Castile for Isabella

CHAPTER IX DON PEDRO GIRON

Isabella was distraught. She was torn between her love for her brother Alfonso and her loyalty towards her half-brother Henry.

She was in her sixteenth year, and the problems which faced her seemed too complex for a girl of her limited experience to solve.

She could trust few people. She knew that she was watched by many, that her smallest gestures were noticed, and that even in her intimate circle she was spied upon.

There was one whom she could trust, but Beatriz herself had been a little absent-minded lately. It was understandable; she had been married to Andres de Cabrera, and it was inevitable that the preoccupation of Beatriz with her new status should somewhat modify the devotion she was ready to give to her mistress.

I must be patient, thought Isabella; and she continued to dream of her own marriage, which surely could not be long delayed.

But this was not the time, when Alfonso had been placed in such a dangerous position, to think of her own selfish hopes.

There was civil strife in Castile, as there must be when two Kings claimed the throne. Sides must be taken, it seemed, by everybody; and although there were many in the kingdom who disapproved of Henry’s rule, the theatrical ceremony outside the walls of Avila seemed to many to be revolutionary conduct in the worst taste. Henry was the King, and Alfonso was an impostor, declared many of the great nobles of Castile. At the same time there were many more who, not having been favourites of the King and Queen, were ready to seek their fortunes under a new monarch who must have a regency to help him govern.

Henry was almost hysterical with grief. He hated bloodshed and was determined to avoid it if possible.

‘A firm hand is needed, Highness,’ his old tutor, the Bishop of Cuenca, warned him.

Henry turned on him with unusual anger. ‘How like a priest,’ he declared, ‘not being called upon to engage in the fight, to be very liberal with the blood of others!’

‘Highness, you owe it to your honour. If you do not stand firm and fight your enemies, you will be the most humiliated and degraded monarch in the history of Spain.’

‘I believe that it is always wiser to settle difficulties by negotiation,’ Henry retorted.

News was brought to him of the unrest throughout the country. In the pulpits and market squares the position was discussed. Was not a subject entitled to examine the conduct of his King? If the land was being drained of all its riches, if a state of anarchy had replaced that of law and order, had not the subject a right to protest?

From Seville and Cordova, from Burgos and Toledo, came the news that the people deplored the conduct of King Henry and were rallying to the support of King Alfonso and a regency.

Henry wept in his despair.

‘Naked came I from my mother’s womb,’ he cried. ‘And naked must I go down to the grave.’

But he deplored war and let it be known that he would be very happy to negotiate a settlement.

There was at least one other who was not very happy about the turn of events, although he had been largely responsible for it. This was the Marquis of Villena.

He had believed that the youthful Alfonso would be his creature, and that he himself would be virtually ruler of Castile.

But this was not so. Don Diego Lopez de Zuñiga, the Counts of Benavente and Plascencia – those noblemen who had played a leading part in the charade which had been acted outside the walls of Avila – were also seeking power.

The Marquis wondered whether it might not be a good idea to seek some secret communication with Henry and thus, by some quick volte-face, score an advantage over his old allies who were fast becoming his new rivals.

He was brooding on this when his brother, Don Pedro Giron, came to him.

Don Pedro was still smarting under the rebuff which had been given him some time before by Isabella’s mother. Grand Master of the Order of Calatrava though he was, he enjoyed the company of many mistresses; but there was not one who could make him forget the slight he had received at the hands of the Dowager Queen, nor could they collectively.

Don Pedro was a vindictive man; he was also a very vain man. The Dowager Queen had rejected his advances, and he often asked himself what he could do to anger her as much as she had angered him.

Poor mad thing, he said to himself. She did not know what was good for her.

It did soothe his vanity a little to remind himself that her madness was responsible for her rejection of him. It did please him a little to think of her living in retirement at Arevalo, sometimes, so he had heard, unaware of who she was and what was going on in the world.

He would like to get even with the girl too, that sedate little creature who had been hiding somewhere when he had made the proposals to her mother.

