Spain for the Sovereigns

Chapter II ISABELLA

Isabella, Queen of Castile, looked up from the table at which she sat writing. There was a quiet pleasure in her serene blue eyes, and those who knew her very well wondered if what they suspected was true. She had been, these last weeks, a little more placid than usual, and through that placidity shone a certain joy. The Queen of Castile could be keeping a secret to herself; and it might be one which she would wish to remain unknown until she could share it with her husband.

The ladies-in-waiting whispered together. ‘Do you think it can be true? Is the Queen pregnant?’

They put their heads together and made calculations. It was only a few weeks since Ferdinand had ridden away to join his father.

‘Let us pray that it is true,’ said these ladies, ‘and that this time it will be a son.’

Even as she dealt with the papers on her table, Isabella too was saying to herself: ‘This time let it be a son.’

She was very happy.

That destiny for which she had been prepared was being fulfilled; she was married to Ferdinand after years of waiting, after continual hazards and fears that the marriage which had been planned in their childhood might not take place.

But, largely due to her own determination – and that of Ferdinand and his family – the marriage had taken place; and on the death of Ferdinand’s father, when Ferdinand would be King of Aragon, the crowns of Aragon and Castile would be united; and, apart from that small province still occupied by the Moors, Isabella and Ferdinand could then be said to rule over Spain.

It was certainly the realisation of a dream.

And Ferdinand, her husband, a year younger than herself, handsome, virile, was all that she had hoped for in a husband – or almost. She had to admit that he did not accept with a very good grace the fact that she was Queen of Castile and he her Consort. But he would in time, for she had no intention of letting a rift grow between them. Theirs was to be a marriage, perfect in all respects. She was going to ask his advice in all matters; and if it should ever be necessary for her to make a decision with which he did not agree she would employ the utmost tact and try to persuade him in time to agree with her.

She smiled fondly.

Dear Ferdinand. He would hate this separation as much as she did. But it was his duty to go to his father’s help when he was called upon to do so. And as her good confessor, Tomas de Torquemada, used to tell her – in those days when he had undertaken her religious instruction – no matter what the rank, duty came first.

Now she smiled, for her attendant was announcing that Cardinal Don Pedro Gonzalez de Mendoza was begging an audience.

She asked that he be brought to her without delay.

The Cardinal came to her and bowed low.

‘Welcome,’ said Isabella. ‘You look disturbed, Cardinal. Is aught wrong?’

The Cardinal let his eyes rest on those of her attendants who remained in the apartment.

‘I trust all is well with Your Highness. Then all will be well with me,’ he said. ‘Your Highness appears to be in excellent health.’

‘It is so,’ said Isabella.

She understood. Soon she would dismiss her attendants because she guessed that the Cardinal had something to say which could not be said before others; also he did not wish it to be known that his mission was one of great secrecy.

Isabella felt herself warming to this man, and she was surprised at herself.

He was Cardinal of Spain and, although he was the fourth son of the Marquis of Santillana, so talented was he, and to such a high position had he risen, that he was now at the head of the powerful Mendoza family.

To his Palace at Guadalaxara he could draw the most influential men in Spain, and there persuade them to act for or against the Queen.

These were dangerous times, and Isabella’s great desire was to promote law and order in Castile. She had been brought up to believe that one day this duty might be hers; and she, with that conscientiousness which was a part of her nature, had determined to rule her country well. There was one condition which brought a country low and that was war. She wished with all her heart to be able to lead her country to peace; and she believed that she could do so through the support of men such as Cardinal Mendoza.

He was an exceptionally handsome man, gracious and charming. About forty years old, in spite of his association with the Church he had not lived the life of a churchman. He was too fond of the luxuries of life, and he deemed it unwise for a man to deny himself these.

Abstinence narrowed the mind and starved the soul, he had said. Hypocrisy was lying in wait for the man who denied his body the daily food it craved; and the man who indulged himself now and then was apt to be more lenient with other men; he would find a kindly tolerance growing within him to replace that fanaticism which could often find an outlet in cruelty.

Thus he soothed his conscience. He liked good food and wine, and he had several illegitimate children.

These sins, thought Isabella, sat lightly upon him. She deplored them, but there were times – and these would become more frequent – when she must compromise and suppress her natural abhorrence for the good of the country.

She knew that she needed this charming, tolerant and brilliant man on her side.

