Castile for Isabella

CHAPTER XII FERDINAND IN CASTILE

A great sorrow had descended on the King of Aragon. His beloved wife was dying and he could not help but be aware of this.

Nor was Joan Henriquez ignorant of the fact. She had for several years fought against the internal disease which she knew to be a fatal one, and only her rare and intrepid spirit had kept her alive so long.

But there came a time when she could not ignore the warnings that she had but a few hours to live.

The King sat at her bedside, her hand in his. Ferdinand sat with them, and it was when the Queen’s eyes fell on her son that mingling emotions moved across her face.

There he was, her Ferdinand, this handsome boy of sixteen, with his fair hair and strong features, in her eyes as beautiful as a god. For him she had become the woman she was, and even on her death-bed she could regret nothing.

She, the strong woman, was responsible for the existing state of affairs in Aragon. She had taken her place by the side of her son and husband in the fight to quell rebellion. She was wise enough to know that they were fortunate because Aragon was still theirs. She had risked a great deal for Ferdinand.

The Catalans would never forget what they called the murder of Carlos. They had refused to admit any member of the Aragonese Cortes into Barcelona; they had elected, in place of John of Aragon, Rene le Bon of Anjou to rule over them, in spite of the fact that he was an ageing man and could not fight, as he would have to, to hold what they had bestowed upon him.

But he had a son, John, Duke of Calabria and Lorraine, a bold adventurer who, with the secret help of sly Louis XI, came to do battle against the King of Aragon. King John of Aragon was no longer young. To help him there was his energetic wife and his brave son Ferdinand; but there were times when John felt that the ghost of his murdered son, Carlos, stood between him and final victory.

For some years John’s eyesight had been failing him, and he lived in daily terror of going completely blind.

Now, beside his wife’s bed, he could say to himself: ‘She will be taken from me, even as my eyesight. But the loss of her will mean more than the loss of my sight.’

Was ever a man so broken? And he believed he knew why good fortune had forsaken him. The ghost of Carlos knew the answer too.

And so he sat by his wife’s bed. He could not see her clearly, yet he remembered every detail of that well-loved face. He could not see the handsome boy kneeling there, yet the memory of that eager young face would never leave him.

‘John,’ said Joan, and her fingers tightened on his, ‘it cannot be long now.’

For answer he pressed her hand. He knew it was useless to deny the truth.

‘I shall go,’ went on Joan, ‘with many sins on my conscience.’

John kissed her hand. ‘You are the bravest and best woman who has ever lived in Aragon... or anywhere else.’

‘The most ambitious wife and mother,’ murmured Joan. ‘I lived for you two. All I did was for you. I remember that now. Perhaps because of that I may in some measure be forgiven.’

‘There will be no need of forgiveness.’

‘John... I sense a presence here. It is not you. It is not Ferdinand. It is another.’

‘There is no one here but ourselves, Mother,’ Ferdinand reassured her.

‘Is there not? Then my mind wanders. I thought I saw Carlos at the foot of my bed.’

‘It could not be, my dearest,’ whispered John, ‘for he is long since dead.’

‘Dead... but perhaps not resting in his tomb.’

Ferdinand raised his eyes and looked at his dying mother, at his aged and blind father. He thought: The end of the old life is near. She is going, and he will not live long after her.

It was as though Joan sensed his thoughts, as though she saw her beloved Ferdinand still but a boy. He was sixteen. It was not old enough to wage a war against Lorraine, against sly Louis. John must not die. If she had committed crimes – which she would commit again for Ferdinand – they must not have been committed in vain.

‘John,’ she said, ‘are you there, John?’

‘Yes, my dearest.’

‘Your eyes, John. Your eyes... You cannot see, can you?’

‘Each day they grow more dim.’

‘There is a Hebrew doctor in Lerida. I have heard he can perform miracles. He has, it is said, restored sight to blind men. He must do that for you, John.’

‘My eyes are too far gone for that, my love. Do not think of me. Are you comfortable? Is there anything we can do to make you happier?’

‘You must allow this man to perform the operation, John. It is necessary. Ferdinand...’

‘I am here, my mother.’

‘Ah, Ferdinand, my son, my own son. I was speaking to your father. I would not forget that, though you be brave as a lion, you are young yet. You must be there, John, until he is a little older. You must not be blind. You must see this Jew. Promise me.’

