Daughters of Spain

Chapter XIII THE DEPARTURES OF MIGUEL AND CATALINA

Maria her sister Catalina were at the window watching the comings and goings to and from the Madrid Alcazar. The expression of each was intent; and in both cases their thoughts were on marriage.

Catalina could immediately recognise the English messengers, and on those occasions when she saw these men with their letters from their King to her parents she felt sick with anxiety. The Queen had told her that in each dispatch the King of England grew more and more impatient.

Then Catalina would cling to her mother wildly for a few seconds, holding back her tears; and although the Queen reproved her, there was, Catalina knew, a rough note in her voice which betrayed her own nearness to tears.

It cannot be long now, Catalina said to herself every morning. And each day which could be lived through without word from England was something for which she thanked the saints in her prayers at night.

Maria was different. She was as nearly excited as Catalina had ever seen her.

Now she chattered: ‘Catalina, can you see the Naples livery? Tell me if you do.’

Doesn’t she care that she will have to leave her home? wondered Catalina. But perhaps Naples did not seem so far away as England.

There was gossip throughout the Alcazar that the next marriage would either be that of Maria to the Duke of Calabria who was the heir of the King of Naples, or that of Catalina to the Prince of Wales.

Maria actually enjoyed talking of her prospective marriage.

‘I was afraid I was going to be forgotten,’ she explained. ‘There were husbands for everybody else and none for me. It seemed unfair.’

‘I should rejoice if they had found no husband for me,’ Catalina reminded her.

‘That is because you are so young. You cannot imagine anything but staying at home here with Mother all your life. That is quite impossible.’

‘I fear you are right.’

‘When you are as old as I am you will feel differently,’ Maria comforted her sister.

‘In three years’ time I shall be as old as you are now. I wonder what I shall be doing by then? Three years from now. That will be the year 1503. It’s a long way ahead. Look. There is a messenger. He comes from Flanders, I am sure.’

‘Then it will be news from our sister.’

‘Oh,’ said Catalina and fell silent. That which she feared next to news from England was news from Flanders, because news which came from that country had the power to make her mother so unhappy.

The girls were summoned to their parents’ presence. This was a ceremonial occasion. They were not the only ones in the big apartment. Their parents stood side by side, and Catalina knew immediately that some important announcement was about to be made.

In the Queen’s hand were the dispatches from Flanders.

It must concern Juana, thought Catalina; but there was no need to worry. Something had happened which made her mother very happy. As for her father, there was an air of jubilance about him.

Into the apartment came all the officers of state who were at that time resident in the Alcazar, and when they were all assembled a trumpeter who stood close to the King and Queen sounded a few notes.

There was silence throughout the room. Then Isabella spoke.

‘My friends, this day I have great news for you. My daughter Juana has given birth to a son.’

These words were followed by fanfares of triumph.

And then everyone in the room cried: ‘Long life to the Prince!’

Isabella and Ferdinand were alone at last.

Ferdinand’s face was flushed with pleasure. Isabella’s eyes were shining.

‘This, I trust,’ she said, ‘will have a sobering effect on our daughter.’

‘A son!’ cried Ferdinand. ‘What joy! The first born and a son.’

‘It will be good for her to be a mother,’ mused Isabella. ‘She will discover new responsibilities. It will steady her.’

Then she thought of her own mother and those uncanny scenes in the Castle of Arevalo when she had raved about the rights of her children. Isabella remembered that she had been at her most strange when she had feared that her children might not gain what she considered to be their rights.

But she would not think such thoughts. Juana was fertile. She had her son. That was a matter for the utmost rejoicing.

‘They are calling him Charles,’ murmured Isabella.

Ferdinand frowned. ‘A foreign name. There has never been a Charles in Spain.’

‘If this child became Emperor of the Austrians he would be their Charles the Fifth,’ said Isabella. ‘There have been other Charleses in Austria.’

‘I like not the name,’ insisted Ferdinand.’ It would have been a pleasant gesture if they had named their first, Ferdinand.’

‘It would indeed. But I expect we shall become accustomed to the name.’

‘Charles the Fifth of Austria,’ mused Ferdinand, ‘and Charles the First of Spain.’

‘He cannot be Charles the First of Spain while Miguel lives,’ Isabella reminded him.

‘Not … while Miguel lives,’ repeated Ferdinand.

He looked at Isabella with that blank expression which, during the early years of their marriage, she had begun to understand. He believed Miguel would not live, and that this which had caused him great anxiety before the letter from Juana had arrived, no longer did so. For if Miguel died now there was still a male heir to please the people of Aragon: there was Juana’s son, Charles.

