Castile for Isabella

CHAPTER XIV THE DEATH OF HENRY

The first news of the marriage which reached Henry was brought by Isabella’s messenger.

He read his half-sister’s letter and trembled.

‘But this,’ he moaned, ‘was exactly what we wished to prevent. Now we shall have Aragon against us. Oh, what an unlucky man I am! I wish I had never been born to be King of Castile.’

He hesitated before showing Isabella’s letter to Villena, dreading the storm that it would arouse.

He let the letter drop from his hands, and fell to dreaming. He wished that he had not rid himself of Blanche. He thought of poor Blanche. How dreadful her last days must have been in the château of Ortes. Did she know that plans to murder her were afoot?

‘And if she had stayed in Castile, she would be alive now,’ he murmured. ‘And should I be worse off? I should not have my daughter... but is she mine? She is still known throughout the Court as La Beltraneja. Poor little girl! What trials await her!’

Henry shook his head. It was a sad fate to be born as she had been born, to be the centre of controversy over a throne. There had been Alfonso...

If he had not rid himself of Blanche, if he had tried to lead a better life, he would have been a happier man. Now there was nothing but scandal and conflict.

His Queen, Joanna, had left him and was living scandalously in Madrid. He was constantly hearing stories about her adventures. She had had many lovers and there were several illegitimate children of these unions.

Never had a man so urgently desired to live in peace; never had a man been so consistently denied it.

He could not postpone passing on the news to Villena. The Marquis would hear of it from some other source if he delayed.

He asked the page to bring Villena to his presence, and when the Marquis came, with a helpless shrug he handed him Isabella’s letter.

Villena’s face became purple with rage.

‘The marriage has actually taken place!’ he cried.

‘That is what she says.’

‘But this is monstrous. Ferdinand in Castile! I know what we must expect from that young man. There is none more ambitious in the whole of Spain.’

‘I do not think Isabella would attempt to usurp the throne,’ said Henry mildly.

‘Isabella! What say will she have in affairs does Your Highness think? She will be led into revolt. Holy Mother, on one side this ambitious young husband, and on the other my uncle Carillo who is thirsting for battle. This marriage should have been prevented at all costs.’

‘So far there is little harm done.’

Villena scowled and averted his gaze from the King.

He said: ‘There is one thing we must do. The Princess Joanna is now nearly nine years old. We shall find a suitable bridegroom for her and she shall be declared the rightful heiress of Castile.’ He began to laugh. ‘Then our young gallant from Aragon may begin to wonder whether he has made such a brilliant marriage after all.’

‘But Isabella has many supporters. Valladolid is firmly behind her. So are many other towns.’

‘We have Albuquerque; we have the Mendozas. I doubt not that many others will rally to our cause. Would to God that your Queen would not create such scandal in Madrid! It lends some truth to the slander that the Princess Joanna is not your daughter.’

‘My dear Villena, do you believe she is?’

Villena’s face grew a shade more purple.

‘I believe the Princess Joanna to be the true heir to the crowns of Castile and Leon,’ he retorted; ‘and by God and all his saints, ill shall befall any who reject that belief.’

Henry sighed.

Why, why, he pondered, were people so tiresome? Why must Villena be so fierce? Why must Isabella make this marriage which was so upsetting to them all?

‘Is there never to be peace?’ he demanded fretfully.

‘Yes,’ said Villena contemptuously, ‘when Isabella and her ambitious Ferdinand learn that they must stand aside for the true heiress of Castile.’

‘That,’ said Henry peevishly, ‘they will never learn.’

But Villena was not listening. He was already busy with plans.

It was an unusual little Court at Dueñas. There was so little money that it was often difficult to pay for their food and that of their servants. Yet Isabella had never been so happy in her life.

She was deeply in love with Ferdinand, and he was the most passionate and the most kind of husbands. He was delighted that her intelligence matched her physical charms and that she had a deep knowledge of political affairs.

Perhaps those months seemed so precious to them both because they knew that they were transient. They would not always live in such humble state. The day must come when they would leave their humble lodgings and take up residence in one of the castles, and all the pomp and ceremonies which surrounded the sovereigns of Castile and Leon be theirs.

Ferdinand longed for that day; and, in a way, so did Isabella. The delightful intimacies of this life would be lost perhaps, but for all her joy in it, Isabella must not forget that she and Ferdinand had been brought together, not for dalliance in sensuous pleasure, but to make of Spain a mighty country, to unite all Spaniards, to bring them to the true religion, to rid the country of its existing anarchy, to bring back law and order, and to release every acre of Spanish soil from the domination of the Infidel.

And a few months after her marriage, Isabella, to her great joy, discovered that she was pregnant.

Ferdinand embraced her with delight when he heard the news.

‘Why, my Isabella,’ he said, ‘you are indeed possessed of all the virtues. You are not only beautiful and of great intellect, you are fruitful! It is more than I dared hope for. But you look complacent, my love!’

She was complacent. She knew that she would give birth to great rulers. It was her destiny to do so.

In the monastery of Loyola, not far from Segovia, the King with the Marquis of Villena, the Duke of Albuquerque and several members of the influential Mendoza family and other highly placed noblemen had gathered in the company of the French ambassadors.

There was one present who was not often seen at such assemblies; this was Joanna, the Queen of Castile, who had come from Madrid to play a special part in these proceedings.

Henry addressed the assembly, Villena on one side of him and his Queen on the other.

‘My friends,’ said the King, ‘we are gathered here for a special purpose and I pray you listen to me and give me your support. We are beset by conflict which could at any moment break into civil war. My half-sister Isabella – as did her brother Alfonso before her – has set herself up as heiress of Castile and Leon. I do not forget that at one time I named her heiress to the throne. That was in the treaty of Toros de Guisando. There she agreed not to marry without my approval. She has broken her word. Therefore I declare that the treaty of Toros de Guisando becomes null and void, and my sister Isabella is no longer heiress to the throne of Castile and Leon.’

