Castile for Isabella

CHAPTER VII ALFONSO OF PORTUGAL – A SUITOR FOR ISABELLA

Queen Joanna let her fingers play in the dark glistening hair of her lover. He bent over her couch and, as they kissed, she knew that his thoughts were not so much with her as with the brilliant materialisation of his dreams of fortune.

‘Dear Beltran,’ she asked, ‘you are contented?’

‘I think, my love, that life goes well for us.’ ‘What a long way you have come, my Beltran, since I looked from my window and beckoned you to my bedchamber. Well, one way to glory is through the bedchambers of Kings. Also through the Queen’s, you have discovered.’

He kissed her with passion. ‘To combine desire with ambition, love with power! How singularly fortunate I have been!’

‘And I. You owe your good fortune to me, Beltran. I owe mine to my own good sense. So you see I may congratulate myself even more than you do yourself.’

‘We are fortunate... in each other.’

‘And in the King, my husband. Poor Henry! He grows more shaggy with the years. I often think he is like a dear old dog, growing a little obese, a little blind, a little deaf – figuratively, of course – but remaining so good-tempered, never growling even when he is neglected or insulted, and always ready to give a friendly bark, or wag his tail at the least attention.’

‘He realises his good fortune in possessing such a Queen. You are incomparable.’

She laughed. ‘Indeed I begin to think I am. Who else could have produced the heiress of Castile?’

‘Our dearest little Joanna – how enchanting she is!’

‘So enchanting that we must make sure no one snatches the crown from her head. They will try, my love. They grow insolent. Someone referred to her as La Beltraneja yesterday in my hearing.’

‘And you were angry?’

‘I gave evidence of my righteous anger, but inwardly I was just a little pleased, a little proud.’

‘We must curb that pride and pleasure, dearest. We must plan for her sake.’

‘That is what I intend to do. I visualise the day when we shall see her mount the throne. I do not feel that Henry will live to a great age. He is too indulgent in those pleasures which, while giving him such amusement, rob him of his health and strength.’

Beltran was thoughtful. ‘I often wonder,’ he mused, ‘what his inner thoughts are when he hears our darling’s nickname.’

‘He does not hear. Did you not know that Henry has the most obliging ears in Castile? They are only rivalled by his eyes, which are equally eager to serve him. When he does not want to listen, he is deaf; when he does not wish to see, he is blind.’

‘If only we could contrive some magic to render the ears and eyes of those about him equally accommodating!’

Joanna gave a mock shudder. ‘I do not like the all-important Marquis. He has too many ideas swirling about in that haughty head of his.’

Beltran nodded slowly. ‘I have seen his eyes resting with alarming speculation on the young Alfonso. Also on his sister.’

‘Oh, those children! And especially Isabella. I fear the years at Arevalo, under the queer and pious guardianship of mad Mamma, have done great harm to the child’s character.’

‘One can almost hear her murmuring: “I will be a saint among women.”’

‘If that were all, Beltran, I would forgive her. I fancy the murmuring is: “I will be a saint among... Queens.”’

‘Alfonso is of course the main danger.’

‘Yes, but I would like to see those two removed from Court. The Dowager has gone. Oh, what a blessing not to have to see her! Long may she remain in Arevalo.’

‘I heard that she has lapsed into a deep melancholy and is resigned to leaving her son and daughter at Court.’

‘Let her stay there.’

‘You would like to banish Alfonso and Isabella to Arevalo with her.’

‘Farther away than that. I have a plan... for Isabella.’

‘My clever Queen...’ murmured Beltran; and laughing, Joanna put her lips to his.

‘Later,’ she said softly, ‘I will explain.’

Beatriz de Bobadilla regarded her mistress with a certain dismay. Isabella was sitting, quietly stitching at her embroidery, as though she were unaware of all the dangers which surrounded her.