‘I promise, my dearest.’

She seemed contented now. She lay back on her pillows.

‘Ferdinand,’ she whispered, ‘you will be King of Aragon. It is what I always intended for you, my darling.’

‘Yes, Mother.’

‘You will be a great King, Ferdinand. You will always remember what obstacles were in the way of your greatness and how I and your father removed them... one by one.’

‘I will remember, Mother.’

‘Oh Ferdinand, my son... Oh, John my husband, we are not alone, are we?’

‘Yes, Mother, we are alone.’

‘Only the three of us here together, my love,’ whispered John.

‘You are wrong,’ said Joan; ‘there is another. There is a presence here. Can you not see him? No, you cannot. It is because of your eyes. You must see that Jew, husband. You have promised. It is a sacred promise given on my death-bed. Ferdinand, you cannot see either for you are too young to see. But there is another here. He stares at me from the end of the bed. It is my stepson, Carlos. He comes to remind me. He is here that I may not forget my sins.’

‘She rambles,’ said Ferdinand. ‘Father, should I call the priests?’

‘Yes, my son, call the priests. There is little time left, I fear.’

‘Ferdinand, you are leaving me.’

‘I will be back soon, Mother.’

‘Ferdinand, come close to me. Ferdinand, my son, my life, never forget me. I loved you, Ferdinand, as few are loved. Oh my son, how dear you have cost your mother.’

‘It is time to call the priests,’ said the King. ‘Ferdinand, delay no longer. There is so little time left. There is only time for repentance and departure.’

So Ferdinand left the King and Queen of Aragon together, and the King bent over the bed and kissed the dying lips of the woman for love of whom he had murdered his first-born son.

King John of Aragon lay on his couch while the Jew performed the operation on his eye. The Jew had been reluctant. He was ready enough to try his skill on men of lesser rank, but he feared what would be his fate if an operation on the King should fail.

John lay still, scarcely feeling the pain, indeed being almost glad of it.

He had lost his wife and he no longer cared to live. For so long Joan had been everything to him. He saw her as the perfect wife, so handsome, so brave, so determined. He would not face the fact that it was due to her ambition for her own son that Aragon had suffered a long and bloody civil war. He had loved her with all the devotion of which he was capable; and now that she was gone, he could only find pleasure in carrying out her wishes.

That was why he now lay on this couch placing his life in the hands of the Hebrew doctor. If it were possible to save his eyes, this man would do it, he knew. There were no doctors in Spain to compare with the Jewish doctors, who had advanced far beyond the Spaniards in medical skill; and this man would know that his fortune would be made if he saved the eyes of the King.

And when I have the sight of one eye, thought John, I shall dedicate myself, as she would have wished, to making secure Ferdinand’s succession to the throne of Aragon.

The operation was successful, and John had recovered the sight of one eye. He sent for the doctor and said: ‘Now you must perform the same operation on the other eye.’

The man was afraid. He had done it once, but could he repeat it? Such operations were by no means always successful.

‘Highness,’ he said, ‘I could not attempt to work on your second eye. The stars are against success.’

‘A plague on the stars!’ cried John. ‘You will forget them and give my other eye its sight.’

Everyone at Court trembled when they heard what was about to take place. They believed that, since the stars were against the performing of the operation, it could not succeed.

The doctor was in great fear, but he thought it more expedient to obey the King than the stars, and the operation was performed.

Thus John of Aragon, now almost eighty years of age, was cured of his blindness and, in obedience to the wishes of his dead wife, prepared himself to hold the crown of Aragon for Ferdinand.

With the return of his sight, John of Aragon regained a great deal of that energy which had been his chief characteristic in the past. John was shrewd and clever; his vulnerable spot had been his love for Joan Henriquez, and that in itself had been the stronger because of the strength of his character. His love for his wife had forced him to give to her son all the affection he had for his children, which meant robbing those by his first wife. John knew that the war, which had lasted so many years and had impoverished him and Aragon, was entirely due to his treatment of Carlos. Joan had demanded the sacrifice of Carlos, that her son Ferdinand might be his father’s heir; and willingly had John given her all that she asked, because he found it impossible to deny her anything.

Now he did not regret what he had done. He was as determined as Joan had been that Ferdinand should rule Aragon.