There was a murmur of approval in the gathering, led by Villena, Albuquerque and the Mendozas; it quickly became a roar.

Henry lifted his hand.

‘There is one whose place she usurps. This is my daughter, the Princess Joanna, now a child in her ninth year. Her mother has come here today to swear with me that the Princess is my daughter; and you will, when you have heard and accepted her testimony, agree with me that there can be only one heiress, the Princess Joanna.’

‘The Princess Joanna!’ chanted the audience. ‘Castile for Joanna!’

‘I am now going to ask the Queen to swear on oath that the Princess Joanna is the legitimate heiress of Spain.’

Joanna rose to her feet. She was still a beautiful woman but the lines of depravity were firmly etched on her face now, and there was a certain insolence in her demeanour which was far from queenly. Joanna was aware that all present knew of the retinue of lovers who attended her in Madrid, and of the children who had been the result; and quite clearly she was indifferent to this.

Now she cried: ‘I swear the Princess Joanna is the daughter of the King and no other.’

‘Castile for Joanna!’ cried the assembly.

Then the King rose and took his wife’s hand. ‘I swear with the Queen that the Princess Joanna is my daughter and no other.’

‘Castile for Joanna!’

The King then turned to the French ambassadors, among whom was the Count of Boulogne. The Count came forward.

‘It is our pleasure,’ said Henry, ‘formally to announce the betrothal of my daughter Joanna to the Duke of Guienne, brother of the King of France, and with the approval of the nobles of Castile the ceremony of betrothal will now take place, with the Count of Boulogne standing proxy for his master.’

‘Long live the Duke of Guienne!’ was the cry. ‘Castile for Joanna!’

Meanwhile, in the house of Juan de Vivero, Isabella was preparing for her confinement.

She was in a state of bliss. She shut herself in with her happiness. She was reading history; it was necessary to profit from the experience of others. She was studying state matters; and as usual she spent a great deal of time with her confessor and at prayers. Her life was divided between the study, which she believed to be necessary for a ruler who had a mighty task before her, and the domestic affairs of a wife and mother. Isabella had determined that in neither role should she fail.

It was delightful to sit with Ferdinand and talk of the reforms she intended to bring to Castile. When she heard stories of the terrible state of affairs, which existed in the country districts as well as in the towns, she would work out plans for righting this state of affairs. She planned to bring a new order to Castile; and she would with the aid of Ferdinand.

These intimate little conferences were all the more delightful because they were shared only by the two of them. Previously all political discussions had been presided over by the Archbishop of Toledo. Isabella had turned to him, trusting his loyalty and wisdom. But with the coming of Ferdinand it was with Ferdinand she wished to discuss affairs.

What could be more pleasant than a conference which was also a tête-à-tête for lovers!

The Archbishop found it far from pleasant.

On one occasion, when Ferdinand was on his way to Isabella’s apartments, he met the Archbishop also bound for the same destination.

‘I am going to the Princess,’ said Ferdinand, implying that the Archbishop must wait awhile.

Alfonso Carillo, always a hot-tempered man, reminded Ferdinand that he was Isabella’s chief adviser. ‘She herself, I doubt not, will tell you that, but for me, she would never have been proclaimed heiress to the throne.’

Ferdinand was young and also hot-tempered. He said: ‘My wife and I do not intend to be disturbed. We will send for you when we need you.’

The eyes of the Archbishop widened with horror.

‘I think, Highness,’ he said, ‘that you forget to whom you speak.’

‘I forget?’

‘I would ask you to consult the Princess Isabella. She will tell you what she owes to my loyalty and advice.’

Ferdinand retorted: ‘You will find that I am not to be put in leading strings as has been the case with some sovereigns of Castile.’

The Archbishop bowed his head to hide his smouldering anger, and turned away to prevent an outburst which might have proved disastrous.

He muttered to himself: ‘Before you attempt to escape from leading strings, my young cockerel, make sure that you are a sovereign of Castile.’

Ferdinand went on angrily to Isabella’s apartment, where she was lying on her bed, her women about her.

Ferdinand stormed: ‘I have just left that insolent fellow. One would think he was King of Castile. He will have to learn a little humility if he is to hold his place.’

‘Ferdinand...’ said Isabella, and anxiety showed in her eyes. She held out her hand. ‘It would be wise, I think, to go cautiously. He is much older than we are. He is wise, and he has been loyal.’

‘I care not!’ blazed Ferdinand. ‘I would ask him to remember to whom he speaks.’

‘Nevertheless,’ replied Isabella, ‘our position is by no means stable.’

Some of that indignation which Ferdinand had felt towards the Archbishop was now directed towards Isabella. Was she telling him what he should do? She was only a woman, and he was her husband.

‘I think,’ began Ferdinand coolly, ‘that you may safely trust me to deal with such matters.’

But Isabella had cried out.

‘It is the pains, Highness,’ said one of the women, coming forward. ‘They grow more frequent now.’

Isabella lay in her bed, her child in her arms.

Ferdinand stood by the bed, smiling down at her.

‘A daughter, Ferdinand,’ she said. ‘It should have been a son.’

‘I would rather have this daughter than any son,’ declared Ferdinand in the first flush of parenthood.

‘Then I am completely happy.’

‘We shall have sons.’

‘Oh yes, we shall have sons.’

Ferdinand knelt by the bed in a sudden rush of emotion.

‘There is one thing only that matters, my love. You have come through this ordeal.’

Isabella touched his hair with her hand. ‘Did you doubt that I would?’