There was about Isabella, Beatriz decided, an almost unnatural calm. Isabella believed in her destiny. She was certain that one day Ferdinand of Aragon would come to claim her; and that Ferdinand would conform exactly with that idealised picture which Isabella had made of him.

What a lot she has to learn of life! thought Beatriz.

Beatriz felt as though she were an experienced woman compared with Isabella. It was more than those four years’ seniority which made her feel this. Isabella was an idealist; Beatriz was a practical woman.

Let us hope, thought Beatriz, that she will not be too greatly disappointed.

Isabella said: ‘I wish there were news of Ferdinand. I am growing old now. Surely our marriage cannot long be delayed?’

‘You may be sure,’ Beatriz soothed, ‘that soon there will be plans for your marriage.’

But, wondered Beatriz, bending over her work, will it be to Ferdinand?

‘I hope all is well in Aragon,’ said Isabella.

‘There is great trouble there since the rebellion in Catalonia.’

‘But Carlos is dead now. Why cannot the people settle down and be happy?’

‘They cannot forget how Carlos died.’

Isabella shivered. ‘Ferdinand had no hand in that.’

‘He is too young,’ agreed Beatriz. ‘And now Blanche is dead. Carlos... Blanche... . There is only Eleanor alive of King John’s family by his first wife, and she will not stand in the way of Ferdinand’s inheritance.’

‘He is his father’s heir by right now,’ murmured Isabella.

‘Yes, but...’

‘But what?’ demanded Isabella sharply.

‘How will Ferdinand feel... how would anyone feel... knowing that it had been necessary for one’s brother to die before one could inherit the throne?’

‘Carlos died of a fever...’ began Isabella. Then she stopped. ‘Did he, Beatriz? Did he?’

‘It would have been a most convenient fever,’ said Beatriz.

‘I wish I could see Ferdinand... talk to Ferdinand...’ Isabella held her needle poised above her work. ‘Why should it not be that God has chosen Ferdinand to rule Aragon, and it is for this reason that his brother died?’

‘How can we know?’ said Beatriz. ‘I hope Ferdinand is not made unhappy by his brother’s death.’

‘How would one feel if a brother were removed so that one inherited the throne? How should I feel if Alfonso were taken like that?’ Isabella shivered. ‘Beatriz,’ she went on solemnly, ‘I should have no wish to inherit the throne of Castile unless it were mine by right. I would wish no harm to Alfonso of course, nor to Henry... in order that I might reach the throne.’

‘I know full well that you would not, for you are good. Yet what if the well-being of Castile depended on the removal of a bad king?’

‘You mean... Henry?’

‘We should not even speak of such things,’ said Beatriz. ‘What if we were overheard?’

Isabella said: ‘No, we must not speak of them. But tell me this first. You do not know of any plan to remove... Henry?’

‘I think that Villena might make such plans.’

‘But why?’

‘I think he and his uncle might wish to put Alfonso in Henry’s place as ruler of Castile, that they might rule Alfonso.’

‘That would be highly dangerous.’

‘But perhaps I am wrong. This is idle gossip.’

‘I trust you are wrong. Beatriz. Now that my mother has gone back to Arevalo I often think how much more peaceful life has become. But perhaps I delude myself. My mother could not hide her desires, her excitement. Perhaps others desire and plan in secret. Perhaps there is as much danger in the silences of some as in the hysteria of my mother.’

‘Have you heard from her since she reached Arevalo?’

‘Not from her but from one of her friends. She often forgets that we are not there with her. When she remembers she is very melancholy. I hear that she lapses into moods of depression, when she expresses her fears that neither Alfonso nor I will ever wear the crown of Castile. Oh, Beatriz, I often think how happy I might have been if we were not a royal family. If I were your sister, shall I say, and Alfonso your brother, how happy we might have been. But from the time I was able to speak I was continually told: “You could be Queen of Castile.” It made none of us happy. It seems to me that there has always been a reaching out for something beyond us... for something that would be highly dangerous should we possess it. Oh, you should be happy, Beatriz. You do not know how happy.’