When they were alone, he said: ‘I have come to warn Your Highness. There is one who, while feigning to be your friend, is making plans to desert you for your enemies.’

Isabella nodded slowly. ‘I think I know his name,’ she said.

Cardinal Mendoza took a step closer to her. ‘Alfonso Carillo, Archbishop of Toledo.’

‘It is hard to believe,’ Isabella spoke sadly. ‘I remember how he stood beside me. There was a time when I might have become the prisoner of my enemies. It would have meant not only incarceration but doubtless in time a dose of poison would have ended my life. But he was there to save me, and I feel I should not be alive, nor be where I am today but for the Archbishop of Toledo.’

‘Your Highness doubtless owes much to this man. But his object in helping you to the crown was that, although you wore it, he should rule through you.’

‘I know. Ambition is his great failing.’

‘Have a care, Highness. Watch this man. You should not share matters of great secrecy with him. Remember that he is wavering now. This time next week . . . perhaps tomorrow . . . he may be with your enemies.’

‘I will remember your words,’ Isabella assured him. ‘Now I pray you sit here with me and read these documents.’

The Cardinal did so, and watching him, Isabella thought: Have I gained the support of this man, only to lose that of one who served me so well in the past?

Impatiently, Alfonso Carillo, Archbishop of Toledo waited.

It was intolerable, he told himself that he should be kept waiting. It should be enough that the Queen knew he wished to see her for her to dismiss any other person that she might receive him.

‘Ingratitude!’ he murmured, as he paced up and down. ‘All that I have done in the past is forgotten. Since that young cockerel, Ferdinand, sought to show his power over me, he has poisoned her mind against me. And my place beside her has been taken by Mendoza.’

His eyes narrowed. He was a man of choleric temper whose personality would have been more suited to the military camp than to the Church. But as Archbishop of Toledo he was Primate of Spain; he was determined to cling to his position; and although he prided himself on having raised Isabella to the throne, if she failed to recognise that the most important person in Castile was not its Queen, nor her Consort, nor Cardinal Mendoza, but Alfonso Carillo, he, who had helped her to reach the throne, would be prepared to dash her from it.

His eyes were flashing; he was ready for battle.

And so he waited; and, when at length he was told that the Queen was ready to receive him, he met Cardinal Mendoza coming from her apartments.

They acknowledged each other coolly.

‘I have been waiting long,’ said the Archbishop reproachfully.

‘I crave your pardon, but I had state matters to discuss with the Queen.’

The Archbishop hurried on; it would be unseemly if two men of the Church indulged in violence; and he was feeling violent.

He went into the audience chamber.

Isabella’s smile was apologetic.

‘I regret,’ she said placatingly, ‘that you were forced to wait so long.’

‘I also regret,’ the Archbishop retorted curtly.

Isabella looked surprised, but the Archbishop considered himself especially privileged.

‘The waiting is over, my lord. I pray you let us come to business.’

‘It would seem that Your Highness prefers to discuss state matters with Cardinal Mendoza.’

‘I am fortunate in having so many brilliant advisers.’

‘Highness, I have come to tell you that I can no longer serve you while you retain the services of the Cardinal.’

‘I suggest, my lord, that you go too far.’

The Archbishop looked haughtily at this young woman. He could not help but see her as she had been when as a young Princess she asked for his help. He remembered how he had set up her young brother Alfonso as King of Castile while Henry IV still lived; he remembered how he had offered to make Isabella Queen on Alfonso’s death, and how she had gently reminded him that it was not possible for her to be Queen while the true King, her half-brother Henry, still lived.

Had she forgotten what she owed to him?

‘I pray,’ murmured the Archbishop, ‘that Your Highness will reconsider this matter.’

‘I should certainly not wish you to leave me,’ said Isabella.

‘It is for Your Highness to choose.’

‘But I choose that you should remain and curb your animosity towards the Cardinal. If you will be the Cardinal’s friend I am assured that he will be yours.’

‘Highness, it is long since I visited my estates at Alcalá de Henares. I may shortly be asking your permission to retire there from Court for a while.’

Isabella smiled sweetly. She did not believe that the Archbishop would willingly go into retirement.

‘You are too important to us for that to be allowed,’ she told him; and he appeared to be placated.

But the Archbishop was far from satisfied. Every day he saw Cardinal Mendoza being taken more and more into his mistress’s confidence and, a few weeks after that interview with the Queen, he made an excuse to retire from Court.