‘From all reports,’ said Ferdinand, ‘our grandson with this odd name appears to be a lusty young person.’

‘They tell us so.’

‘I have had it from several sources,’ answered Ferdinand. ‘Sources which are warned not to feed me with lies.’

‘So Charles is big for his age and strong and lusty. Charles will live.’

Isabella’s lips trembled slightly; she was thinking of that wan child in his nursery in the troubled town of Granada, where the Moorish population had now been called upon to choose between baptism and exile.

Miguel was such a good child. He scarcely ever cried. He coughed a little though, in the same way as his mother had done just before she died.

‘Ferdinand,’ Isabella had turned to her husband, ‘this child which has been born to our Juana will one day inherit all the riches of Spain.’

Ferdinand did not answer. But he agreed with her.

It was the first time that Isabella had given voice to the great anxiety which Miguel had brought to her since his birth.

But all was well now, thought Ferdinand. One heir might be taken from them, but there was another to fill his place.

Isabella once again read Ferdinand’s thoughts. She must try to emulate her husband’s calm practical common sense. She must not grieve too long for Juan, for Isabella. They had little Miguel. And if little Miguel should follow his mother to the grave, they had lusty little Habsburg Charles to call their heir.

Ferdinand at this time was deeply concerned over Naples. When Charles VIII of France had been succeeded by Louis XII it had become clear that Louis had his eyes on Europe, for he immediately laid claim to Naples and Milan. Ferdinand himself had for long cast covetous eyes on Naples which was occupied by his cousin, Frederick. Frederick belonged to an illegitimate line of the House of Aragon, and it was for this reason that Ferdinand itched to take the crown for himself.

Frederick, who might have expected help from his cousin against the King of France, had received a blow when his effort to marry his son, the Duke of Calabria, to Ferdinand’s daughter Maria, was thwarted.

Frederick’s great hope had been to bind himself closer to his cousin Ferdinand by this marriage; and Ferdinand might have considered the alliance, but for the fact that the King of Portugal was a widower.

Of all his potential enemies Ferdinand most feared the King of France who, by the conquest of Milan, was now a power in Italy. The situation was further aggravated by the conduct of the Borgia Pope, who quite clearly was determined to win wealth, honour and power for himself and his family. The Pope was no friend to Ferdinand. Isabella had been profoundly shocked by the conduct of the Holy Father, whose latest scandalous behaviour had concerned transferring his son Cesare, whom he had previously made a Cardinal, from the Church to the army, simply because that ambitious young man, whose reputation was as evil as that of his father, felt that he could gain more power outside the Church. Ferdinand, believing that nothing could be gained by ranging himself on the side of the Borgias, joined Isabella in accusing the Pope of his crimes.

Alexander had been furious, had torn up the letter in which these complaints were made and had retaliated by referring to the Sovereigns of Spain with some indecency.

Therefore an alliance between the Vatican and Spain was out of the question. Maximilian was heavily engaged, and in any case had not the means of helping Ferdinand. Meanwhile the French, triumphant in Milan, were now preparing to annex Naples.

Frederick of Naples, a gentle peace-loving person, awaited with trepidation the storm which was about to break over his little Kingdom. He feared the French and he knew that he could not expect help from his cousin Ferdinand who wanted Naples for himself. There seemed no way out of his dilemma except by calling in the help of the Turkish Sultan, Bajazet.

When Ferdinand heard this he was gleeful.

‘This is monstrous,’ he declared to Isabella. ‘My foolish cousin –I must say my wicked cousin –has asked for help from the greatest enemy of Christianity. Now we need have no qualms about stepping in and taking Naples from him.’

Isabella, who previously had been less eager for the Neapolitan campaign, was quickly won over by Ferdinand’s arguments when she heard that Frederick had called for help from Bajazet.

But Ferdinand was in as great a dilemma as his cousin Frederick. If he allied himself with the powerful Louis, and victory was theirs, it was certain that Louis would eventually oust Ferdinand from Naples. To help Frederick against Louis was not to be thought of, because he would be fighting for Frederick and that would bring him no gain.

Ferdinand was a wily strategist where his own advancement was concerned. His sharp acquisitive eyes took in every salient point.

When Bajazet ignored Frederick’s cry for help, Ferdinand set in motion negotiations between France and Spain, and the result was a new treaty of Granada.