‘Life is a battle for all of us,’ murmured Beatriz. ‘And you shall be happy, Isabella. I hope I shall always be there to see and perhaps, in my small way, contribute to that happiness.’

‘When I marry Ferdinand and go to Aragon, you must accompany me there, Beatriz.’

Beatriz smiled a little sadly. She did not believe that she would be allowed to follow Isabella to Aragon; she herself would have to marry; her husband would be Andres de Cabrera, an officer of the King’s household, and her duty would be to stay with him, not to go with Isabella – if Isabella ever went to Aragon.

She smiled fondly at her mistress. For Isabella had no doubt. Isabella saw her future with Ferdinand as clearly as she saw the piece of needlework now in her hand.

Beatriz gazed out of the window and said: ‘There is your brother. He has returned from a ride.’

Isabella dropped her work and went to the window. Alfonso looked up, saw them and waved.

Isabella beckoned, and Alfonso leaped from his horse, left it with a groom and came into the Palace.

‘How he grows,’ said Beatriz. ‘One would not believe he is only eleven.’

‘He has changed a great deal since he came to Court. I think we both have. He has changed too since our mother went away.’

They were both more light-hearted now, Beatriz thought. Poor Isabella, how she must have suffered through that mother of hers! It had made her serious beyond her years. Alfonso came into the room. He was flushed and looked very healthy from his ride.

‘You called me,’ he said, embracing Isabella and turning to bow to Beatriz. ‘Did you want to talk to me?’

‘I always want to talk to you,’ said Isabella. ‘But there is nothing in particular.’

Alfonso looked relieved. ‘I was afraid something had gone amiss.’

‘You were expecting something?’ she asked anxiously.

Alfonso looked at Beatriz.

‘You must not mind Beatriz,’ said Isabella. ‘She and I discuss everything together. She is as our sister.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Alfonso. ‘And you ask if I am expecting something. I would say I am always expecting something. There is always something either happening or threatening to happen here. Surely all Courts are not like this one, are they?’

‘In what way?’ asked Beatriz.

‘I do not think there could be another King like Henry in the world. Nor a Queen like Joanna... and a situation such as that relating to the baby.’

‘Such situations may have occurred before,’ mused Isabella.

‘There is going to be trouble. I know it,’ said Alfonso.

‘Someone has been talking to you.’

‘It was the Archbishop.’

‘You mean the Archbishop of Toledo?’

‘Yes,’ said Alfonso. ‘He has been very gracious to me of late... too gracious.’

Beatriz and Isabella exchanged glances of apprehension.

‘He shows me a respect which I have not received before,’ went on Alfonso. ‘I do not think the Archbishop is very pleased with our brother.’

‘It is not for an Archbishop to be displeased with a King,’ Isabella reminded him.

‘Oh, but it could be for this Archbishop and this King,’ Alfonso corrected her.

Isabella said: ‘I have heard that Henry has agreed to a match between the little Princess and Villena’s son. Thus he could make sure of keeping Villena his friend.’

‘The people would never agree to that,’ said Beatriz.

‘And,’ put in Alfonso, ‘there is going to be an enquiry into the legitimacy of the little Princess. If it is found that she cannot be the King’s daughter, then... they will proclaim me heir to the throne.’ He looked bewildered. ‘Oh, Isabella,’ he went on, ‘how I wish that we need not be bothered. How tiresome it is! It is as it was when our mother was with us. Do you remember – at the slightest provocation we would be told that we must take care, we must do this, we must not do that, because it was possible that we should one day inherit the crown? How tired I am of the crown! I wish I could ride and swim and do what other boys do. I wish I did not have to be regarded always as a person to be watched. I do not want the Archbishop to make a fuss of me, to tell me he is my very good friend and will always be at hand to protect me. I will choose my own friends, and they will not be Archbishops.’

‘There is someone at the door,’ said Beatriz.