‘Loving you as I did, I must needs fear.’

‘No,’ said Isabella. ‘Have no fear in future, Ferdinand. For something within me tells me that you and I will have many children and that there are long useful years before us.’

‘Oh, Isabella, you put me to shame. You think always of your duty.’

‘What a happy woman I am when it is my duty to love and serve you... and Castile.’

He kissed her hand with mingling fervour and tenderness.

‘We shall call this little one Isabella,’ he said; ‘and we shall hope that she will resemble her mother.’

When King John of Aragon heard of Ferdinand’s quarrel with the Archbishop of Toledo he was disturbed.

He wrote immediately to Ferdinand.

‘Have a care, my son. You are unwise to offend a man of such influence. I advise you to placate him immediately, and in future act with great caution.’

But John knew Ferdinand. He was impulsive and too young perhaps for the position in which he found himself. He would find it very difficult to placate the Archbishop, and it might well be that the prelate was beginning to waver in his loyalties.

I must be kept informed of affairs in Castile, John told himself.

The situation was full of dangers. Could it be that the young couple did not notice this? Many great families were supporting the claims of La Beltraneja, and Castile was divided on this matter of the succession. What could be more alarming? And here was Ferdinand jeopardising the friendship of one of the most forceful and powerful of his supporters.

John himself was enjoying a little respite from his troubles.

The Duke of Lorraine, whom the Catalans had appointed as their ruler, had died and all his children were too young to take his place. Thus the Catalans were without a leader, and John saw his chance of settling their differences and restoring order; but the Catalans would not give in so easily. The result of their resistance was the rigorous blockade of Barcelona which eventually brought them to a mood for negotiations.

When John entered their city he was shocked by the terrible signs of famine which he saw, and being as eager for peace as the people of Barcelona themselves he went to the Palace and there swore to respect the constitution of Catalonia.

The ten-years-long civil war was over, and John felt as though the ghost of his first-born had at last been laid.

This peace was not achieved until the end of the year 1472, and during this time the situation in Castile had continued to give him cause for anxiety.

The daughter of Isabella and Ferdinand – little Isabella – was now two years old; poverty at the little Court at Dueñas was acute, and John was very anxious as to the fate of his son; he longed to have him with him, yet he realised the need for him to stay in Castile. Isabella had her adherents and John had heard that many of them had deserted the cause of the King and La Beltraneja when the Duke of Guienne had died in May of that year. At the same time the situation was alarming.

Then further conflict broke out in Aragon.

When John had borrowed money from Louis XI of France, Louis had taken as security the provinces of Roussillon and Cerdagne, the inhabitants of which now complained bitterly of their foreign masters and sent to John telling him that, if he would liberate them, they would very willingly become his subjects once more.

John immediately rallied to the cause, while Louis, incensed by what was happening, sent an army into Aragon.

The Archbishop of Toledo presented himself to Ferdinand and Isabella.

Ferdinand scarcely disguised the irritation the Archbishop aroused in him.

Ferdinand was worried and, because of this, so was Isabella. She had assured him that his father was the bravest of soldiers and the shrewdest of strategists, and he had no need to fear. But Ferdinand remembered the age of his father, and his uneasiness persisted. They were discussing the new turn of affairs in Aragon when the Archbishop was ushered in.

Carillo was secretly pleased with himself. He was seriously considering whether he would not abandon the cause of Isabella and join that of La Beltraneja. He felt that with the King and La Beltraneja there would be no interference in the conduct of affairs, except of course from his nephew the Marquis of Villena. But they understood each other; they were of a kind; the same blood ran in their veins; neither would interfere in the other’s province. He, Carillo, would be immeasurably useful to the other side if he changed now.

Yet he was not eager to change sides again; he had not his nephew’s easy conscience. Yet the need to lead was all-important. He was ready to support a failing cause, providing he might take the lead. He could not endure to be in a subordinate position, and since the coming of Ferdinand he had felt himself to be forced into one.

Now, as he stood before Ferdinand and Isabella, he expressed his deep concern regarding events in Aragon.

Ferdinand thanked him coolly. ‘My father is a seasoned warrior,’ he said. ‘I doubt not that he will be victorious.’

‘Yet the French are capable of throwing a powerful force into the field,’ answered the Archbishop.

Isabella looked alarmed and glanced at her husband, who had flushed and was beginning to grow angry.

‘I would suggest,’ went on the Archbishop, ‘that if you should decide it was your duty to go to your father’s help, we of Castile would provide you with men and arms.’ He turned to Isabella. ‘I know that Your Highness would put no obstacle in the way of this help to your father-in-law, and that I speak with your authority.’

Ferdinand was torn between his emotions, and he was too young to hide them entirely – much to the amusement of the Archbishop. He was delighted at the prospect of helping his father, and at the same time he was annoyed that the Archbishop should imply that he could only be provided with men and arms at Isabella’s command.

Isabella drew a deep breath. She was so happy with her husband and her two-year-old little daughter; and the thought of Ferdinand’s going into battle terrified her. She looked quickly at Ferdinand.

He had turned to her. ‘How could I bear to leave you?’ he said.

Isabella answered: ‘You must do your duty, Ferdinand.’

Ferdinand thought of riding into Aragon, where he would not be treated as the consort of the Queen but as the heir to the throne. It was tempting. Moreover he was fond of his father, who was too old to engage in battle.

There was the Archbishop smiling at them benignly. He would delay changing sides for a while. With Ferdinand out of the way he would feel much happier, and Ferdinand would go to Aragon.

‘Yes,’ said Ferdinand slowly. ‘I must do my duty.’

It was long since Beatriz de Bobadilla had seen Isabella, and she often thought of her and longed for the old companionship.

