empress would cause a scandal in both Vienna and Madrid.”
Leopoldo clenched his fists in frustration.
“What good are our prejudices if my wife is dying because of them? What good is the purity of Habsburg blood if that same blood is slowly killing it?”
“Perhaps we could consult their methods indirectly through Christian physicians,” the advisor suggested. “Dr. Borri corresponded with colleagues throughout Europe, including some converts.”
The emperor agreed, though both knew that any remedy would likely come too late. The medicine of the time, with its bloodletting and potions based more on superstition than science, could do little to counter centuries of dynastic inbreeding.
Margaret Theresa’s sixth pregnancy came to term in March 1671, but the delivery was a prolonged agony that lasted almost three days. The empress, barely 20 years old but with a body ravaged by successive pregnancies and congenital malformations, struggled to give birth while the imperial physicians debated desperately how to proceed.
“The child is malpositioned,” Dr. Spinola quietly informed the emperor, who waited in an antechamber, alternating between prayers and moments of profound anguish. “And the Empress is too weak to endure any more hours of work.”
“What options do we have?” asked Leopold, his face pale with worry and exhaustion.
The doctor hesitated before answering.
“There are procedures, but they are extremely dangerous. We could try to turn the child, but in Her Imperial Majesty’s current condition…”
He didn’t need to finish the sentence. They both knew that any aggressive intervention would likely kill Margaret Theresa, but the alternative—doing nothing—could result in the loss of both mother and child.
“What would you do if the patient weren’t the Empress, but an ordinary woman?” Leopold asked, surprising the doctor with his frankness.
“I would try to save the mother, Your Majesty. In these cases, the woman’s life takes priority, especially when she has already proven her fertility and has other children.”
The Emperor closed his eyes for a moment, as if the decision weighed heavily on him.
“Do whatever is necessary to save my wife, Doctor. It is an imperial order.”
Despite the doctors’ efforts, the son Margaret Theresa finally gave birth to was stillborn with such severe deformities that those present in the room crossed themselves at the sight. The Empress, unconscious during the final hours of labor due to the heavy doses of laudanum she had been given, did not immediately learn of the outcome.
“She has lost too much blood,” Dr. Von Haller gravely reported, while the midwives and maids worked frantically to stop the bleeding, “and I fear there may be irreparable internal damage.”
In the following days, while Margarita Teresa fluctuated between consciousness and unconsciousness, the news of the infant’s death was kept secret. Leopold, devastated by grief but mindful of his imperial duties, ordered that private funerals be held and that the body be buried in the imperial crypt without public ceremonies.
“When will I be able to see my son?” Margarita Teresa would ask in her lucid moments. Her voice was barely a whisper due to her extreme weakness.
The ladies-in-waiting exchanged anxious glances, following instructions not to disturb the Empress with the truth until she had recovered enough to bear it.
“The little one is being cared for by the wet nurses, Your Majesty,” Maria Bernardina would invariably reply, holding her mistress’s deformed hand. “You must focus on regaining your strength first.”
It was a white lie that everyone at court kept, hoping for a miracle that would eventually allow them to reveal the truth without completely destroying Margaret Theresa’s fragile spirit.
As the spring of 1671 gave way to summer, it became clear that the Empress would not recover. Infections followed one after another, resisting all treatments. His body, already compromised by years of physical trauma, could no longer fight.