She went towards it and opened it swiftly.

A man was standing there.

He said: ‘I have a message for the Infanta Isabella.’ And Beatriz stood aside for him to enter.

As he came towards her Isabella thought: How long has he been standing outside the door? What has he heard? What had they said?

Alfonso was right. There was no peace for them. Their actions were watched; everything they did was spied upon. It was one of the penalties for being a possible candidate for the throne.

‘You would speak with me?’ she asked.

‘Yes, Infanta. I bring a message from your noble brother, the King. He wishes you to come with all speed to his presence.’

Isabella inclined her head. ‘You may return to him,’ she said, ‘and tell him that I am coming immediately.’

As Isabella entered her brother’s apartments she knew that this was an important occasion.

Henry was seated, and beside him was the Queen. Standing behind the King’s chair was Beltran de la Cueva, Count of Ledesma; and the Marquis of Villena, with his uncle the Archbishop of Toledo, was also present.

Isabella knelt before the King and kissed his hand.

‘Why, Isabella,’ said Henry kindly, ‘it gives me pleasure to see you. Does she not grow apace!’ He turned to Queen Joanna, who flashed on Isabella a smile of great friendliness which seemed very false to the young girl.

‘She is going to be tall, as you are, my dear,’ said the Queen.

‘How old are you, sister?’ asked the King.

‘Thirteen, Highness.’

‘A young woman, no less. Time to put away childish things, and think of... marriage, eh?’

They were all watching her, Isabella knew, and she was angry because she was aware of the faint flush which had risen to her cheeks. Did she show the joy which she was feeling?

At last she and Ferdinand were to be united. Perhaps in a few days they would be meeting. She was a little apprehensive. Would he be as pleased with her as, she was certain, she was going to be with him?

How one’s thoughts ran on. They went beyond one’s control.

‘We keep your welfare very close to our hearts – the Queen, myself, my friends and ministers. And, sister, we have decided on a match for you, one which will delight you by its magnificence.’

She bowed her head and waited, hoping that she would be able to curb her joy and not show unseemly delight in the fact that at last she was to be the bride of Ferdinand.

‘The Queen’s brother, King Alfonso V of Portugal, asks your hand in marriage. I and my advisers are delighted by this offer and we have decided that it can only bring happiness and advantage to all concerned.’

Isabella did not believe that she heard correctly. She was conscious of a rush of blood to her ears; she could hear and feel the mighty pounding of her heart. For a few seconds she believed she would faint.

‘Well, sister, I see that you are overcome by the magnificence of this offer. You are a personable young woman now, you know. And you deserve a good match. It is my great pleasure to provide it for you.’

Isabella lifted her eyes and looked at the King. He was smiling, but not at her. He knew of her obsession with the idea of the Aragonese marriage. He remembered hearing how upset she was when she heard that a match had been arranged for her with the Prince of Viana. It was for this reason that he had told her in a formal manner of the proposed marriage with Portugal.

As for the Queen, she was smiling brightly. The match was entirely to her liking. She wanted to see Isabella safely out of Castile, for while she remained there she was a menace to Joanna’s daughter. She would of course have preferred to remove young Alfonso, but that would have presented too many difficulties at the moment. However, the brother would now be weakened by the loss of his sister’s support.

One of them will be out of the way, mused Joanna.

Isabella spoke slowly but clearly, and no one in that chamber remained unimpressed by the calm manner in which she addressed them.

‘I thank Your Highness for making such efforts on my behalf, but it seems that a certain fact has been overlooked. I am already betrothed, and I and others consider that betrothal binding.’

‘Betrothed!’ cried Henry. ‘My dear sister, you take a childish view of these things. Many husbands are suggested for Princesses, but there is nothing binding in these suggestions.’

‘Nevertheless I am betrothed to Ferdinand of Aragon; and in view of this, marriage elsewhere is impossible.’