The greatest pleasure left to him was to contemplate this handsome, virile youth, who had, under his mother’s tuition, been trained for the great role which was being won for him.

If, thought John, before I was a father I had imagined a son who could be all that I looked for, he would have been exactly like Ferdinand.

Ferdinand was lusty; he was brave; he cherished what he had, because he had been fully aware that it had been won with blood and anguish, and he was as determined to hold it as his parents had been to give it to him.

How blessed am I in Ferdinand, his father often said.

And so to the Court of Aragon came the embassy led by Isabella’s faithful servants, Gutierre de Cardenas and Alonso de Palencia.

John received them with great pleasure, for he knew their mission; his great regret was that Joan was not alive to share this triumph. He went to his son’s apartment, and when they were alone together, he told him of the arrival of the embassy from Isabella.

‘It is the best possible news,’ he said. ‘I could not imagine a match which would have given your mother greater pleasure.’

‘Isabella,’ mused Ferdinand. ‘I hear she is comely, though a little older than myself.’

‘A year! What is a year at your age?’

‘It is not much perhaps. But I hear that she has a will of her own.’

John laughed. ‘It will be for you to make your will hers. She is very ready to love you. Of that we are certain. She has refused many suitors, and on all these occasions has affirmed that she was betrothed to you.’

‘She will be faithful then,’ said Ferdinand.

‘There are conditions,’ went on John. ‘It would seem that Castilians believe they are greatly honouring us in bestowing the hand of their future Queen upon us.’

‘Honouring us!’ cried Ferdinand hotly. ‘We must make them understand that we are Aragon!’

‘Ah, Aragon. In sorry state is Aragon at this time. By the saints, son, I wonder how we are going to fit you out for your wedding. Now, let us look at this matter calmly. Let us not quarrel with Castile. Let them believe for the present that they greatly honour us. We must get you married quickly, and then you will show your Isabella that you are lord and master.’

‘I will do that,’ said Ferdinand. ‘I hear she is handsome, yet haughty. She is a little prim.’ He smiled. ‘I shall teach her to cast aside her primness.’

‘You will remember that she is not a tavern girl.’

‘Yes, but tavern girls perhaps are not so very different from Queens in some respects.’

‘I would not have such remarks overheard and reported to Isabella. So have a care. Now listen. This Isabella is clearly a determined young woman. She has a year’s advantage of you. You have been in battle, and have led to some extent a soldier’s life, for all your tender years. She has lived a cloistered life but, make no mistake about it, she has been brought up to be a Queen. These are the conditions of the marriage agreement: You must live in Castile and not leave it without the consent of Isabella.’

‘What!’ interrupted Ferdinand. ‘I should be as her slave.’

‘Hush, my son. Think of the richness of Castile and Leon; then think of poor Aragon. You will be the master – in time. At first it may be necessary to be a little more humble than you would wish to be.’

‘Well,’ said Ferdinand, ‘what next?’

‘You are not to take property to yourself which belongs to the crown, nor make appointments without her consent. You shall jointly make decrees of a public nature; but she, personally, will nominate ecclesiastical benefices.’

Ferdinand grimaced.

His father went on: ‘You will help her in every way to make war on the Moors.’

‘That I will do with all my heart and all my strength.’

‘You must respect the present King, and not ask for the return of that property in Castile which formerly belonged to us.’

‘She makes a hard bargain, this Isabella.’

‘But she comes with a handsome dowry. Moreover, she brings you Castile. Oh, my son, it cost your mother and myself a great deal to give you Aragon. Now comes Isabella to offer you Castile.’

‘Then, Father, shall we accept these conditions?’

‘With great delight, my son. Come, you are not looking as pleased as you should.’

‘It would seem we must humble ourselves rather more than I like.’

John put his arm about his son’s shoulders.

‘Come, come, my boy. I doubt not you will very soon have your own way. You are a handsome man, and Isabella – she may be the future Queen of Castile, but remember, she is also a woman.’

Ferdinand laughed aloud.

He was completely confident of his power to rule both Aragon and Castile – and Isabella.

Isabella knew that her situation was dangerous and that the Marquis of Villena would sooner or later learn that she had sent an embassy to Aragon; she knew also that if it were discovered that she had gone as far as signing an agreement with Aragon, Villena would stop at nothing to prevent her marriage with Ferdinand.