This document was a somewhat sanctimonious one. In it was stated that war was evil and it was the duty of all Christians to preserve peace. Only the Kings of France and Aragon could pretend to the throne of Naples, and as the present King had called in the help of the enemy of all Christians, Bajazet, the Turkish Sultan, there was no alternative left to the Kings of France and Aragon, but that they should take possession of the Kingdom of Naples and divide it between them. The north would be French, the south Spanish.

This was a secret treaty; and so it should remain while the Spaniards and the French prepared to take what the treaty made theirs.

‘This should not be difficult,’ Ferdinand explained to Isabella. ‘Pope Alexander will support us against Frederick. Frederick was a fool to refuse his daughter Carlotta to Cesare Borgia. Alexander will never forgive this slight to a son on whom he dotes; and the hatred of the Borgias is implacable.’

Isabella was delighted by the cunning strategy of her husband.

She said to him on the signing of the treaty: ‘I do not know what would have become of us but for you.’

These words gave Ferdinand pleasure. He often thought what an ideal wife Isabella would have been if she had not been also Queen of Castile, so determined to do her duty that she subdued everything else to that; yet it was precisely because she was Queen of Castile that he had wanted her to be his wife.

His busy mind was looking ahead. There would have to be a campaign against Naples. It was important that the friendship with England should not be broken. He would be glad when he could marry Maria into Portugal.

It would be wise to discuss the matter of England with Isabella while she was in this humble mood.

He laid his hand on Isabella’s shoulder and looked serenely into her eyes.

‘Isabella, my dear,’ he said, ‘I have been patient with you because I know of the love you bear our youngest. The time is passing. She should now begin to prepare for her journey to England.’

He saw the fear leap into Isabella’s eyes.

‘I dread to tell her this,’ she said.

‘Oh come, come, what is this folly? Our Catalina is going to be Queen of England.’

‘She is so close to me, Ferdinand, more close than any of the others. There are going to be many sad tears when we are parted. She is so alarmed by the thought of this journey that sometimes I fear she has a premonition of evil.’

‘Is this my wise Isabella talking?’

‘Yes, Ferdinand, it is. Our eldest daughter believed she was going to die in childbed, and she did. In the same way our youngest has this horror of England.’

‘It is time I was firm with you all,’ said Ferdinand. ‘There is one way to stop our Catalina’s fancies. Let her go to England, let her see for herself what a fine thing it is to be the wife of the heir to the English throne. I’ll swear that in a few months’ time we shall be having glowing letters about England. She will have forgotten Spain and us.’

‘I have a feeling that Catalina will never forget us.’

‘Break the news to her then.’

‘Oh, Ferdinand, so soon?’

‘It has been years. I marvel at the patience of the King of England. We dare not lose this match, Isabella. It is important to my schemes.’

Isabella sighed. ‘I shall give her a few more days of pleasure,’ she said. ‘Let her enjoy another week in Spain. There will not be many weeks left to her in which to enjoy her home.’

Isabella knew now that she could no longer put off the date of departure.

There was an urgent call to Granada, where little Miguel was suffering from a fever. The Queen rode into the city with Ferdinand and her two daughters. The news of Miguel’s illness had had one good result, for because of it Isabella had put off giving Catalina instructions to prepare to leave Spain.

How different the city looked on this day. There were the towers of the Alhambra, rosy in the sunlight; there were the sparkling streams; but Granada had lost its gaiety. It was a sad city since Ximenes had ridden into it and had decided that only Christians should enjoy it.

Everywhere there was evidence of those days when it had been the Moorish capital, so that it was impossible to ride through those streets without thinking of the work which was steadily going forward under the instructions of the Archbishop of Toledo.

Isabella’s heart was heavy. She was wondering now what she would find when she reached the Palace. How bad was the little boy? She read between the lines of the messages she had received and she guessed that he was very bad indeed.

She felt numbed by this news. Was it, she asked herself, that when blow followed blow, one was prepared for the next?

Ferdinand would not mourn. He would tell her that she must be grateful because they had Charles.

But she would not think of Miguel’s dying. She herself would nurse him. She would keep him with her; she would not allow even her State duties to separate her from the child. He was the son of her darling daughter Isabella who had left him to her mother when she died. No matter how many grandsons her children should give her, she would always cherish Miguel, as the first grandson, the heir, the best loved.

She reached that part of this magnificent building which had been erected about the Court of Myrtles and made her way to the apartments which opened on to the Courtyard of Lions.