It was true that his brother, the great Marquis, sometimes talked to him of his plans.

‘All is not going well, brother?’ he asked on this occasion.

The Marquis frowned. ‘There are too many powerful men seeking more power. I found Henry easier to deal with.’

‘I have heard, brother, that Henry would give a great deal to have your friendship. He would be happy if you turned from Alfonso and his adherents back to him. Poor Henry, I have heard that he is ready to do a great deal for you if you would be his friend once more.’

‘Henry is a weak fool,’ said the Marquis.

‘Alfonso is but a boy.’

‘That’s true.’

‘Marquis, it is a pity that you cannot bind yourself more closely to Henry. Now, if you were not married already you might ask for the hand of Isabella in marriage. Such a connection would please the King, I am sure, and I do believe he would be ready to promise you anything to ensure your return.’

The Marquis was silent for a while. He continued to study his brother through half-closed eyes.

The Queen and the Duke of Albuquerque were with the King. One on either side of him they explained to Henry what he must do.

‘For,’ said the Queen, ‘you wish to end this strife. If you do not, there may be defeat for you. Alfonso is becoming more beloved of the people every day; which, my dear husband, is more than can be said for you.’

‘I know, I know,’ wailed Henry. ‘I am a most unhappy man, the most unhappy King that Spain has ever known.’

‘There must be an end to this strife, Highness,’ said the Duke.

‘It can be brought about,’ the Queen added.

‘Explain to me how. I would be ready to reward richly anyone who could put an end to our troubles.’

The Queen smiled at her lover over the bowed head of her husband.

‘Henry,’ she said, ‘there are two men who made the revolt, who lead the revolt. If they could be weaned from the traitors and brought to our side, the revolt would collapse. Alfonso would find himself without his supporters. Then our troubles would be over.’

‘You refer of course to the Marquis of Villena and the Archbishop,’ sighed Henry. ‘Once they were my friends... my very good friends. But enemies came between us.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Joanna impatiently. ‘They must be brought back. They can be brought back.’

‘How so?’

‘By making a bond, between our family and theirs, which is so strong that nothing can untie or break it.’

‘I repeat, how so?’

‘Highness,’ said Beltran almost nervously, ‘you may not like what we are about to suggest.’

‘The King will like whatever is going to end his troubles,’ said the Queen scornfully.

‘I pray you acquaint me with what you have in your minds,’ pleaded Henry.

‘It is this,’ said the Queen. ‘The Archbishop and the Marquis are uncle and nephew. Therefore of one family. Let us unite the royal family of Castile with theirs... then both Archbishop and Marquis will be your most faithful adherents for ever.’

‘I do not understand.’

‘Marriage,’ hissed the Queen. ‘Marriage is the answer.’

‘But what marriage... with whom?’

‘We have Isabella.’

‘My sister! And whom could she marry? Villena is married, and the Archbishop is a man of the Church.’

‘Villena has a brother.’

‘You mean Don Pedro?’

‘Why not?’

‘Don Pedro to marry a Princess of Castile!’

‘The times are dangerous.’

‘Her mother would go completely mad.’

‘Let her. She is half way there already.’

‘And... the man... is a Grand Master of the Order of Calatrava, and sworn to celibacy.’

‘Bah! A dispensation from Rome would soon settle that.’

‘I could not agree to it. Isabella... that innocent child and that lecherous...’

‘You do well to talk of his lechery!’ The Queen laughed on a high note of scorn. ‘Isabella is grown up. She must know of the existence of lechers. After all, has she not been at Court for some time?’

‘Isabella... marry that man!’

‘Henry, you are as usual foolish. Here is an opportunity to right our troubles. Isabella must marry to save Castile from bloodshed and war. She must marry to save the throne for its rightful King.’

Henry covered his face with his hands. Hideous pictures kept forming in his mind. Isabella, sedate and somewhat prim Isabella, whose upbringing had been so sternly pious... at the mercy of that coarse man, that notorious lecher!