Villena with Henry had gone to South Castile to deal with the last stronghold of the rebels; and Isabella, taking advantage of their absence, slipped quietly out of Ocaña to Madrigal.

Here she was received by the Bishop of Burgos; but she was somewhat alarmed, for he was the nephew of Villena and it occurred to her that he was probably more devoted to the Marquis than to that other relative, the Archbishop of Toledo.

She was right. The Bishop lost no time in sending a message to his uncle Villena telling him of Isabella’s arrival.

Villena’s reply came: ‘Have her watched. Bribe her servants, and if you should discover that she has been in touch with Aragon, lose no time in informing me.’

The Bishop was eager to serve his powerful uncle, and in a very short time many servants in Isabella’s entourage had been offered bribes to report Isabella’s actions; and many letters which she wrote passed through the hands of the Bishop of Burgos before being sent on to their destination.

It was therefore not long before the Bishop discovered how far matters had gone between Isabella and Ferdinand.

Villena was furious. He raged against Isabella.

‘This,’ he cried to Henry, ‘is your pious sister. She vows that she will not marry without your consent, but as soon as our backs are turned she is in communication with Aragon.’

‘We did break our part of the bargain,’ suggested Henry timidly.

Villena snapped his fingers. ‘There is one thing we can do now: make her our prisoner. We were foolish not to do so before.’

‘But we tried,’ said Henry. ‘And the people of Ocaña would not have it. I am afraid that Isabella, like young Alfonso, has that quality in her which arouses the loyalty of the people.’

‘The loyalty of the people!’ snapped Villena. ‘We will put her where she cannot appeal to that – and where the gallant Ferdinand cannot reach her. We shall give orders at once for the Archbishop of Seville to go to Madrigal and take with him a strong enough force to seize and make her our prisoner.’

‘And what of the people of Madrigal? Will they allow her to be made a prisoner, any more than those of Ocaña did?’

‘We shall make them aware of our displeasure, should they help her to resist arrest. We will strike such fear into them that they will not dare.’

Henry looked worried. ‘She is, after all, my sister.’

‘Highness, are you prepared to leave this matter in my hands?’

‘As ever, my dear friend.’

Isabella was told that the leading citizen of Madrigal was asking to be admitted to her presence.

She received him at once.

‘Highness,’ he said, ‘I come on behalf of my fellow citizens. We are in great peril, and so are you. We have received word from the King that you are about to be placed under arrest and that, should we attempt to help you, we shall suffer greatly. I have come to warn you to escape, for, in view of these threats, we of Madrigal dare do nothing to help you.’

Isabella graciously thanked him for his warning and sent for two of her servants, both of whom she knew she could completely trust.

‘I want you to take two messages for me – one to the Archbishop of Toledo and the other to Admiral Henriquez,’ she said. ‘This is a matter of the utmost urgency. There is not a second to lose. You will go at once, and with all speed.’

As soon as they had gone she sent her page to summon Beatriz and Mencia to her presence, and when the women arrived she said calmly: ‘We are leaving Madrigal. I want you to go ahead of me. Go to Coca... it is not far; and wait for me there.’

Beatriz was about to protest, but there were times when Isabella reminded her that she was the mistress, and Beatriz was always quick to appreciate her meaning.

A little hurt, the two women retired, and Isabella was uneasy until they had left. She knew that if the Bishop of Seville arrived to arrest her, he would take prisoner her confidential women also, and she wished to save Beatriz and Mencia even if she could not save herself.

They would be safe in Coca. She would not be. She needed to be under the safe protection of strong men.

Now began the anxious vigil when Isabella waited at her window. Soon she would hear the sound of advancing cavalry and shouts from below, and her future might depend upon this day’s events. She did not know what would happen to her if she fell into the hands of the Bishop of Seville. She would be the King’s prisoner – or more accurately, Villena’s – and she did not think she would easily regain her freedom.

Then what would the future hold for her? An enforced marriage? With Alfonso of Portugal? With Richard of Gloucester? They would rid themselves of her in some way. They would wish to banish her either to Portugal or England. And if she refused?

Would it be the old familiar pattern? Would her servants find her one morning as Alfonso’s had found him?

And Ferdinand? What of him? Eagerly he had accepted the marriage agreement. He understood, she was sure, even as she did, the glory that could come from the union of Castile and Aragon. But once she fell into the hands of the Archbishop of Seville, once Villena became the master of her fate, that would be the end of all their dreams and hopes.