Her little Miguel could not have lived his short life in more beautiful surroundings. What did he think of the gilded domes and exquisite loveliness of the stucco work? He would be too young as yet to understand the praises which were set out on the walls, praises to the Prophet.

When she went to the apartment which was his nursery, she noticed at once that his nurses wore that grave look which she had become accustomed to see on the faces of those who waited at the sick-beds of the members of her family.

‘How fares the Prince?’ she asked.

‘Highness, he is quiet today.’

Quiet today! She was filled with anguish as she leaned over his bed. There he lay, her grandson who was so like his mother, with the same patient resignation in his gentle little face.

‘Not Miguel,’ prayed Isabella. ‘Have I not suffered enough? Take Charles … if you must take from me, but leave me my little Miguel. Leave me Isabella’s son.’

What arrogance was this? Was she presuming to instruct Providence?

She crossed herself hastily: ‘Not my will but Thine.’

She sat by the bed through the day and night; she knew that Miguel was dying, that only by a miracle could he throw off this fever and grow up to inherit his grandparents’ kingdom.

He will die, she thought wearily; and on the day he dies, our heir is Juana. And the people of Aragon will not accept a woman. But they will accept that woman’s son. They will accept Charles. Charles is strong and lusty, though his mother grows wilder every day. Juana inherits her wildness from my mother. Is it possible that Charles might inherit wildness from his?

What trouble lay in store for Spain? Was there no end to the ills which could befall them? Was there some truth in the rumours that theirs was an accursed House?

She was aware of the short gurgling breaths for which the child was struggling.

She sent for the doctors, but there was nothing they could do.

This frail little life was slowly slipping away.

‘Oh God, what next? What next?’ murmured Isabella.

Then the child lay still, and silent, and the doctors nodded one to another.

‘So he has gone, my grandson?’ asked the Queen.

‘That we fear is so, Your Highness.’

‘Then leave me with him awhile,’ said Isabella. ‘I will pray for him. We will all pray for him. But first leave me with him awhile.’

When she was alone she lifted the child from his bed and sat holding him in her arms while the tears slowly ran down her cheeks.

There was little time to grieve. There was the invasion of Naples to be planned; there was the affair of Christobal Colon to demand Isabella’s attention.

Her feelings towards the adventurer were now mixed. He had incurred her wrath by using the Indians as slaves, a practice which she deplored. She did not follow the reasoning of most Catholics that, as these savages were doomed to perdition in any case, it mattered little what happened to their bodies on Earth. Isabella’s great desire for colonization had been not so much to add to the wealth of Spain as to bring those souls to Christianity which had never been in a position to receive it before. Colon needed workmen for his new colony and he was not over-scrupulous as to how he obtained them. But Isabella at home in Spain asked: ‘By what authority does Christobal Colon venture to dispose of my subjects?’ She ordered that all those men and women who had been taken into slavery should immediately be returned to their own country.

This was the first time she had felt angered by the behaviour of Christobal Colon.

As for Ferdinand he had always regarded the adventurer with some irritation. Since the discovery of the pearl fisheries of Paria he had thought with growing irritation of the agreement he had made – that Colon should have a share of the treasures he discovered. Ferdinand itched to divert more and more of that treasure into his coffers.

There were complaints from the colony, and Isabella had at last been persuaded to send out a kinsman of her friend Beatriz de Bobadilla, a certain Don Francisco de Bobadilla, to discover what was really happening.

Bobadilla had been given great powers. He was to take possession of all fortresses, vessels and property, and to have the right to send back to Spain any man who he thought was not working for the good of the community, that such person should then be made to answer to the Sovereigns for his conduct.

Isabella had at first been pleased to give Bobadilla this important post because he was a distant kinsman of her beloved friend; now she deeply regretted her action, as the only resemblance that Don Francisco bore to his kinswoman Beatriz was in his name.

It was while they were at Granada, mourning the death of little Miguel, that Ferdinand brought Isabella the news that Colon had arrived in Spain.

‘Colon!’ cried Isabella.

‘Sent home for trial by Bobadilla,’ Ferdinand explained.

‘But this is incredible,’ declared Isabella. ‘When we gave Bobadilla such powers we did not think he would use them against the Admiral!’

Ferdinand shrugged his shoulders. ‘It was for Bobadilla to use his power where he thought it would do the most good.’

‘But to send Colon home!’

‘Why not, if he thinks he is incompetent?’