‘No,’ murmured Henry. ‘No. I’ll not agree.’

But the Queen smiled at her lover, and both knew that Henry could always be persuaded.

Isabella stood before her brother. The Queen was present and her eyes glittered – perhaps with malice.

‘My dearest sister,’ said Henry, ‘you are no longer a child and it is time you married.’

‘Yes, Highness.’

Isabella waited expectantly while Joanna watched her with amusement. The girl had heard fine stories of handsome Ferdinand, the young heir to Aragon. Ferdinand was a little hero and a handsome one at that. And Isabella believed that she was to have the pretty boy.

This, thought Joanna, will teach her to reject my brother, the King of Portugal! When she has had a taste of married life with Don Pedro she will wish she had not been so haughty, nor so foolish, as to reject the crown my brother offered her. Perhaps now she would wish to change her mind.

‘I have decided,’ said Henry, ‘that you shall marry Don Pedro Giron, who is eager to become your husband. It is a match of which I... and the Queen... approve; and as you are of a marriageable age, we see no reason why there should be any delay.’

Isabella had grown pale. Joanna was amused to see that the sedate dignity, for which she was now noted, had deserted her.

‘I – I do not think I can have heard you correctly, Highness. You said that I was to marry...’

Henry’s eyes were softened with pity. Not this innocent young girl to that coarse creature! He would not allow it.

But he said: ‘To Don Pedro Giron.’

Don Pedro Giron! She remembered that scene in her mother’s apartments: Don Pedro making obscene suggestions, her mother’s indignation and horror – and her own. This was a nightmare surely. She could not really be in her half-brother’s apartments. She must be dreaming.

There was a cold sweat on her forehead; her heart was beating uncertainly. Her voice was playing tricks and would not shout the protests which her brain dictated.

The Queen spoke then. ‘It is a good match and, my dear Isabella, you have rejected so many. We cannot allow you to reject another. Why, my dear, if you do that you will end with no husband at all.’

‘That would be preferable to... to...’ stammered Isabella.

‘Come, you were not meant to die a virgin.’ The Queen spoke gaily.

‘But... Don Pedro...’ began Isabella. ‘I think your Highnesses have forgotten that I am betrothed to Ferdinand, the heir of Aragon.’

‘The heir of Aragon!’ laughed the Queen. ‘There will be little left for the heir of Aragon if the unhappy state of that country continues.’

‘And, Isabella,’ said Henry, ‘we, here in Castile, are not too happy, not too secure. The Marquis of Villena and the Archbishop of Toledo will be our friends when you are affianced to the brother of one and the nephew of the other. You see, my dear, Princesses must always serve their countries.’

‘I do not think any happy purpose could be served by such a... such a cruel and preposterous union.’

‘You are too young, Isabella, to understand.’

‘I am not too young to know that I would prefer death to marriage with that man.’

‘I think,’ said the Queen, ‘that you forget the respect due to the King and myself. We give you leave to retire. But before you go, let me say this: Suitors have been suggested to you and you have refused them. You should know that the King and I will allow no more refusals. You will prepare yourself for marriage, for in a few short weeks you are to be the bride of Don Pedro Giron.’

Isabella curtsied and retired.

She still felt as though she were in a dream. That was her only comfort. This terrible suggestion could not be of this world.

It was too humiliating, too degrading, too heart-breaking to contemplate.

In her own apartment Isabella sat staring before her.

Beatriz, who drew authority from the fact that she was not only Isabella’s maid of honour but her friend, dismissed everyone except Mencia de la Torre whom, next to herself, Isabella loved better than anyone in her circle.

‘What can have happened?’ whispered Mencia.

Beatriz shook her head. ‘Something has shocked her deeply.’

‘I have never seen her like this before.’

‘She has never been like this before.’ Beatriz knelt and took Isabella’s hand. ‘Dearest mistress,’ she implored, ‘would it not be easier if you talked to those who are ready to share your sorrows?’