Life had changed for Beatriz since those days when she had been Isabella’s most intimate maid of honour. She found herself in a difficult position, because her husband was an officer of Henry’s household, and there was such a wide division in the country – on one side the supporters of the King, on the other those of Isabella.

Andres de Cabrera had been made Governor of the town of Segovia, and the Alcazar which he occupied there was the depository of the King’s treasure. Andres was therefore in a very trusted position; so it was very difficult for his wife to communicate with Isabella.

Beatriz fumed incessantly about this state of affairs.

She was devoted to her husband, but she had a great affection for Isabella, and Beatriz never did anything by half-measures. She must be a devoted friend as well as a devoted wife.

Often she discussed the country’s affairs with her husband and forced him to agree that there could be no prosperity in a land which, while there were two factions disagreeing as to who was the heiress to the throne, must continually be trembling on the brink of civil war.

On one occasion when Andres was smarting over the overbearing behaviour of the Marquis of Villena, Beatriz seized the opportunity for which she had been looking.

‘Andres,’ she said, ‘it occurs to me that, were it not for this man Villena, now Grand Master of St James, there might be an end to this strife.’

‘Ah, my dear,’ replied Andres, shaking his head, ‘there are still the two heiresses. You cannot have peace when there is a division of opinion as to whether the Princess Isabella or the Princess Joanna has the right to the title.’

‘The Princess Joanna – La Beltraneja!’ scoffed Beatriz. ‘Everyone knows she is a bastard.’

‘But the Queen swore...’

‘The Queen swore! That woman would swear to anything, just for a whim. You know, Andres, that Isabella is the rightful heiress to the crown.’

‘Hush, my dear. Remember we serve the King, and the King has given the succession to his daughter Joanna.’

‘Not his daughter!’ cried Beatriz, clenching her right fist and driving it into the palm of her left hand. ‘Nor does he believe it. Did he not at one time make Isabella his heiress? The people want Isabella. Do you know, I believe that if we could bring Isabella to Henry – in the absence of Villena – we could make him accept her as his heiress, and there would be no more nonsense about La Beltraneja. Would this not be a good thing for the country?’

‘And for you, Beatriz, who would have your friend with you.’

‘I should like to see her again,’ mused Beatriz almost gently. ‘I should also like to see her little daughter. I wonder if she resembles Isabella.’

‘Well,’ said Andres, ‘what do you plot?’

‘Henry comes here often,’ said Beatriz.

‘He does.’

‘Sometimes without Villena.’

‘That is so.’

‘What if Isabella were here too? What if we arranged a meeting between them?’

‘Isabella! Come here... into the enemy’s camp!’

‘You would call my house the enemy’s camp? Any who sought to make her their prisoner in my house would have to kill me before they did so.’

Andres laid his hand on his wife’s shoulder. ‘You talk too lightly of death, my dear.’

‘It is Villena who rules this land. He rules the King. He rules you.’

‘That he does not. That he never shall do.’

‘Well, then, why should we not invite Isabella here? Why should she not meet Henry?’

‘It would be necessary to ask Henry’s permission first,’ warned Andres.

‘Well, I would undertake to get that... provided he came here without Villena.’

‘You would play a dangerous game, my dear.’

‘That for danger!’ cried Beatriz, snapping her fingers. ‘Have I your permission to speak to the King when he next comes here alone?’

Andres laughed. ‘My dear Beatriz,’ he said, ‘I know that when you ask for my permission it is merely a formality. So you have decided to speak to Henry at the first opportunity?’

Beatriz nodded. ‘I have decided,’ she said.

She knew it would not be difficult.

She asked the King for permission to talk with him when next he came to stay at the Segovia palace and Villena was busy in Madrid.

‘Highness,’ she began, ‘will you forgive my boldness in raising a certain question?’

Henry was alarmed, immediately afraid that his peace was about to be disturbed.

Beatriz ignored his worried expression and hurried on. ‘I know Your Highness, like myself, loves peace beyond all things.’

‘You are right in that,’ agreed Henry. ‘I wish for no more conflict. I wish those about me would accept what is, and leave it at that.’

‘Some would, Highness, but there are others, close to you, who make strife. Yet it would be quite easy to have peace throughout Castile tomorrow.’

‘How so?’ Henry wanted to know.

‘Well, Highness, I am not skilled in politics but I know this: there are two sides in this quarrel. Part of the country supports Your Highness, and the other part, Isabella. If you made Isabella your heir you would placate those who are against you. Those who are with you would still remain with you. Therefore there would be an end to the conflict.’

‘But my daughter Joanna is the heir to the throne.’

‘Highness, the people will never accept her. As you know, I served Isabella and I loved her dearly. I know that she longs for an end of hostilities. She is truly your sister. There is not a doubt about that. But as to the Princess Joanna... at least there are great doubts as to her legitimacy. If you would only meet Isabella... talk to her... let her tell you how grieved she is by the conflict between you...’

‘Meet her! But how? Where?’

‘Highness, she could come here.’

‘It would not be permitted.’

‘But Your Highness would permit it – and those who would not, need not know of it.’

‘If I sent for her they would hear at once.’

‘Highness, if I fetched her and brought her to you they would not hear of it.’

‘If you set out for Aranda, where I understand she is now, the purpose of your mission would be surmised; all would know that you proposed bringing her to me.’

Her eyes sparkled. ‘Oh, but, Highness, I would not go as myself. I would go disguised.’

‘This is a mad scheme of yours, my dear lady,’ said Henry. ‘Think no more of it.’

‘But if I could bring her to you... in secret... you would receive her, Highness?’

‘I could not refuse to meet my sister. But have done.’

Beatriz bowed her head and changed the subject.

Henry then seemed contented; but he did not know that Beatriz had begun to form her plans.