Henry looked exasperated. His sister was going to be stubborn, and he was too weary of conflict to endure it. If he had been alone with her he would have agreed with her that she was betrothed to Ferdinand, that the King of Portugal’s offer must be refused; and then, as soon as she had left him, he would have gone ahead with arrangements for the marriage, leaving someone else to break the news to her.

He could not do this, of course, in the presence of the Queen and his ministers.

‘Dear Isabella!’ cried Joanna. ‘She is but a child yet. She does not know that a great King like my brother cannot be refused when he asks her hand in marriage. You are fortunate indeed; you will be very happy in Lisbon, Isabella.’

Isabella looked from Villena to the Archbishop and then appealingly at Henry. None of them would meet her gaze.

‘The King of Portugal himself,’ said Henry, studying the rings on his fingers, ‘is coming to Castile. He will be here within the next few days. You must be ready to receive him, sister. I would have you show your pleasure and gratitude that he has chosen you for this high honour.’

Isabella stood very still. She wanted to speak her protests but it seemed to her that her throat had closed and would not let the words escape.

In spite of that natural calm, that extraordinary dignity, standing here in the audience chamber with the eyes of all the leading ministers of Castile upon her, she looked like an animal desperately seeking a means of escape from a trap which it saw closing about it.

Isabella lay on her bed; she had the curtains drawn about it that she might be completely shut in. She had prayed for long hours on her knees, but she did not cease to pray every hour of the day.

She had talked to Beatriz; and Beatriz could only look sad and say that this was the fate of Princesses; but she had tried to comfort her. ‘This is an obsession you have built up for Ferdinand,’ she told her. ‘How can you be sure that he is the only one for you? You have never seen him. You know nothing of him except what has come to you through hearsay. Might it not be that the King of Portugal will be a kind husband?’

‘I love Ferdinand. That sounds foolish to you, but it is as though he has grown up with me. Perhaps when I first heard his name I needed comfort, perhaps I allowed myself to build an ideal – but there is something within me, Beatriz, which tells me that only with Ferdinand can I be happy.’

‘If you do your duty you will be happy.’

‘I do not feel that it is my duty to marry the King of Portugal.’

‘It is what the King, your brother, commands.’

‘I shall have to go away from Castile... away from Alfonso... away from you, Beatriz. I shall be the most unhappy woman in Castile, in Portugal. There must be a way. They were determined to marry me to the Prince of Viana, but he died, and that was like a miracle. Perhaps if I prayed enough there might be another miracle.’

Beatriz shook her head; she had little comfort to offer. She believed that Isabella must now leave her childish dreams behind her; she must accept reality, as so many Princesses had been obliged to do before her.

And since Beatriz could not help, Isabella wished to shut herself away, to pray, if not to be saved from this distasteful marriage, to have the courage to endure it.

There was a movement in her room and she sat up in bed, whispering: ‘Who is there?’

‘It is I, Isabella.’

‘Alfonso!’

‘I came to you quietly. I did not want anyone to disturb us. Oh... Isabella, I am frightened.’

The bed curtains divided and there stood her brother. He looked such a child, she thought, and she forgot her own misery in her desire to comfort him.

‘What is it, Alfonso?’

‘There are plots and intrigues all about us, Isabella. And I... I am the centre of them. That is what I feel. They are going to send you away so that I shall not have the comfort of your presence and advice. Isabella... I am afraid.’

She held out her hand and he took it; then he threw himself into her arms and for a few seconds they clung together.

‘They are going to make me the heir to the throne,’ said Alfonso. ‘They are going to say the little Princess has no right to it. I wish they would leave me alone, Isabella. Why cannot they leave us in peace... myself to be as other boys, you to marry where you wish.’

‘They will never leave us in peace, Alfonso. We are not as other boys and girls. The reason is that our half-brother is the King of Castile and that many people believe the child, who is known as his daughter, is not a child of his at all. That means that we are in the direct line of succession. There are some to support Henry and his Queen... and there are others who will use us in their quarrel with the King and Queen.’