Isabella’s lips trembled, but still she did not speak.

Mencia also knelt; she buried her face in Isabella’s skirts, for she could not bear to see that look of despair on the face of her beloved mistress.

Beatriz rose and poured out a little wine. She held this to Isabella’s lips. ‘Please, dearest. It will revive you. It will bring back your power of speech. Let us share your trouble. Who knows, there may be something we can do to banish it.’

Isabella allowed the wine to moisten her lips; and as Beatriz put an arm about her, she turned and buried her face against her friend’s breast.

‘Death,’ she muttered, ‘would I believe, be preferable.’

Beatriz knew that what she had feared had now happened. The match with Ferdinand must have been broken off and a new suitor proposed.

‘There must be some way of preventing this,’ said Beatriz.

Mencia raised her face and said passionately: ‘We will do anything... anything... to help, will we not, Beatriz?’

‘Anything,’ Beatriz agreed.

Then Isabella spoke: ‘There is nothing you can do. This time they meant it. I saw it in the Queen’s face. This time there will be no escaping it. Moreover, it is the wish of Villena, and that will decide it.’

‘It is a match for you?’

‘Yes,’ said Isabella. ‘The most degrading match I could make. I think it has been chosen for me by the Queen as a deliberate revenge for having refused her brother and won the approval and sanction of the Cortes to do so. But this time...’

‘Highness,’ whispered Mencia, ‘who?’

Isabella shuddered. ‘You will scarcely be able to believe it when I tell you. I cannot bear to say his name. I hate him. I despise him. I would rather be dead.’ She looked desperately from one to the other. ‘You see, I was trying to avoid saying his name, for even to speak of him fills me with such dread and disgust that I truly believe I shall die before the marriage ceremony can take place. But you will hear... if I do not tell you. The whole Court may be talking of it now. It is the brother of the Marquis of Villena – Don Pedro Giron.’

Neither of her women could speak. Beatriz had turned pale with horror; Mencia rocked on her heels, forgetful of everything but this overwhelmingly distasteful news. The thought of her mistress, in the coarse hands of the man whose reputation was one of the most unsavoury in Castile, made Mencia put her hands over her face to prevent herself betraying the full force of her horror.

‘I know what you are thinking,’ said Isabella. ‘Oh, Beatriz... Mencia... what shall I do? What can I do?’

‘There must be some way out of this,’ Beatriz tried to soothe.

‘They are determined. The Marquis naturally will do everything in his power to bring about the marriage. The Archbishop of Toledo will do the same. After all, this... this monster is his nephew. You see, my dear friends, they have taken Alfonso; they have forced him to call himself King of Castile while the King still lives. How do we know what that will cost him? And for myself I am to be the victim of the Queen’s revenge, of Villena’s and the Archbishop’s ambition, and... the lust of this man.’

Beatriz stood up; her face was hard and she, who Isabella had always known was possessed of a strong character, had never before looked so determined.

‘There must be a way,’ she said, ‘and we will find it.’ Then suddenly her expression lightened. ‘But how can this marriage take place?’ she demanded. ‘This man is a Grand Master of a religious Order and sworn to celibacy. Marriage is not for him.’

Mencia clasped her hands together and looked eagerly at Isabella. ‘It’s true, Highness, it’s true,’ she cried.

‘But of course it’s true,’ insisted Beatriz. ‘He cannot marry. So that’s an end to it. Depend upon it, this is merely a spiteful gesture of the Queen’s. Nothing will come of it. And when you consider, how could it? It is too fantastic... too preposterous.’

Isabella smiled at them wanly. She found a faint pleasure in the fact that they could comfort themselves thus, for they were two dear good friends who would suffer with her. She even allowed herself to be cheered a little. She must do something to lift herself from the blank despair into which she had fallen.

All through the night she had scarcely slept. She would awake from a doze, and the terrible knowledge would be there like a jailer sitting by her bed.

She dreamed of him; she saw him laying hands on her mother, making his obscene suggestions; and in her dream she ceased to be a looker-on, but the central figure in the repulsive scene.