Isabella was lonely in the palace at Aranda. She was thinking of Ferdinand and wondering how long their separation must last.

Sitting by a great fire stitching with one of her women, and periodically glancing up, she saw through the windows the snow fluttering down. The roads would be icy; and she shivered, wondering what the weather was like in Aragon.

She was working on a shirt. She had been true to her vow to make all the shirts which Ferdinand wore. It was a little jest between them.

‘Every shirt of yours must be stitched with my stitches,’ she had told him. ‘No other woman must make such a garment for you... only myself.’

Ferdinand was delighted. He was always deeply touched by such feminine gestures. Isabella sighed. Ferdinand loved her femininity more than her predilection for governing. He would rather see her occupied with stitching than with state affairs.

One of her women, who was seated in the window seat, called out that a peasant with a pack on her saddle-bow had ridden into the courtyard.

‘Poor woman, she looks so cold and hungry. I wonder if she has wares to sell’

Isabella laid aside her work and went to the window. She felt it her duty to take a great interest in all her subjects. She was teaching little Isabella to be considerate of all people. They might be her subjects one day, she reminded her; for if she and Ferdinand should have no sons, that little Isabella might be Queen of Castile.

‘Poor woman indeed!’ she said. ‘Go down, lest they turn her away. Have her brought in and fed. If she has goods to sell, perhaps she will have something that is needed in the house.’

Her woman went away to do her bidding, but she soon came back, consternation on her face.

‘The woman asks if she may see you, Highness,’ Isabella was told.

‘What does she want?’

‘She refused to say, Highness. She was very insistent. And, Highness, she does not speak like a peasant though she looks like one.’

Isabella sighed. ‘Tell her that I am engaged,’ she said. ‘But ask her business and then come and tell me what she says.’

Isabella paused, and held up a hand to stay her woman for she had heard a voice, protesting in loud tones, which held an unmistakable ring of authority. She knew that voice.

‘Go,’ she said, ‘and bring this woman to me... at once.’

In a few moments the woman was standing on the threshold of the room. She and Isabella looked at each other, and then Beatriz, throwing off her ragged cloak, held out her arms. This was no time for ceremony. Isabella ran to her and they embraced.

‘Beatriz! But why? To come like this!’

‘Could we be alone?’ asked Beatriz.

Isabella waved her women away.

‘It was the only way to come,’ Beatriz explained. ‘So I came thus... and alone. Had I come as myself, the news could have reached Villena. As it is, you shall come to Segovia, where the King now is, and until you have met and talked with him the meeting will be a secret. It is the only way.’

‘Henry has expressed a wish to see me?’

‘Henry will see you.’

‘Beatriz, what does this mean?’

‘We know, dearest Highness, that reconciliation between you and Henry would mean that the people of Castile could live without the daily threat of civil war.’

‘Henry knows this!’

‘He longs for peace. It will not be difficult to persuade him to it... if we can keep him from Villena.’

‘Beatriz, you are asking me to go to Henry. Do you remember how they tried to capture me, to imprison me? Do you remember what was done to Alfonso?’

‘I ask you to come to the Alcazar of Segovia. No harm could come to you there. Andres guards it... and I guard Andres.’

Isabella laughed.

‘You were always a forceful woman. Does Andres love you the less for it?’

Beatriz looked hard at her friend. ‘You, too, are strong,’ she said. ‘And Ferdinand, does he love you less for that?’

Beatriz noticed that a slight shadow crossed Isabella’s face as she said: ‘I do not know.’

Isabella rode into Segovia with the Archbishop of Toledo beside her.

Henry received her with warmth, and his eyes filled with tears as he embraced her. ‘You know, my dear sister, that all this strife is none of my making.’

‘I do know that, Henry,’ answered Isabella; ‘and the state of our country brings as much grief to me as it does to you.’

‘I long for peace.’ Henry said this with unaccustomed vehemence.

‘And I.’

‘Then, Isabella, why should we not have peace?’

‘Because there are jealous nobles who surround us... who jostle each other for power.’

‘But if we are friends, what else should matter?’

‘It is this affair of the succession, Henry. You know I am the true heiress of Castile. I am your half-sister... your only relation.’

‘But there is my daughter.’

‘You do not believe Joanna is that, Henry.’

‘Her mother swore it.’

‘You do not believe her, Henry.’

‘Who shall say? Who shall say?’

‘You see,’ said Isabella, ‘if you would but accept me as heir to the throne there would be no more strife. If you and I were friends and were seen together, how happy all would be in Castile and Leon.’

‘I long to see all happy.’

‘Then Henry, we could begin to right these wrongs; we could bring back law and order to the country. There is this senseless conflict as to who is the heir, when there are so many important reforms to be considered.’

‘I know. I know.’

The Archbishop came to them. He did not wait to be announced. He had assumed complete authority.

‘If you would walk through the city holding the bridle of the Princess’s palfrey, Highness, in an intimate manner, as brother to sister, it would give great joy to the people of Segovia.’

‘All I wish is to give them joy,’ Henry insisted.

The people of Segovia had vociferously expressed their delight at the sight of the King, walking through their streets and holding the bridle of his sister’s palfrey. Here was good news. The threat of civil war was over. The King had cast off the yoke of Villena; he was thinking for himself; he was surely going to accept Isabella as his heir.

When they returned to the Alcazar, the people gathered outside and shouted: ‘Castilla! Castilla! Castilla for Henry and Isabella!’

Henry, with tears in his eyes, saluted the people.

It was long since he had been so cheered.

Late that night Beatriz hurried to Isabella’s bedchamber.

Isabella had already retired.

‘Isabella,’ whispered Beatriz in her ear, ‘wake up. Someone has arrived who is waiting to see you.’

Isabella started up in bed. ‘What is this, Beatriz?’