And so she waited.

At length she heard what she listened for, and then... she saw him, the fiery, militant Archbishop of Toledo, now her loyal servant, ready to snatch her from under the very nose of the Bishop of Burgos who had meant to offer her up to his uncle, Villena.

She heard that resounding voice.

‘Conduct me to the Princess Isabella.’

He stood before her.

‘Highness, there is little time to lose. I have soldiers below. Enough to ensure our safe departure from this place, but it would be better if we left before Seville arrives with his troop. Come with all speed.’

And so Isabella rode away from Madrigal only a little while before the Archbishop of Seville arrived to find the prize was gone.

‘On!’ cried Alfonso Carillo, Archbishop of Toledo, from now on Isabella’s most firm supporter. ‘On to Valladolid, where we can be sure of a loyal welcome for the future Queen of Castile.’

What joy it was to be received with acclaim by the citizens of Valladolid, and to know that they looked upon her as their future Queen.

But when the triumphant parade was over the Archbishop came to Isabella and reminded her – as she knew already – that this was no time for delay.

‘I know my nephew, the Marquis of Villena,’ said the Archbishop. ‘He is a man of great resource, and he is as sly as a fox. I would meet him happily enough on the field of battle, but I would not care to have to match myself against his devious diplomacy. There is one thing we must do and that with all speed: hasten the marriage.’

‘I am willing that we should proceed with all haste,’ Isabella assured him.

‘Then, Highness, I will despatch envoys at once to Saragossa, and this time we will inform Ferdinand that it is imperative that he set out for Castile with all speed.’

‘Let it be done,’ said Isabella.

When Villena heard that Isabella had escaped him he was furious.

‘And to think,’ he said, ‘that it was due to my own uncle.’ Then he laughed, and there was a note of pride in his laughter. ‘Trust the old man to get there before that fool, Seville.’ And it amused him that members of his family should be deciding the fate of Castile even though they were now on opposite sides.

He went to the King.

‘I know my uncle, and I’ll swear that his first action will be to bring Ferdinand into Castile. He will marry him to Isabella, and thus we shall have not only Isabella’s adherents but Aragon against us. Moreover, once Isabella is married we cannot hope to rid ourselves of her. It is imperative that Ferdinand and Isabella never meet.’

‘But how shall we prevent this?’

‘By taking Ferdinand prisoner as soon as he sets foot in Castile.’

‘You can do this? But how?’

‘Highness, we must do it. Let us make our plans. He will come through the frontier town of Osma. There he will receive the aid of Medina Celi. So he believes. We must make sure that Medina Celi is our man... not Isabella’s.’

‘That will not be easy,’ said the King.

‘But we will make sure of it,’ answered Villena. His eyes narrowed. ‘I will threaten our little Duke of Medina Celi with the direst penalties if he should aid Ferdinand. I assure Your Highness that Medina Celi will watch on our behalf, and the moment Ferdinand arrives we shall be informed. The King and Queen of Aragon went to great lengths to make him the heir to their crown. We will go to as great lengths to make sure he never touches that of Castile. Of course I have Your Highness’s permission to deal with Medina Celi?’

‘You must do as you wish, but how glad I shall be when all this strife is at an end.’

‘Leave this matter to me, Highness. Once we have curbed our haughty Isabella... once she is safely despatched to Portugal or... elsewhere... then, I promise you, there shall be peace in this land.’

‘I pray the saints it will be soon,’ sighed Henry.

When the embassy arrived at Saragossa, John of Aragon found himself in a quandary.

He sent for Ferdinand.

‘Here is a pretty state of affairs,’ he said. ‘I hear from the Archbishop of Toledo that Villena is trying to prevent the match; and the Archbishop fears he will succeed unless the marriage takes place immediately. He suggests that you set out at once for Valladolid.’

‘Well, Father, I am ready.’

John of Aragon groaned. ‘My son, how can you go into Castile as Isabella’s bridegroom, when there are no more than three hundred enriques in the treasury? What sort of figure will you cut!’

Ferdinand looked grave. ‘I cannot go as a beggar, Father.’