He had, however, no intention of retiring to his estates. He had decided that, since Isabella refused to be his puppet, he must set up one in her place who would be.

He was well aware that there were certain men in Spain who were dissatisfied with the succession of Isabella and would be ready to give their allegiance to the young Princess Joanna La Beltraneja, who many preferred to believe was not illegitimate – for if she were the legitimate daughter of the late King, then she, not Isabella, should be Queen of Castile.

He called to his house certain men whom he knew to be ready to rebel. Among these was the Marquis of Villena, son of the great Marquis, the Archbishop’s nephew who, before his death, had played as big a part in his country’s politics as the Archbishop himself. The present Marquis might not be a brilliant intriguer like his father, but he was a great soldier, and as such thirsted for battle. He was very rich, this young Marquis, and because he owned vast estates in Toledo and Murcia he could raise support from these provinces.

There were also the Marquis of Cadiz and the Duke of Arevalo.

When these men were gathered together the Archbishop, making sure that they were not overheard, announced his plans to them.

‘Isabella has assumed the crowns of Castile and Leon,’ he said, ‘but there appears to be some doubt throughout this land as to whether she has a right to them. There are many who would rejoice to see the Princess Joanna in her place.’

There were murmurs of approval. None of these men had received great honours from Isabella and, if the young Princess Joanna were accepted as Queen of Castile, since she was only twelve years old, there would be a Regency and high places for many of them.

Eyes glittered, and hands curled about sword hilts. A Regency would be a very desirable state of affairs.

‘I strongly suspect these efforts to declare the Princess Joanna illegitimate,’ stated the Archbishop; and nobody reminded him that not very long ago he was one of the most fiery advocates of Joanna’s illegitimacy and Isabella’s right to the throne.

The circumstances had changed. Ferdinand had sought to curb his power; Isabella had transferred her interest to Cardinal Mendoza. Therefore the Archbishop had decided to change his mind.

‘My lord Archbishop,’ said Villena, ‘I pray you tell us what plans you have for dethroning Isabella and setting up Joanna in her place.’

‘There is only one way of bringing this about, my friend,’ replied the Archbishop, ‘and that is with the sword.’

‘It would be necessary to raise an army,’ suggested Arevalo. ‘Is that possible?’

‘It must be possible,’ said the Archbishop. ‘We cannot allow a usurper to retain the throne.’

He smiled at the assembly. ‘I know what you are thinking, my friends. Isabella has won the allegiance of many. Ferdinand is related to many Castilian families. It might be difficult to raise an army, you are thinking. Yet we will do it. And I have other plans. They concern the Princess Joanna. Do not forget that young lady has her part to play in our schemes.’

‘I cannot see the young Princess riding into battle,’ said Villena.

‘You take me too literally, my dear Marquis,’ answered the Archbishop. ‘You cannot believe that I would have brought you here unless I had something to put before you. The Princess will be the bait we have to offer. Then I think we can draw powerful forces into the field. I propose to dispatch an embassy immediately. My friends, let us put our heads close together and lower our voices, for even here there may be spies. I will now acquaint you with my plans. They concern Portugal.’

Many of those present began to smile. They could see whither the Archbishop’s plans were leading.

They nodded.

How fortunate, they were thinking, that the Archbishop was on their side. How careless of Isabella to have lost his friendship, when such a loss could lead to a much greater one: that of the throne of Castile.

Alfonso V of Portugal had listened with great interest to the proposals which had been brought to him from the secret faction of Castile, headed by the Archbishop of Toledo.

He discussed this matter with his son, Prince John.

‘Why, Father,’ said the Prince, ‘I can see that naught but good would come of this.’

‘It will mean taking war into Castile, my son. Have you considered that?’

‘You have been successful in your battles with the Barbary Moors. Why should you not be equally so in Castile?’

‘Have you considered the forces which could be put into the field against us?’

‘Yes, and I have thought of the prize.’

Alfonso smiled at his son. John was ambitious and greedy for the good of Portugal. If they succeeded, Castile and Portugal would be as one. There might be a possibility of the Iberian Peninsula’s eventually coming under one ruler – and that ruler would be of the House of Portugal.

It was a tempting offer.

There was something else which made Alfonso smile.