‘Hush,’ said Beatriz. ‘The palace is sleeping.’

She then turned and beckoned, and Isabella saw a tall, familiar figure enter the apartment.

She gave a cry of gladness, for Ferdinand had thrown himself upon the bed, and she was in his arms.

Beatriz stood by, laughing.

‘He has come at a good moment,’ she said.

‘Any moment he comes is a good one,’ answered Isabella.

‘My dear Isabella,’ murmured Ferdinand.

Beatriz said: ‘There will be plenty of time later to show each other your pleasure. At the moment there is one other matter of importance to settle. Henry has received you, Isabella, but will he receive your husband? That is what we have to consider. And it will soon be known that Ferdinand has returned and that you are both here with the King. Once this reaches Villena’s ears, he will do his utmost to prevent the renewal of friendship between you all. Tomorrow morning early, you must seek an audience with Henry. You must persuade him to see Ferdinand.’

‘He will do so; I know he will.’

‘He must,’ said Beatriz. ‘It is imperative. He must be reconciled to you both. It will be Twelfth Day... is it tomorrow, or the next day? That is an excuse for a banquet. We shall give one – Andres and I – and when it is seen how friendly the King is towards you two, all will know that he acknowledges your marriage and accepts you as his heirs. I shall leave you now. But until the King has received Prince Ferdinand it should not be known, except by those whom we can trust, that he is here.’

Ferdinand had thrown off his travel-stained garments, and Isabella was in his embrace.

‘It seems so long since I saw you,’ he said.

‘There should not be these partings.’

‘Yet, if it is necessary, they must be. How is our daughter?’

‘Well and happy. How delighted she will be to see her father!’

‘Has she forgotten him?’

‘No more than I could. And Aragon?’

‘My father is a mighty warrior. He will always win.’

‘As you will, Ferdinand.’

There was need for silence, and after a while she said: ‘Was it not courageous of Beatriz to arrange this meeting between the King and ourselves!’

‘She is a courageous woman, I’ll grant you – but...’

‘You do not like Beatriz, Ferdinand. Oh, but that must not be. She is one of my dearest friends.’

‘She is unlike a woman. She has hectoring ways.’

‘That is her strength.’

‘I like not hectoring women,’ said Ferdinand.

The faintest alarm came to Isabella. In her life as a Queen there would be times when she must make her own decisions and all others must respect them.

But Ferdinand was home after a long absence; and she could not think of the difficulties which lay ahead. They were of the future and the present time had so much to offer.

Beatriz was exuberant. Her schemes for the reunion of Isabella and Ferdinand with the King had had as great a success as she had hoped for.

Henry was pliable, subject to be swayed by the prevailing wind; and here in Segovia with the guardian of his treasury, and the latter’s forceful wife, he appeared to be the firm friend of Ferdinand and Isabella.

He had ridden to the Twelfth Night celebrations between Ferdinand and Isabella, smiling and chatting with them as they rode, to the intense joy of the people. Through the streets they had ridden thus to the Bishop’s palace, between the Alcazar and the Cathedral, in which the Twelfth Night banquet was being held.

The banquet, supervised by the indefatigable Beatriz, was a success. Sweating serving men and women waited on the guests and minstrels played in the gallery. At the head of the table sat the King; on his right hand was Isabella, and on his left, Ferdinand.

Beatriz surveyed her beloved mistress and friend with beaming satisfaction, and Andres watched his wife.

He was aware of a certain tension, a certain watchfulness. It was inevitable, he told himself. All the conflict, all the strife, could not be dispersed by one brief meeting. Henry was eating and drinking with enjoyment, and his eyes were becoming a little glazed as they rested on one of the most sensuously beautiful of the women. Henry had not become a wise King in such a brief period of time; Isabella had not become secure in her place.

The banquet over, dancing began.

As Isabella was seated by the King, Beatriz hoped that he would lead the Princess in the dance. What could be more symbolic?

Yet Henry did not dance.

‘My dear sister,’ he murmured, ‘I feel a little unwell. You must lead the dance – you and your husband.’

So it was Isabella and Ferdinand who rose, and as they came into the centre of the hall others fell in behind them.

Beatriz hastened to the side of the King.

‘All is well, Highness?’ she asked anxiously.

‘I am not sure,’ said Henry. ‘I feel a little strange.’

‘It is too hot for Your Highness, perhaps.’

‘I know not. I seem to shiver.’

Beatriz beckoned to the beautiful young woman who had caught the King’s notice during the banquet; but Henry now seemed to be unaware of her.

‘Sit beside him,’ whispered Beatriz. ‘Speak to him.’

But the King had closed his eyes and had slumped sideways in his chair.

All night long the King lay groaning on his bed. He was in great pain, he declared.

News spread through Segoyia that the King was ill, and that the nature of his illness – vomiting, purging and stomach pains – pointed to poison.

There were silent men and women in the streets of Segovia; yesterday they had cheered; today they were solemn.

Could it be that the King had been lured to Segovia that he might be poisoned? And who was responsible for his condition?

There were many, who had helped at the banquet, who might wish him dead, for almost everyone present was a supporter of Isabella and Ferdinand.

The people of Segovia did not wish to believe that their beloved Princess could be guilty of such a crime.

When Isabella heard of the King’s illness she was horrified.

‘He must not die,’ she said to Beatriz. ‘If he does, we shall be blamed.’

Beatriz recognised the good sense of that.

‘Remember,’ said Isabella,’ the conflict in Aragon when the people believed that Carlos was murdered. How many suffered and died during those ten years of civil war?’

‘We must save the King’s life,’ said Beatriz. ‘I must wait upon him. It would not be wise for you to be constantly in the sick room. If he died they would surely blame you then.’