‘Isabella... let us run away. Let us go to Arevalo and join our mother there.’

‘It would be of no use. They would not let us remain there.’

‘Perhaps we could all escape into Aragon... to Ferdinand.’

Isabella considered this, imagined herself with her hysterical mother and her young brother arriving at the Court of Ferdinand’s father John. In Aragon there was a state of unrest. It might even be that John had decided to choose another bride for Ferdinand.

She shook her head slowly. ‘Our feelings, our loves and hates... they are not important, Alfonso. We must try to see ourselves... not as people... but as pieces in a game, to be moved this way and that... whichever is most beneficial to our country.’

‘If they would leave me alone and not try to force the King to make me his heir, surely that would be beneficial to the country.’

‘Terrible things are happening in Castile, Alfonso. The roads are unsafe; the people have no protection; there is much poverty. It may be that it would be beneficial if you were made King of Castile with a Regency to rule until you are of age.’

‘I do not want it, I do not want it,’ cried Alfonso. ‘I want us to be together... quietly and at peace. Oh, Isabella, what can we do? I am frightened, I tell you.’

‘We must not be frightened, Alfonso. Fear is unworthy of us.’

‘But we are no different from other people,’ cried Alfonso passionately.

‘We are. We are,’ insisted Isabella. ‘We make a mistake if we do not recognise this. It is not for us to harbour dreams of a quiet happiness. We have to face the fact that we are different.’

‘Isabella, people who are in the way of others with a wish to ascend the throne often die. Carlos, Prince of Viana, died. I have heard that was to make way for his young brother, Ferdinand.’

Isabella said slowly: ‘Ferdinand played no part in that murder... if murder there was.’

‘It was murder,’ said Alfonso. He crossed his hands on his chest. ‘Something within me tells me it was murder. Isabella, if they made me heir... if they made me King...’ He looked over his shoulder furtively; and Isabella thought of Carlos, the prisoner of his own father, feeling as Alfonso was now, looking over his shoulder as Alfonso looked, furtively, afraid of the greed and lust of men for power. ‘There was Queen Blanche too,’ went on Alfonso. ‘I wonder what she felt on her last day on Earth. I wonder what it felt like to be shut up in a castle, knowing that you have that which others want and only your death can give it to them.’

‘This is foolish talk,’ said Isabella.

‘But they are marrying you into Portugal. You will not be here to see what happens. I know they are making plans concerning me, Isabella. Oh... how I wish that I were not the son of a King. Have you ever thought, Isabella, how wonderful it must be to be the child of a simple peasant?’

‘To suffer hunger? To have to work hard for a cruel master?’

‘There is nothing so much to be feared in your life,’ said Alfonso, ‘as the knowledge that men are planning to take it from you. I think if you could ask poor Queen Blanche to confirm this, she would do so. I know, you see, Isabella. Because... I have read the thoughts in men’s eyes as they look at me. I know. They are sending you away because they fear you. I shall be left without a friend. For, Isabella, although the Archbishop tells me he loves me – and so does the Marquis of Villena – I do not trust them. You are the only one I can be sure of.’

Isabella was deeply moved.

‘Little brother,’ she said, and she seemed to draw strength and determination from Alfonso’s melancholy words. ‘I will not go to Portugal. I will find some means of avoiding this marriage.’

Alfonso, looking up at her and seeing the resolve in her face, began to believe that when Isabella made up her mind she could not be defeated.

It was when Alfonso had left her that inspiration came to Isabella.

She needed advice. She should discover whether she must inevitably accept this marriage with Portugal, or whether there was some way out of the situation.

She herself was a young girl, with little knowledge of the laws of the country, but she did suspect that the King and his adherents were endeavouring to rush her into this marriage and if this were so that they might have an ulterior reason for this haste.