There had been a time when he had thought to marry Isabella. His sister, Joanna, had married Isabella’s half-brother, Henry IV of Castile. Joanna was flighty. He had often warned her about that. It was all very well for a queen, married to a husband like Henry, to take an occasional lover, but she should have made sure that there was no scandal until long after the birth of the heir to the throne. Joanna had been careless, and, as a result, his little niece – another Joanna – was reputed to be the daughter, not of Henry the King, but of Beltran de la Cueva, Duke of Albuquerque; and so strong was this belief that young Joanna had been dubbed ‘La Beltraneja’, and the name still clung to her. And because Joanna had been declared illegitimate, Isabella was now Queen of Castile. But that state of affairs might not continue; and if he decided to go to war it should not prevail.

He had been very angry with Isabella. He recalled how he had gone to Castile to become betrothed to her, and she had firmly refused him.

It was an insult. On one occasion she had declared her unwillingness to accept him as a suitor and had sought the help of the Cortes in averting the marriage. It was too humiliating for a King of Portugal to endure.

Therefore it would be a great pleasure to turn Isabella from the throne and set the crown on the head of his little niece.

John was smiling at him now. ‘Think, Father,’ he said.

‘When little Joanna is Queen of Castile and your bride, you will be master of Castile.’

‘She is my niece.’

‘What of that! The Holy Father will readily give the dispensation; especially when he sees that we can put a strong army in the field.’

‘And but twelve years old!’ added Alfonso.

‘It is unlike a bridegroom to complain of the youth of his bride.’

Alfonso said: ‘Let us put this matter before the Council. If they are in agreement, then we will give our answer to the Archbishop of Toledo and his friends.’

‘And if,’ said John, ‘they should be so misguided as to ignore the advantages of such a situation, it must be our duty, Father, to insist on their accepting our decision.’

Little Joanna was bewildered. From her earliest childhood she had known there was something strange about herself. Sometimes she was called Highness, sometimes Infanta, sometimes Princess. She was never quite sure what her rank was.

Her father had been kind to her when they met, but he was dead now; and she had not seen her mother for a long time when the call came for her to go to Madrid.

When her father had died she had heard that her aunt Isabella had been proclaimed Queen of Castile; and Isabella had said that she, Joanna, was to have her own household and an entourage worthy of a Princess of Castile. Isabella was kind, she knew; and she would be good to her as long as she did not allow anyone to say that she was the King’s legitimate daughter.

But how could a girl of twelve prevent people from saying what they wished to say?

Joanna lived in fear that one day important men would come to her, disturbing her quiet existence among her books and music; she was terrified that they would kneel at her feet, swear allegiance and tell her that they were going to serve her with their lives.

She did not want that and all it implied. She wanted to live in peace, away from these awe-inspiring men.

And now she was on her way to Madrid because her mother had sent for her.

She had heard many stories of her mother. She was very beautiful, it was said; and when she first came into Castile to be the wife of the King, although her manner had been frivolous by Castilian standards, no one had guessed that she would be responsible for one of the greatest and most dangerous controversies which had ever disturbed the succession of Castile.

And she, the Princess Joanna, was at the very heart of that controversy. It was an alarming thought.

She had often met the man who was reputed to be her father. He was tall and very handsome; a man of great importance and a brave soldier. But he was not her mother’s husband, and therein lay the root of the trouble.

When she saw her mother on this occasion she would ask her to tell her sincerely the truth; and if Beltran de la Cueva, Duke of Albuquerque, was indeed her father she would make this widely known and in future refuse to allow anyone to insist on her right to the throne.

It was a big undertaking for a twelve-year-old girl, and Joanna feared that she was not bold or very determined; but there must be some understanding if she were ever to live in peace.

And, now that she was going to her mother’s establishment in Madrid, she trembled to think what she might discover there. She had heard whispers and rumours from her servants of the life her mother led in Madrid. When she had left the King she had kept a lavishly extravagant house where, it was said, parties of a scandalous nature frequently took place.

Joanna had several brothers and sisters, she believed. They, however, were more fortunate than she was. They shared the stigma of illegitimacy, but nobody could suggest that they had even a remote claim to the throne.

She was alarmed to contemplate what sort of house this was to which she was going; and as she, with her little company, rode along the valley of the Manzanares the plain which stretched about them seemed gloomy and full of foreboding. She turned her horse away from the distant Sierras towards the town, and as they entered it they were met by a party of riders.

The man at the head of this party rode up to Joanna and, bowing his head, told her that he had been watchful for her coming.