So Beatriz supervised the nursing of the King, and it seemed that because she so willed that he should not die, his condition began gradually to improve.

The Marquis of Villena rode with his troops into Segovia and imperiously presented himself at the Alcazar.

Isabella and Ferdinand received him calmly, but Villena was far from calm. He was enraged and alarmed.

The King was not to be trusted. As soon as his, Villena’s, back was turned he was consorting with the opposite side. This would teach him a lesson.

Villena demanded that he be taken at once to the King.

‘I fear,’ said Isabella, ‘that my brother is not well enough to receive visitors.’

‘I demand to be taken to him.’

‘You may not make your demands here,’ said Isabella.

‘I wish to assure myself that he is receiving the best attention.’

‘I will send for our hostess and she will tell you that there is no need for alarm.’

When Beatriz arrived she told Villena that the King’s condition was improving, but that he was not well enough to leave Segovia for a while.

‘I must be taken to him at once,’ said Villena.

‘I am sorry, my lord,’ Beatriz answered, her voice placating but her eyes belying her tone. ‘The King is not well enough to receive visitors.’

‘I shall stay here until I see him,’ said Villena.

‘We cannot deny you hospitality, since you ask it so graciously,’ answered Beatriz.

But even she could not keep Villena from the King. Villena had his men everywhere, and it was not an insuperably difficult task to get a message to Henry that Villena was in the Alcazar, and that if the King valued his life he must insist on seeing him without delay.

Villena sat by Henry’s bed. He was shocked by the King’s appearance. His illness had changed Henry. He had become gaunt and his skin was yellow.

Henry thought he saw a change in Villena. There was a certain lessening of that intense vitality, a certain greyish tinge to the skin.

‘Your Highness should never have been so foolish as to come here,’ said Villena.

‘I could not know that I should be smitten with this illness,’ murmured Henry peevishly.

‘That you should be so smitten was the only reason why you were lured here.’

‘You think they tried to poison me?’

‘I am sure of it. And they will continue to do so while you are in this place.’

‘I trust Isabella.’

‘Trust Isabella! She has a throne to gain. It cannot be hers while you live.’

‘She is certain that she is the true heiress, and she is ready to wait.’

‘But not to wait too long, it seems. No, Highness, we must remove you from here as soon as possible. And we must not allow this attempt on your life to be ignored.’

‘What do you suggest?’ asked Henry wearily.

‘We shall send forces to Segovia. They will enter the town stealthily and take possession of vital points. Then they shall make Isabella their prisoner on the ground that she tried to poison you. We could bring her to trial for that.’

‘I do not believe Isabella would try to poison me.’

‘Then you do not believe the evidence of your senses.’

‘Cabrera’s wife has nursed me well.’

‘A poisonous woman.’

‘A good nurse. She seemed determined to save my life. And, Marquis, do you not think that I should acknowledge Isabella as heir to the throne? She is the one the people want. And with Ferdinand’s help she would bring Castile out of its present troubles.’

‘But your will, of which you have made me executor, clearly states that your daughter Joanna is heir to the throne.’

‘It’s true. Little Joanna. She is but a child. She will be surrounded by wolves... wolves who seek power. I came to the conclusion, when I rode through the streets of the town with Ferdinand and Isabella, that matters would be simplified if I admitted that Joanna was not my daughter and made Ferdinand and Isabella my heirs.’

‘I see that some of the poison has been effective,’ said Villena. ‘As soon as you are well enough to travel we must leave this place for Cuellar. There we will make our plans for the capture of Isabella. We shall not be safe until she is under lock and key. And I tremble for your safety while you are in this place.’

‘I do not,’ said Henry. ‘I do not believe Isabella would allow any harm to befall me.’

Villena looked with scorn on the King and, as he did so, he placed his hand to his throat.

‘What ails you?’ asked Henry. ‘You look as sick as I do myself.’

‘It is nothing. A certain dryness of the throat. A certain discomfort, nothing more.’

‘You have not the same colour that you had.’

‘I have scarcely slept since I heard the news that Your Highness was here at Segovia in the midst of your enemies.’

‘Ah, if I had but known who were my friends and who my enemies I should have had a happier life.’

Villena looked startled. ‘You talk as though you had come to the end of it. No, Your Highness, you will recover from this attempt on your life. And it shall not be forgotten. Let us make certain of that.’

‘Well,’ said Henry, ‘if Isabella was behind a plot to poison me, she deserves imprisonment.’

In the town of Cuellar, whither Villena had taken the King, plans were made for the capture of Isabella.

‘Forces shall enter the town,’ said Villena. ‘Explosives will be thrown at the Alcazar; the inhabitants will be terror-stricken, and then it will be no difficult matter to secure the person of Isabella.’

Several months had passed since the King’s illness, but he had never fully recovered and was subject to attacks of vomiting.

As for Villena himself, that great energy which had sustained him seemed to be spent. He still planned; he still had ambitious schemes, but the pain in his throat persisted and he found it impossible to eat certain foods.

In the Alcazar at Segovia, Beatriz and her husband were aware of the plot to capture Isabella, and they doubled the guards at all vital points; thus when Villena’s troops tried to make a stealthy entry into the town they were discovered and the plan was frustrated.

Villena received the news almost with indifference.

And the next day even his spirit broke and he accepted the advice of his servants and stayed in his bed. Within a few days he was suffering great pain, and was unable to swallow food. He knew that he had not long to live.

He lay back, considering all the ambitions of his life and wondering whether it had been worth while. He had achieved great power; he had been at times the ruler of Castile; and now it was over and he must lie on his bed, the victim of a malignant growth in his throat which would destroy him, as his enemies had not been able to do.

Isabella remained at large. The people were rallying about her. And he, Villena, who had sworn that she should never come to the throne, was dying helplessly.