She was pale when her women came to her. She asked that only Beatriz and Mencia should wait upon her. It would be unbearable to face any others, to see their pitying glances, for surely everyone would pity her.

Beatriz and Mencia were anxious. They talked together in her presence, because often when they addressed her she did not answer, for she did not hear.

‘We shall hear no more of this,’ said Beatriz. ‘Of course Pedro Giron cannot marry.’

‘Of course he cannot!’

They did not tell Isabella that the news was spreading through the Court that the marriage was not to be long delayed, because it was going to be the means of luring Villena and the Archbishop from the side of the rebels. ‘Once the marriage is announced, the rebels will become of less importance. Once it is fact, Villena and the Archbishop will stand firmly with the King, who will be their kinsman.’

They were glad that Isabella remained in her apartments; they did not wish her to hear what was being said.

The Queen came to see Isabella, and she was looking well pleased.

Isabella was lying on her bed when she entered. Beatriz and Mencia curtsied to the floor.

‘What is wrong with the Infanta?’ asked Joanna.

‘She has been a little indisposed this day,’ Beatriz told her. ‘I fear she is too sick to receive Your Highness.’

‘That is sad,’ said Joanna. ‘She should be rejoicing at the prospect before her.’

Beatriz and Mencia lowered their eyes; and the Queen went past them to the bed.

‘Why, Isabella,’ she said, ‘I am sorry to see you sick. What is wrong? Is it something you have eaten?’

‘It is nothing I have eaten,’ said Isabella.

‘Well, I have good news for you. Perhaps you were a little anxious, eh? My dear sister, there is no need for further anxiety. I have come to tell you that a dispensation has arrived from Rome. Don Pedro is released from his vows. There is now no impediment to the marriage.’

Isabella said nothing. She had known that there would be no difficulty in Don Pedro’s obtaining his dispensation, because his powerful brother desired it.

‘Well,’ coaxed Joanna, ‘does that not make you feel ready to leave your bed and dance with joy?’

Isabella raised herself on her elbow and looked stonily at Joanna.

‘I shall not marry Don Pedro,’ she said. ‘I shall do everything in my power to prevent such an unworthy marriage for a Princess of Castile.’

‘Stubborn little virgin,’ said the Queen lightly. She put her face close to Isabella’s and whispered: ‘There is nothing to fear, my dear, in marriage. Believe me, like so many of us, you will find much to delight you. Now, leave your bed and come down to the banquet which your brother is giving to celebrate this event.’

‘As I have nothing to celebrate, I shall stay here,’ Isabella replied.

‘Oh come... come, you are being somewhat foolish.’

‘If my brother wishes me to come to his banquet, he will have to take me there by force. I warn you that should he do so, I shall then announce that this marriage is not only against my wishes but that the very thought of it fills me with dismay.’

The Queen tried to hide her discomfiture and anger.

‘You are sick,’ she said. ‘You must stay in your bed. Take care, Isabella. You must not over-excite yourself. Remember how your mother was affected. Your brother and I wish to please you in every possible way.’

‘Then perhaps you will leave me now.’

The Queen inclined her head.

‘Good day to you, Isabella. You need have no fear of marriage. You take these things too seriously.’

With that she turned and left the apartment; and when Isabella called Beatriz and Mencia to her bedside she saw from the blank expression on their faces that they had heard all, and that now even they had lost all hope.

Preparations for the wedding were going on at great speed.

Villena and the Archbishop had brought their tremendous energy to the event. Henry was as eager. Once the marriage had taken place, the leaders of his enemies would become his friends.

Henry had always said that gifts should be bestowed on one’s enemies to turn them into friends; he was following that policy now, for there was not a greater gift he could bestow, and on a more dangerous enemy, than the hand of his half-sister on Don Pedro.