‘I do not know how else you can go. I had hoped that there would be a little respite to enable me to get the money for your journey. I am making you King of Sicily so that you will enter Castile with the rank of King, but how can we possibly send you without the necessary pomp, the glittering garments and all that you will need for your wedding?’

‘Then we must wait...’

‘To delay could be to lose Isabella. Villena is working with all his might against the match. I believe his plan is to rid Castile of Isabella – perhaps by marriage, perhaps by other methods – and no doubt set up La Beltraneja in her place. My son, you may have to fight your way to Isabella...’ John stopped, and a smile spread across his face. ‘Why, Ferdinand, I think I have the solution to our problem. Listen to me. I will tell you briefly and then we will lay this plan before a secret council.’

‘I am eager to hear what you propose, Father,’ said Ferdinand.

‘The frontier from Almazin to Guadalajara will be dangerous for you to cross. It is the property of the Mendoza family which, as you know, supports La Beltraneja. If you travelled as yourself, with the embassy, nobles and servants, you would find it impossible to cross that frontier unobserved.

But what say you, my son, if you went with a party of merchants? What if you were disguised as one of their servants? I’ll warrant then that you would travel to Valladolid unmolested.’

Ferdinand wrinkled his nose in distaste. ‘In the attire of a servant, Father!’

John put his arm about the young man’s shoulder.

‘It is the answer,’ he cried. ‘You will remember, Ferdinand, that a kingdom is at stake. Now I consider this, I see that it is the only manner in which you could hope to reach Isabella in safety. And think! It provides us with the excuse we need. What folly to equip you as a King when you travel as a merchant’s lackey!’

As soon as the innkeeper received the party of merchants he noticed their lackey. The fellow had an insolent air, and it was clear that he thought himself superior to the position he occupied.

‘Here, fellow,’ cried the innkeeper when the merchants were being ushered to the table, ‘you’ll need to go to the stables and see that your masters’ mules are being watered and fed.’

The arrogant fellow’s eyes flashed, and for a moment the innkeeper thought he struck an attitude as though he would draw his sword – if he possessed one.

One of the merchants intervened. ‘My good host, let your grooms attend to our mules... water and feed them while we ourselves are at table. As for our servant here, he will wait upon us.’

‘As you wish, good sirs,’ was the answer.

‘And,’ went on the merchant, ‘bring in the dishes. Our man will do the rest. We would be left in peace to eat our meal as we have business to discuss.’

‘I am at your service, my masters.’

When the landlord had left them, Ferdinand grimaced.

‘I fear I make an indifferent lackey.’

‘Considering that Your Highness has never played the part before, you do it very well.’

‘Yet I fancy the man believes me to be an unusual servant, and that is what we must avoid. I shall be glad when the role is ended. It becomes me not.’

Ferdinand touched the rough cloth of his serving-man’s doublet with distaste. He was young enough to be vain of his personal appearance, and because all through his life he had lived in fear of losing his inheritance, his dignity was especially dear to him. He was less philosophical than his father, and less able to stomach the indignity of creeping into Castile like a beggar. He had to accept the fact that Castile and Leon were of greater significance than Aragon; and it went hard with him that he, a man and prospective husband, should have to take second place with his future wife.

It should not continue to be so, he told himself, once he and Isabella were married.

‘It will not be long, Highness,’ he was told, ‘that you have to masquerade thus. When we reach the castle of the Count of Trevino in Osma it will not be necessary for you to travel thus ignobly. And Trevino is waiting for us with a right good welcome.’

‘I can scarcely wait for our arrival at Osma.’

The innkeeper had come in to usher into the room a servant who carried a steaming dish of olla podrida. It smelt good, and for a moment the men sniffed at it so hungrily that Ferdinand, who had been leaning against the table talking to the merchants, forgot to adopt the attitude of a servant.

So surprised was the innkeeper that he stopped and stared.

Ferdinand immediately understood and tried to put on a humble air, but he felt he had betrayed himself.

When he was again alone with his friends, he said: ‘I hope the innkeeper does not suspect that we are not what we pretend to be.’

‘We will soon deal with him, Highness, should he show too much curiosity.’

Ferdinand said it would be better if he were not addressed as Highness until the journey was over.

As they were eating their meal, one of the men looked up suddenly and saw a face at the window. It disappeared immediately, so that he was not sure whether it had been that of the innkeeper or one of his servants.

‘Look! The window,’ he said quietly; but the others were too late to see the face.