Henry could not accept the fact when the news was brought to him. Villena... dead!

‘But what shall I do?’ he said. ‘What shall I do now?’

He prayed for his friend; he wept for his friend. He had always believed that he would die long before Villena. He had lost his master and his servant, and he was bewildered.

His secretary Oviedo came to him.

‘Highness,’ said Oviedo, ‘there is a very important matter of which I must speak to you.’

Henry nodded for him to proceed.

‘On his death-bed the Marquis of Villena put this paper into my hand. It is your will, of which he was to be executor. I have glanced at it, Highness, and see it to be a document of the utmost importance, since it names the Princess Joanna as your heir.’

‘Take it away,’ said Henry. ‘How can I think of such matters when my dear friend has died and I am all alone?’

‘Highness, what shall I do with it?’

‘I care not what you do with it. I only wish to be left in peace.’

Oviedo bowed and went away.

He looked at the will. He knew the explosive power of its contents if they became known; they were capable of plunging Castile into civil war.

He could not decide what to do with it, so as a temporary measure he put it in a box, which he locked.

Henry went back to Madrid. He felt not only ill but very weary. He knew that Villena had been self-seeking, a man of immense ambitions, yet without him the King felt lost. He believed that the most unhappy time of his life had been when Villena had sided with his enemies and given his support to young Alfonso. He remembered his delight when Villena had returned to him.

‘And now,’ murmured Henry, ‘I am alone. He has gone before me, and I am sick and tired out with all the troubles about me.’

He was often ill; there was a return of that sickness which had attacked him in Segovia. Indeed he had never fully recovered from it.

Tears of self-pity often filled Henry’s eyes, and his doctors sought to rouse him from his lethargy. But there was nothing now which could give him the desire to live. His mistresses no longer interested him. There was nothing in life to sustain his flagging spirits.

It became clear to all in the immediate Court circle that Henry had not long to live. Ambitious noblemen began to court Isabella. The Cardinal Mendoza and the Count Benavente, who had supported first Alfonso and then turned to La Beltraneja, now began to turn again – this time towards Isabella.

Isabella was the natural successor. Her character had aroused admiration. She was of a nature to make a good Queen, and she had a strong husband in Ferdinand.

So, among others, Mendoza and Benavente came to Court, there to await the passing of the old sovereign and the nomination of the new.

On a cold December night in the year 1474, Henry lay on his death-bed.

Ranged round his bed were the men who had come to see him die, and among them was the Cardinal Mendoza and the Count Benavente. In the background hovered the King’s secretary, Oviedo. He was uneasy, for he had something on his mind.

Mendoza whispered to Benavente: ‘He cannot last long. That was the death-rattle in his throat.’

‘He cannot have more than an hour to live. It is time he received the last rites.’

‘One moment. He is trying to say something.’

The Cardinal and the Count exchanged glances. It might well be that what the King had to say had better not be heard by any but themselves.

The Cardinal bent over the bed. ‘Your Highness, your servants await your orders.’

‘Little Joanna,’ murmured the King. ‘She is but a child. What will become of her?’

‘She will be taken care of, Highness. Do not fret on her account.’

‘But I do. We were so careless... her mother and I. She is my heiress... Little Joanna. Who will care for her? My sister Isabella is strong. She can look after herself... but little Joanna... she is my heiress, I tell you. She is my heiress.’

The Cardinal said quickly: ‘The King’s mind wanders.’ The Count nodded in agreement.

‘I have left a will,’ went on Henry. ‘In it I proclaim her my heir.’

‘A will!’ The Cardinal was startled, for this was an alarming piece of information. He and the Count were only waiting for the end of Henry that they might go and pay their homage to the new Queen Isabella. A will could complicate matters considerably.

‘It is with Villena...’ murmured the King. ‘I gave it to Viilena.’

‘There is no doubt that the King’s mind wanders,’ whispered the Count.

‘It is with Villena,’ muttered Henry. ‘He will look after her. He will save the throne for Joanna.’

One of the attendants came to the two men who stood by the bed, and asked if he should call the King’s Confessor.

‘The King’s mind wanders,’ the Cardinal told him. ‘He believes the Marquis of Villena to be here in the Palace.’

The King’s eyes had closed and his head had fallen a little to one side. His breathing was stertorous. Suddenly he opened his eyes and looked at the men about the bed. He obviously did not recognise them. Then he said, and the words came thickly through his furred lips: ‘Villena, where are you, my friend? Villena, come nearer.’

‘He is near the end,’ said the Cardinal. ‘Yes, call the King’s Confessor.’

As the Count and Cardinal left the chamber of death Oviedo hurried after them.

‘My lords, may I have a word with you?’

They paused to listen to the secretary.

‘The King has left in my keeping a document which greatly troubles me,’ said Oviedo. ‘It was in Villena’s possession, until he was dying. He then gave it to me to return to the King, but the King told me to lock it away; and this I have done.’

‘What document is this?’

‘It is the King’s last will, my lords.’

‘You should show it to us without delay.’

Oviedo led them into a chamber in which he stored his secret documents. He unlocked the box, produced the will and handed it to the Cardinal.

Had the Cardinal been alone he might have destroyed it; at the moment Benavente was his friend; but men changed sides quickly in Castile at this time, and he dared not destroy such a document while there were witnesses to see him do so.

Benavente read his thoughts, for they were his also.

Then the Cardinal said: ‘Tell no one of this document. Take it to the curate of Santa Cruz in Madrid and tell him to lock it away in a safe place.’

Oviedo bowed and retired.

The Count and Cardinal were silent for a few seconds; then the Cardinal said: ‘Come! Let us to Segovia, there to pay homage to the Queen of Castile.’