‘I am to take you to the Queen, your mother, Princess,’ he told her. ‘She has gone to a convent in Madrid, and it would be advisable for you to join her there with all speed.’

‘My mother. . . in a convent!’ cried Joanna; for it was the last place in which she would expect to find her gay and frivolous mother.

‘She thought it wise to rest there awhile,’ was the answer. ‘You will find her changed.’

‘Why has my mother gone to this convent?’ she asked.

‘She will explain to you when you see her,’ was the answer.

They rode into the town, and eventually they reached the convent. Here Joanna was received with great respect by the Mother Superior, who immediately said: ‘You are fatigued, Princess, but it would be well if you came to see the Queen without delay.’

‘Take me to her, I pray you,’ said Joanna.

The Mother Superior led the way up a cold stone staircase to a cell, which contained little more than a bed and a crucifix on the wall; and here lay Joanna, Princess of Portugal, Queen to the late Henry IV of Castile.

Joanna knelt by her mother’s bed, and the older Joanna smiled wanly. Kneeling there, the Princess knew that it was the approach of death which had driven her mother to repentance.

Joanna sat by her mother’s bed.

‘So you see,’ said the Dowager Queen of Castile, ‘I have not long to live. Who would have thought that I should follow Henry so soon?’

‘Oh, my mother, if you live quietly, if you rest here, you may recover and live for many more years.’

‘No, my child. It is not possible. I am exhausted. I am worn out. I have lived my life fully, recklessly. Now the price is demanded for such a life. I am repentant, yet I fear that if I were young again, if I felt life stirring within me, I should find the temptation which beckoned me irresistible.’

‘You are too young to die, Mother.’

‘Yet my life has been full. I have had lovers . . . my child . . . so many lovers that I cannot recall a half of them. It was an exciting life . . . a life of pleasure. But now it ebbs away.’

‘Mother, Castile has paid dearly for your pleasure.’

Over the Dowager Queen’s face there spread a smile of amusement and mischief.

‘I shall never be forgotten. I, the wayward Queen, had a hand in shaping the future of Castile, did I not?’

Young Joanna shivered.

‘Mother, there is a question I must ask you. It is important that I know the truth. So much depends on it.’

‘I know what is on your mind, my child. You ask yourself the same question which all Castile asks. Who is your father? It is the most important question in Castile.’

‘It is the answer that is important,’ said Joanna softly. ‘I would know, Mother. If I am not the King’s daughter, I think I should like to go into a convent like this and be quiet for a very long time.’

‘A convent life! That is no life at all!’

‘Mother, I beg of you, tell me.’

‘If I told you that Henry was your father what would you do?’

‘There is only one thing I could do, Mother. I should be the rightful Queen of Castile, and it would be my duty to take the throne.’

‘What of Isabella?’

‘She would have no alternative but to relinquish the throne.’

‘And do you think she would? You do not know Isabella, nor Ferdinand . . . nor all those men who are determined to uphold her.’

‘Mother, tell me the truth.’

The Dowager Queen smiled. ‘I am weak,’ she said. ‘I will tell you later if I can. Yet, how could even I be sure? Sometimes I think you are like the King; sometimes you remind me of Beltran. Beltran was a handsome man, daughter. The handsomest at Court. And Henry . . . Oh, it seems so long ago. I look back into mists, my child. I cannot remember. I am so tired now. Sit still awhile and I will try to think. Give me your hand, Joanna. Later it will come back to me. Who . . . who is my Joanna’s father. Was it Henry? Was it Beltran?’

Joanna knelt by the bedside and her eyes were imploring. ‘I must know, Mother. I must know.’

But the Dowager Queen had closed her eyes, and her lips murmured:’ Henry, was it you? You, Beltran, was it you?’

Then she slipped into sleep; her face was so white and still that Joanna thought she was already dead.

The Dowager Queen of Castile had been laid in her tomb and Joanna remained in the convent. The bells were tolling and as she listened to their dismal notes she thought: I shall never know the answer now.

The peace of the convent seemed to close in around her, sheltering her from the outside world in which a mighty storm was rising; it was a storm which she could not escape. It was for this reason that the peace of the convent seemed doubly entrancing.

Each morning she thought to herself: Will this be the last day that I am allowed to enjoy this peace?