She still believed that happiness for her lay in a marriage which had caught her childhood’s imagination when she had made an ideal of Ferdinand; but common sense told her that a marriage between Castile and Aragon could bring the greatest good to Spain. During the revolt in Catalonia there had been strife between Castile and Aragon; and Isabella had begun to realise that one of the reasons why the Moors still governed a great part of Spain was because of the quarrels among Spaniards.

United they might defeat the Infidel. Warring among themselves they became weakened. How much more satisfactory it would be if Spaniards united and fought the Moors instead of each other.

A marriage between Castile and Aragon then must be of the greatest advantage to Spain; and Isabella believed that if she and Ferdinand were united that would be the first step towards driving the Moors from the country. Therefore their marriage must be the one to take place.

She was certain that the Prince of Viana had met his death by Divine interference. Perhaps that had come about by way of poisoned broth or wine. But who dared question the designs of Providence? God had decided that Aragon was for Ferdinand. Had He also decided that Isabella was for Ferdinand?

God was more inclined to consider those who sought to help themselves, they being more worthy of His support than those who idly accepted whatever fate was thrust upon them.

Isabella accordingly made up her mind that she would work with all her might to evade this marriage with Alfonso V of Portugal.

She had more than her own desires to consider. Her brother Alfonso needed her. To some he might appear as the heir to the throne; to Isabella he was her frightened little brother. His father was dead; his poor unbalanced mother was shut away from the world. Who was there to care for little Alfonso but his sister Isabella?

But they were children in a Court in which conflict raged. In such a Court, thought Isabella, the difficulty is to know who are your friends, who your enemies. Whom could she trust except Beatriz? It seemed that greater wisdom came to her and she understood that the only way to be sure whose side people were on was to consider their interests and motives.

She knew that the King and Queen wished to see her leave the country. The reason was plain. They had realised that differences of opinion concerning the rights of the Queen’s baby daughter to the throne could bring the country to civil war. Therefore they wanted the little Princess’s rivals out of the way. They could not remove Alfonso yet; that would be too drastic a step. But how easy it was to marry off Isabella and so remove her in a seemly way from the sphere of action.

The Marquis of Villena was against Isabella’s marriage with Ferdinand for very strong personal reasons. A great deal of the property which he now held had once belonged to the House of Aragon, and he guessed that if Ferdinand attained influence in Castile, some means would be found of removing that property from the Marquisate of Villena and bringing it into the possession of its original owners.

There was, however, one person in Castile who Isabella believed would welcome the marriage between herself and Ferdinand. This was Don Frederick Henriquez, who was Admiral of Castile and father of the ambitious Joan Henriquez, Ferdinand’s own mother.

The Admiral would naturally support the marriage between his grandson and one who was only separated from the throne of Castile by a few short steps.

There could be no doubt then where the Admiral’s sympathies would lie; and, if anyone in Castile could help her now, this was the man.

Isabella had learned her first lesson in statecraft.

She would send for Frederick Henriquez, Admiral of Castile, a man of great experience; he would be able to tell her exactly how she stood in regard to the suggested marriage with Alfonso of Portugal.

In the great apartment lighted by a hundred torches which threw shadows on the tapestried walls, Isabella came to pay her respects to the visiting King of Portugal.

She held her head high as she walked towards the dais where the two Kings sat; and even though she felt that her wildly beating heart would leap into her throat and suffocate her, she yet managed to retain a certain serenity.

‘I am for Ferdinand and Ferdinand is for me,’ she told herself even at this moment, as she had been telling herself while her women had prepared her for the interview.

Henry took her into his arms and she was held against his scented and jewel-decorated robes of state. He called her ‘our dearest sister’; and he was smiling with what most people would believe to be real affection.

Queen Joanna looked glitteringly beautiful; and of course Beltran de la Cueva was in attendance behind the chairs of the King and Queen, darkly handsome, dazzlingly clad, and... triumphant.

Now she saw the man whom they were eager to make her husband, and she shivered.