When he explained what he had seen dismay fell on the company.

‘There can be no doubt,’ said Ferdinand, ‘that we are under suspicion.’

‘I will go out and slit the throat of the inquisitive innkeeper and all his servants,’ cried one member of the band.

‘That would indeed be folly,’ said another. ‘Perhaps the same idle curiosity is shown here towards all travellers. Eat as fast as you can and we will be gone. It may well be that someone has already sent a message to our enemies, telling them of our arrival at this inn.’

‘They could not possibly see anything strange in a party of merchants... No, it is curiosity, nothing more. Come, let us eat in peace.’

‘Eat certainly,’ said Ferdinand, ‘but there is too much at stake to linger. Doubtless I have betrayed us by my manners. Let us hasten away from this place. We will pass the night out of doors or in some inn which we feel will be quite safe... but not here.’

They ate hurriedly and in silence, and one of their party called in the innkeeper and settled the account.

They left the inn and rode on, but when they had gone some distance they began to laugh at their fears. The innkeeper and his servants were oafs who would know nothing of the coming of the heir of Aragon into Castile, and they had allowed themselves to be frightened without cause.

‘Spend the night out of doors!’ cried Ferdinand. ‘Certainly not. We will find an inn and have a good night’s sleep there.’

The man who had paid the innkeeper gave a sudden cry of dismay.

He had pulled up his mule, and the others pulled up with him.

‘The purse,’ he said, ‘I must have left it on the dining table!’

They were all dismayed, for the purse contained the money to defray their expenses during the journey.

‘I must go back for it,’ he said.

There was a short silence.

Then Ferdinand said: ‘What if they did suspect? What if they make you their prisoner? No. We are well away from that inn. We will go on, without money. Castile is too big a prize to be lost for the sake of a few enriques.’

It was far into the night when they arrived outside the castle of the Count of Treviño.

Inside the castle there was tension.

The Count had given his instructions. ‘We must be prepared for an attack by our enemies. They know that we are for Isabella and that we shall offer shelter to the Prince of Aragon when he passes on his way to Valladolid. It may well be that the King’s men will attempt to storm the castle and take possession of it so that they, not we, will be here when Ferdinand arrives. Therefore keep watch. Let no one enter. Guard well the drawbridge and be ready on the battlements with your missiles.’

So the castle was bristling with defences when Ferdinand and his party arrived.

They were very weary and exhausted, for they had ridden through the night and the day without money to buy a meal; and when they came to the castle gates Ferdinand gave a great shout of joy.

‘Open up!’ he cried. ‘Open up! And delay not.’

But one of the guards watching from the battlements, determined to defend the castle against the Count’s enemies, believed that the King’s men were below.

He dislodged one of the great boulders which had been placed on the battlements for this purpose and sent it hurtling down to kill the man who had advanced a few paces ahead of the group.

This was Ferdinand; and the guard’s timing was sure.

Down came the massive boulder.

‘Highness!’ shouted one of the party who was watching Ferdinand, and there was such a shrill note of urgency in his voice that Ferdinand, alerted, jumped clear.

He was only just in time for the boulder landed on the spot where he had been standing, and Ferdinand had escaped death by only a few feet.

Startled into anger, Ferdinand called: ‘Is this the welcome that you promised us? I come to you, I, Ferdinand of Aragon, having travelled far in disguise, and you do your best to kill me after promising me succour!’

There was consternation in the castle. Torches appeared and faces were seen peering from the battlements.

Then there was shouting and creaking as the drawbridge was lowered, and the Count of Treviño himself hurried forward to kneel and ask pardon for the mistake which might so easily have turned the whole enterprise into tragedy.

‘You shall have my pardon as soon as you give us food,’ cried Ferdinand. ‘We are starving, my men and I.’

The Count gave orders to his servants; and across the drawbridge and into the great hall went Ferdinand’s party; and there, at a table laden with food which had been prepared for them, the travellers refreshed themselves and laughed together at their adventures. For the most dangerous part of the journey was over. Tomorrow they would set forth with an armed escort supplied, at Isabella’s command, by the Count of Treviño. Then it would be on to Dueñas, where Ferdinand would cease to be regarded as a humble lackey, and where he would find many noblemen rallying to his cause, eager to accompany him to Valladolid and Isabella.