And as the weeks passed she began to wonder whether she had been unnecessarily anxious. Isabella had been proclaimed in many towns of Castile as Queen. The people admired Isabella; she, with Ferdinand, was so suited to become their Queen. Perhaps the people of Castile did not wish for trouble any more than she did. Perhaps they would now be content to forget that Joanna, wife of Henry IV of Castile, had had a daughter who might or might not be the King’s.

One day two noblemen came riding to the convent. They came on a secret mission and they wished for an audience with the Princess Joanna.

As soon as they were brought to her and announced themselves as the Duke of Arevalo and the Marquis of Villena she knew that this was the end of her peace.

They bowed low and humbly.

‘We have great news for you, Princess,’ they told her; and her heart sank, for she knew the purport of this news before they told her. She interpreted the ambitious glitter in their eyes.

‘Princess,’ said Arevalo, ‘we have come to tell you that you are not forgotten.’

She lowered her eyes lest they should read in them that it was her dearest wish to be forgotten.

‘This is news to set Your Highness’s heart soaring with hope,’ went on Villena. ‘There is a powerful force behind us, and we shall succeed in turning the impostor Isabella from the throne and setting you up in her place.’

‘There is great news from Portugal,’ added Arevalo.

‘From Portugal?’ Joanna asked.

‘The King of Portugal, Alfonso V, asks your hand in marriage.’

‘My . . . mother’s brother!’

‘Have no fear. His Holiness will not withhold a dispensation if we can show him that we have the means to oust Isabella from the throne.’

‘But my uncle is an old man . . .’

‘He is the King of Portugal, Highness. Moreover, he has an army to put into the field. We cannot fail with Portugal behind us. Highness, we shall succeed, and in succeeding we shall bring you a crown and a husband.’

Joanna felt unable to reply. She was struck dumb with horror. That ageing man, her uncle, as a husband! War . . . with herself as the reason for it!

She turned to these men, about to protest, but she did not speak, because, when she looked at their hard ambitious faces, she knew that it was useless. She knew her personal feelings were of no account. She was to be the figurehead, the symbol, and they would declare that they fought for her sake.

For my sake, she thought bitterly. To give me a throne which I do not want. To give me for a husband an ageing man who terrifies me!

Isabella was frowning over documents which were spread on a table before her in her private apartments in the Madrid Alcazar.

These documents told a desperate story, for to study them was to learn how ill-equipped for battle were the armies of Castile.

It seemed to her that, should there be a rising in Castile, she would not have more than about five hundred horse to attempt to quell it; and she was not even sure on which towns she could rely.

The Archbishop of Toledo had retired to his estates in Alcalá de Henares and she was not sure how far he was ready to go in order to betray her. The loss of his friendship wounded her deeply; and the practical side of her nature deplored it even more. In those stormy days which had preceded the death of her brother she had come to learn something of the resourcefulness of this man; and that at such a critical time he had ceased to be her friend hurt her. That he might become her active enemy horrified her.

War was what she dreaded more than anything. She needed long years of peace that she might restore order to Castile. She had taken over a bankrupt kingdom rent by anarchy, and she was determined to make it rich and law-abiding. Yet if at this stage she were plunged into war, how would she fare?

She had so little at her disposal. Her good friend Andres de Cabrera, who, in the Alcazar at Segovia, had charge of the treasury, had warned her that the royal coffers were almost empty. No war could be waged without men and equipment; and now it seemed that reckless men in her kingdom were ready to plunge Castile into war.

She needed strong men about her at this time; and most of all she needed Ferdinand.

Then even as she sat looking at these depressing figures, she heard the clattering of horses’ hoofs below; she heard the shouts of voices raised in welcome and, forgetting her dignity, she leaped from her chair and ran to the window.

She stood there, clutching the hangings to steady herself, for the sight of Ferdinand after a long absence never failed to move her deeply. There he was, jaunty and full of vigour, coming to her as she had known he would, the moment he received her call for help.

She loved him so much, this husband of hers, that at times she was afraid of her own emotions, afraid that they would betray her into an indiscretion which would be unworthy of the Queen of Castile.

In a short time he was standing before her; and those attendants who knew something of the depth of her feelings for this man retired without orders, that Isabella might be alone with her husband.

At such times Isabella laid aside the dignity of queenship. She ran to Ferdinand and put her arms about him; and Ferdinand, never more delighted than at these displays of affection, embraced her with passion.

‘I knew you would come without delay,’ she cried.

‘As always when you needed me.’

‘We need each other at this time, Ferdinand,’ she told him quickly. ‘Castile is threatened.’