He seemed very old and repulsively ugly to the thirteen-year-old girl.

I will not, I will not, she told herself. If they force me, I will take a knife and kill myself rather than submit.

In spite of these wild thoughts her hand did not tremble as it was taken by the King of Portugal.

His eyes were a little glazed as they rested on her – this young virgin, with innocence shining in her eyes. A delectable morsel, thought the King of Portugal, and one who could conceivably bring a crown with her.

There was trouble in Castile. Wicked Joanna! What had she been about? He could guess. And this Beltran de la Cueva was such a handsome fellow that one could hardly blame Joanna. She should have arranged it, though, so that there were no suspicions. Yet why should he regret that! It was very possible that this delicious young girl would one day be the heiress of Castile. There was a young brother, but he might be killed in battle; for there would certainly be battles in Castile before long. And the baby Joanna? Oh, Isabella’s chances were fair enough.

Isabella’s eyes met his and she flinched. His lips were a little wet as though his mouth was watering at the sight of her.

Isabella’s whole being called out in protest, but she respectfully returned the smiles of her brother, his Queen, and the Queen’s brother, who so clearly was not averse to taking her as wife.

Henry said: ‘Our Isabella is overcome with joy at the prospect which awaits her.’

‘She has scarcely slept for excitement since we made her aware of her great good fortune,’ put in the Queen.

‘She is conscious of the great honour done to her,’ went on Henry, ‘and now that she has seen you I know she will be doubly eager for the match. That is so, is it not, sister?’

‘Highness,’ said Isabella earnestly, ‘would you not consider it indecorous of a young woman to discuss her marriage before she was betrothed?’

Henry laughed. ‘Isabella has been very carefully nurtured. She lived the life of a nun before she joined us here at Court.’

‘I know of no better upbringing,’ said Alfonso V of Portugal. His eyes continued to wander over Isabella, so that she felt he was already picturing her in many different situations of intimacy which she could only vaguely imagine.

‘My dear Isabella,’ said the Queen, ‘your brother and I will not be as strict with you as your mother was at Arevalo. We shall allow you to dance with the King of Portugal. You shall become friends before he takes you back with him to Lisbon.’

Isabella forced herself to speak then. She said in a loud, clear voice, which could be heard by those courtiers who were in the room but some little distance from the royal group: ‘We cannot be sure yet that the betrothal will be agreed upon.’

Henry looked surprised, the Queen angry, and the King of Portugal nonplussed.

But Isabella boldly resumed: ‘I know you have not forgotten that, as a Princess of Castile, my betrothal could not take place without the consent of the Cortes.’

‘The King gives his consent,’ said Joanna quickly.

‘That is true,’ said Isabella, ‘but, as you are aware, it is essential that the Cortes also give consent.’

‘The King of Portugal is my brother,’ retorted Joanna haughtily. ‘Therefore we can dispense with the usual formality.’

‘I could not allow myself to be betrothed without the consent of the Cortes,’ Isabella affirmed.

It was the weariness in Henry’s face, rather than the anger and astonishment in those of the Queen and the King of Portugal, which told Isabella how right the old Admiral had been when he assured her that the only way in which the King and Queen dare marry her off would be to do so at great speed, before the Cortes had time to remind them that they must have a say in the matter.

And, the Admiral had added, it was hardly likely that the Cortes would give their consent to Isabella’s marriage with the Queen’s brother. The people had little love for the Queen; they had always considered her levity most unbecoming, and now with the scandal concerning the parentage of her little daughter about to break, they would blame her more than ever.

The Cortes would never consent to a marriage repugnant to their Princess Isabella, and so desired by their weak and lascivious King and his less weak but hardly less lascivious wife.

When Isabella left the audience chamber she knew that she had planted dismay in the hearts of two Kings and a Queen.

How right the Admiral of Castile had been! She had learned a valuable lesson, and once again she thanked God for saving her for Ferdinand.