There was murmuring in certain quarters. Some said that now Villena and his uncle would be more powerful than ever, and that was scarcely desirable; a few even deplored the fact that an innocent young girl was being given to a voluptuary of such evil reputation. But many declared that this was a way to put an end to civil war, and that such conflicts could only bring disaster to Castile.

Once the marriage had taken place and Villena and his uncle had transferred their allegiance from the rebels to the King’s party, the revolt would collapse; Alfonso would be relegated to his position of heir to the throne, and there would no longer be this dangerous situation of two Kings ‘reigning’ at the same time.

As for Isabella, she felt numb with grief and fear as the days passed. She had lost a great deal of weight, for she could eat little. She had grown pale and drawn because she could not sleep.

She spent the days in her own apartments, lying on her bed, scarcely speaking; she prayed for long periods.

‘Let me die,’ she implored, ‘rather than suffer this fate. Holy Mother of God, kill one of us... either him or myself. Save me from this impending dishonour and kill me that I may not be tempted to kill myself.’

Somewhere in Spain was Ferdinand; had he heard of the fate which was about to fall upon her? Did he care? What had Ferdinand been thinking, all these years, of their betrothal? Perhaps he had not seen their possible union as she had, and to him she had been merely a match which would be advantageous to him. If he heard that he had lost her, perhaps he would shrug his shoulders, and look about him for another bride.

Ferdinand, fighting side by side with his father in his own turbulent Aragon, would have other matters with which to occupy himself.

She liked to imagine that he might come to save her from this terrible marriage. That was because she was a fanciful girl who had dreamed romantic dreams. She could not in her more reasonable moments hope that Ferdinand – a year younger than herself and as powerless as she was – could do anything to help her.

Her great comfort during these days of terror was Beatriz, who never left her. At night Beatriz would lie at the foot of her bed and, during the early hours of morning when sleep was quite impossible, they would talk together and Beatriz would make the wildest plans, such as flight from the Palace. This was impossible, they both knew, but there was a little comfort to be derived from such talk – or at least so it seemed in the dreary hours before dawn.

Beatriz would say: ‘It shall not be. We will find some means of preventing it. I swear it! I swear it!’

Her deep vibrating voice would shake the bed and, such was the power of her personality, she made Isabella almost believe her.

There was great strength in Beatriz; she had not the same love of law and order which was Isabella’s main characteristic. There had been times in the past when Isabella had warned Beatriz against her rebellious attitude to life; now she was glad of it, glad of any mite of comfort which could come her way.

With the coming of each day, Isabella felt her load of misery growing.

‘No escape,’ she murmured to herself. ‘No escape. And each day it comes nearer.’

Andres de Cabrera came to visit his wife. He had scarcely seen her since Isabella had heard that she was to marry Don Pedro.

‘I cannot leave her,’ Beatriz had told him, ‘no... not even for you. I must be with her all through the night, for I fear she might be tempted to do herself some injury.’

Isabella received Andres with as much pleasure as she could show to anyone. He was very shocked to see the change in her. Gone was the serene Isabella. He felt saddened to see such a change; and he was doubly alarmed to see that Beatriz was almost equally affected.

‘You cannot go on in this way,’ he remonstrated. ‘Highness, you must accept your fate. It is an evil one, I know, but you are a Princess of Castile. You will be able to extract obedience from this man.’

‘You can talk like that!’ stormed Beatriz. ‘You can tell us to accept this fate! Look at her... look at my Isabella, and think of him... that... that... But I will not speak his name. Is it not enough that we are aware of him every hour of the day and night!’

Andres put his arm about his wife’s shoulders. ‘Beatriz, my dearest, you must be reasonable.’

‘He tells me to be reasonable!’ cried Beatriz ‘It seems, Andres, that you do not know me if you can imagine I am going to stand aside and be reasonable while my beloved mistress is handed over to that coarse brute.’

‘Beatriz... Beatriz...’ He drew her to him and was aware of something hard in the bodice of her gown.

She laughed suddenly. Then she put her hand into her bodice and drew out a dagger.

‘What is this?’ cried Andres growing pale as her flashing eyes rested upon him.