Isabella forgot the disagreement she had had with the Admiral over the sale of slaves. She was immediately ready to spring to his defence because she remembered that day in 1493 when he had come home triumphant, the discoverer of the new land, when he had laid the riches of the New World at the feet of the Sovereigns.

And now to be sent home by Francisco de Bobadilla! It was too humiliating.

‘Ferdinand,’ she cried, ‘do you realise that this man is the greatest explorer the world has known? You think it is right that he should be sent home in disgrace?’

Ferdinand interrupted. ‘In more than disgrace. He has come in fetters. He is now being kept in fetters at Cadiz.’

‘This is intolerable,’ cried Isabella. She did not wait to discuss the matter further with Ferdinand. She immediately wrote an order. Christobal Colon was to be released at once from his fetters and was to come with all speed to Granada.

‘I am sending a thousand ducats to cover his expenses,’ she told Ferdinand; ‘and he shall come in the style befitting a great man who has been wronged.’

So, the people cheering as he came, Christobal Colon rode into Granada. He was thin, even gaunt, and they remembered that this great man had come across the ocean in fetters.

When she heard that he was in Granada, Isabella immediately sent for him and, when he arrived before her and Ferdinand, she would not let him kneel. She embraced him warmly, and Ferdinand did the same.

‘My dear friend,’ cried the Queen, ‘how can I tell you of my distress that you have been so treated?’

Colon held his head high, and said: ‘I have crossed the ocean in fetters as a criminal. I understand I am to answer charges which have been brought against me, the charges of having discovered a New World and given it to Your Highnesses.’

‘This is unforgivable,’ the Queen declared.

But Ferdinand was thinking: You did not give it entirely to your Sovereigns, Christobal Colon. You kept something for yourself.

He was calculating how much richer he would be if Christobal Colon did not have his share of the riches of the New World.

‘I have suffered great humiliation,’ Colon told them; and Isabella knew that to him humiliation would be the sharpest pain. He was a proud man, a man who for many years of his life had worked to make a dream come true. He had been a man with a vision of a New World and, by his skill in navigation and his extreme patience and refusal to be diverted from his project, he had made that New World a reality.

‘Your wrongs shall be put right,’ Isabella promised. ‘Bobadilla shall be brought home. He shall be made to answer for his treatment of you. We must ask you to try to forget all that you have suffered. You need have no fear; your honours will be restored to you.’

When the proud Colon fell on his knees before the Queen and began to sob like a child, Isabella was shaken out of her serenity.

What he has suffered! she thought. And I, who have suffered in my own way, can understand his feelings.

She laid a hand on his shoulder.

‘Weep, my dear friend,’ she said, ‘weep, for there is great healing in tears.’

So there, at the feet of the Queen, Christobal Colon continued to weep and Isabella thought of her own sorrows as she remembered suddenly the handsome boys she had seen with Colon … his son Ferdinand by Beatriz de Arana, and his son Diego by his first marriage. He had two sons, yet he had suffered deeply. His great love was the New World which he had discovered.

She wanted to say to him: I have no sons. Take comfort, my friend, that you have two.

But how could she, the Queen, talk of her sorrows with this adventurer?

She could only lay her hand on his heaving shoulders and seek to offer some comfort.

Ferdinand also was ready to comfort this man. He was thinking that the people would not be pleased to know that the hero of the New World had been sent home like a common criminal in fetters. He was also wondering how he could avoid allowing Christobal Colon such a large share of the riches of the New World and direct them into his own coffers.

It was a brilliant May day in that year 1501 when Catalina said goodbye to the Alhambra.

She would carry the memory of that most beautiful of buildings in her mind for ever. She told herself that in the misty, sunless land to which she was going she would, when she closed her eyes, see it often standing high on the red rock with the sparkling Darro below. She would remember always the sweet-smelling flowers, the views from the Hall of the Ambassadors, the twelve stone lions supporting the basin of the fountain in the Courtyard of the Lions. And there would be a pain in her heart whenever she thought of this beautiful Palace which had been her home.

There was no longer hope of delay. The day had come. She was to begin the journey to Corunna and there embark for England.

She would embrace her mother for the last time, for although the Queen talked continually of their reunion Catalina felt that there was something final about this parting.

The Queen was pale; she looked as though she had slept little.

Is life to be all such bitter partings for those of us who wear the badge of royalty? Isabella asked herself.

One last look back at the red towers, the rosy walls.

‘Farewell, my beloved home,’ whispered Catalina. ‘Farewell for ever.’ Then she turned her face resolutely away, and the journey had begun … to Corunna … to England.