‘I will tell you,’ said Beatriz. ‘I have made a vow, husband. I have promised Isabella that she shall never fall into the hands of that crude monster. That is why I carry this dagger with me day and night.’

‘Beatriz, have you gone mad?’

‘I am sane, Andres. I think I am the sanest person in this Palace. As soon as the Grand Master of Calatrava approaches my mistress, I shall be there between them. I shall take my dagger and plunge it into his heart.’

‘My dearest... what are you saying! What madness is this?’

‘You do not understand. Someone must protect her. You do not know my Isabella. She, so proud, so... so pure... I think that she will kill herself rather than suffer this degradation. I shall save her by killing him before he has a chance to besmirch her with his foulness.’

‘Give me that dagger, Beatriz.’

‘No,’ said Beatriz, slipping it into the bodice of her dress.

‘I demand that you give it to me.’

‘I am sorry, Andres,’ she answered calmly. ‘There are two people in this world for whom I would give my life if necessary. You are one. She is the other. I have sworn this solemn vow. There shall be no consummation of this barbarous marriage. That is the vow I have sworn. So it is no use your asking me for this dagger. It is for him, Andres.’

‘Beatriz, I implore you... think of our life together. Think of our future!’

‘There could be no happiness for me if I did not do this thing for her.’

‘I cannot allow you to do it, Beatriz.’

‘What will you do, Andres? Inform on me? I shall die doubtless. Perhaps they will torture me first; perhaps they will say, This is a plot to assassinate Isabella’s bridegroom. So, Andres, you will inform against your wife?’

He was silent.

‘Andres, you will do no such thing. You must leave this to me. I have sworn he shall not deflower her. It is a sacred vow.’

Her eyes were brilliant and her cheeks were scarlet; she looked very beautiful; and as powerful as a young goddess – tall, handsome and full of fire.

And he loved her dearly. He knew her well enough to understand that this was no wild talk. She was bold and completely courageous. He had no doubt that she would keep her word and, when the moment came, she would lift her hand and plunge the dagger into the heart of Isabella’s bridegroom.

And when he murmured: ‘It must not be, Beatriz!’ she answered: ‘It cannot be otherwise.’

In his house at Almagro Don Pedro Giron was making preparations for his wedding. He had lost no time since the arrival of the dispensation from Rome.

He strolled about his apartment while his servants made ready his baggage. He put on the rich garments in which he would be married, and strutted before them.

‘Look!’ he cried to his servants. ‘Here you see the husband of a Princess of Castile. How does he look, eh?’

‘My lord,’ was the answer, ‘there could not be a more worthy husband of a Princess of Castile.’

‘Ah!’ laughed Don Pedro. ‘She will find me a worthy husband, I’ll promise you.’

And he continued to laugh, thinking of her – the prim young girl who had been in hiding when he had made certain proposals to her mother. He remembered her standing before them, her blue eyes scornful. He would teach her to be scornful!

He gave himself up to pleasant contemplation of his wedding night. Afterwards, he promised himself, she should be a different woman. She would never again dare show her scorn of him. Princess of Castile though she was he would show her who was her master.

He gave himself up to his sensual dreaming, to the contemplation of an orgy which would be all the more enticing because it would be shared by a prim and – oh, so sedate – Princess.

‘Come on,’ he cried. ‘You sluggards, work harder. It is time we left. It is a long journey to Madrid.’

‘Yes, my lord. Yes, my lord.’

How docile they were, how eager to please! They knew it would be the worse for them if they were not. She would soon learn also.

What a blessing it was to be the brother of a powerful man. But people must not forget that Don Pedro himself was also powerful – powerful in his own right.

One of the self-appointed tasks of Don Pedro was to assure those about him that, although he drew some of his power from his brother’s high office, he was himself a man to be reckoned with.

He scowled at his servants. He was impatient to leave. He longed for the journey to be over; he longed for the wedding celebrations to begin.

With great pomp Don Pedro set out on the journey to Madrid. All along the road people came out to greet him; graciously he accepted their homage. Never had he been so pleased with himself. Why, he reckoned, he had come farther even than his brother, the Marquis. Had the Marquis ever aspired to the hand of a Princess? What glorious good fortune that he had joined the Order of the Calatrava and thus had escaped the web of matrimony. How disconcerting it would have been if this opportunity had come along and he had been unable to take advantage of it because of a previous entanglement. But no, a little dispensation from Rome had been all that was needed.

They would stay the first night at Villarubia, a little hamlet not far from Ciudad Real. Here members of the King’s Court had come to greet him. He noticed with delight their obsequious manners. Already he had ceased to be merely the brother of the Marquis of Villena.

He had the innkeeper brought before him.

‘Now, my man,’ he shouted, as he swaggered in his dazzling garments, ‘I doubt you have ever entertained royalty before. Now’s your chance to show us what you can do. And it had better be good. If it is not, you will be a most unhappy man.’

‘Yes, my lord... yes, Highness,’ stuttered the man. ‘We have been warned of your coming and have been working all day for your pleasure.’

‘It is what I expect,’ cried Don Pedro.

He was a little haughty with the officers of the King’s Guard who had come to escort him on his way to Madrid. They must understand that in a few days’ time he would be a member of the royal family.

The innkeeper’s feast was good enough to satisfy even him; he gorged himself on the delicious meats and drank deep of the innkeeper’s wine.

Furtive eyes watched him, and there were many at the table to think sadly of the Princess Isabella.

Don Pedro was helped to his bed by his servants. He was very drunk and sleepy, and incoherently he told them what a great man he was and how he would subdue his chaste and royal bride.

It was during the night that he awoke startled. His body was covered with a cold sweat and he realised that it was a gripping pain which had awakened him.

He struggled up in his bed and shouted to his servant.

Andres Cabrera came to Isabella’s apartments and was greeted by his wife. ‘Isabella?’ he asked.

‘She lies in her bed. She grows more and more listless.’

‘Then she has not heard the news. So I am the first to bring it to her.’

Beatriz gripped her husband’s arm and her eyes dilated. ‘What news?’

‘Give me the dagger,’ he said. ‘You’ll not need it now.’

‘You mean... ?’

‘He was taken ill at Villarubia four days ago. The news has just been brought to me that he is dead. Soon all Madrid will know.’

‘Andres!’ cried Beatriz, and there was a question in her eyes.

‘Suffice it,’ he said, ‘that there will be no need for you to use your dagger.’

Beatriz swayed a little, and for a few seconds Andres thought that the excess of emotion which she was undergoing would cause her to faint.

But she recovered herself. She gazed at him, and there was pride and gratitude in her eyes – and an infinite love for him.

‘It is an act of God,’ she cried.

Andres answered: ‘We can call it that.’

Beatriz took his hand and kissed it; then she laughed aloud and ran into Isabella’s bedchamber.

She stood by the bed, looking down on her mistress. Andres had come to stand beside her.

‘Great news!’ cried Beatriz. ‘The best news that you could hear. There will be no marriage. Our prayers have been answered; he is dead.’

Isabella sat up in bed and looked from Beatriz to Andres.

‘Dead! Is it possible? But... but how?’

‘At Villarubia,’ said Beatriz. ‘He was taken ill four days ago. I told you, did I not, that our prayers would be answered. Dearest Isabella, you see our fears were all for something which cannot happen.’

‘I cannot believe it,’ whispered Isabella. ‘It is miraculous. He was so strong... it seems impossible that he could... die. And you say he was taken ill. Of what... ? And... how?’

‘Let us say,’ Beatriz answered, ‘that it was an Act of God. That is the happiest way of looking at this. We prayed for a miracle, Princesa; and our prayers have been granted.’

Isabella rose from her bed and went to her prie-Dieu.

She knelt and gave thanks for her deliverance; and behind her stood Beatriz and Andres.