He accepted the implication that the affairs of Castile concerned him as much as her.

‘My love,’ he said, ‘joyous as I am to be with you, before we give ourselves to the pleasure of reunion we must explore this desperate situation in which we find ourselves.’

‘You have heard?’ Isabella asked. ‘There are rumours that Villena and Arevalo are rebelling in favour of La Beltraneja, and that they are gathering partisans throughout Castile.’

‘That child!’ cried Ferdinand. ‘The people will never accept her.’

‘It will depend on what forces our enemies can muster, Ferdinand. Our treasury is depleted; I have discovered that we have no more than five hundred horse which we could put into the field.’

‘We must raise more men; we must find the means to fight these rebels. We shall do it, Isabella. Have no fear of that.’

‘I knew you would say that. Yes, Ferdinand, we shall do it. Oh, how glad I am that you have come. With you beside me, what seemed an insuperable task becomes possible.’ ‘You need me, Isabella,’ said Ferdinand fiercely. ‘You need me.’

‘Have I ever denied it?’ She was aware of a sudden fear within her. Was he going to demand once more that he be accepted in Castile on equal terms with herself? This was not the time for dissension between them. ‘Ferdinand,’ she said quickly, ‘I have news for you. I am with child.’

She watched the frown change to a smile on Ferdinand’s face.

‘Why, Isabella, my Queen! That is great news. When will our son be born?’

‘It is too early yet to say. But I am sure I am with child. I hope that by the time this child is born our troubles will be over and we shall have prevented this threatened rebellion from taking place.’

Ferdinand had taken her hands in his; he bent swiftly to kiss them. When he was in Isabella’s presence he could not help but admire her.

‘Come,’ he said, ‘let us examine our position. What men could be put into the field?’

She answered: ‘I have been studying these matters.’ She led him to the table. ‘Ferdinand, my husband, I pray you examine these figures and tell me what, in your opinion, is best to be done.’

She knew that Ferdinand was alert to the danger; that he would allow no friction to arise between them while it existed. She had been right to believe she could rely on him. There was not a man in Spain who was more suited to stand beside her in this fight for the crown. And if, on occasions, his desire for supremacy over her sullied their relationship, making it a little bitter, how could it be otherwise where a man as strong, as entirely masculine as Ferdinand was concerned.

While they worked a messenger arrived at the Alcazar. He came from the King of Portugal.

As soon as Isabella knew that he was in the Palace she had him brought to her. Ferdinand stood beside her and, as the man bowed and held out the dispatches, he lifted a hand to take them. But Isabella, who had anticipated this move, was anxious to take them as unobtrusively as possible – for she knew that with regard to this matter of supremacy she dared not give way even in the smallest matters. She took them before it was evident to any others that Ferdinand had attempted to do so.

She dismissed the messenger and glanced at the papers.

Then she lifted her eyes to Ferdinand’s face.

‘He asks us to resign our crowns,’ she said, ‘that the Princess Joanna may ascend the throne.’

‘He must be an imbecile,’ retorted Ferdinand.

Isabella turned to the table on which the documents were still spread out.

‘I am informed,’ she said, ‘that he could put five thousand six hundred horse and fourteen thousand foot into the field. Perhaps he would say that we were imbeciles to oppose him.’

Ferdinand’s eyes glittered. ‘Yet we shall oppose him, and we shall defeat him. You know that, Isabella.’

‘I do know it, Ferdinand.’

‘We have our daughter to fight for and our unborn son.’

‘And we have each other,’ she added, and smiled brilliantly. ‘I know, Ferdinand, that while we are together we cannot fail. And we must be together, Ferdinand, always. You feel that, as I do. Where is Isabella without Ferdinand? No matter what should befall, we shall always stand together.’

‘You speak truth,’ said Ferdinand, and his voice was gruff with emotion.

‘And together we shall be invincible,’ she went on.

Then solemnly they embraced. Isabella was the first to withdraw.

‘And now,’ she said, ‘to business. We shall ignore these demands; but we must decide how we, with the few resources at our disposal, can defeat the might of Portugal.’

In spite of the ceremonial robes in which her women had dressed her, Joanna looked what she was, a child of barely thirteen.

There was an expression of mingled resignation and despair on her face. She was to be affianced to a man who was thirty years older than herself, and the prospect terrified her. But this was even more than a distasteful marriage; it was a prelude to war.

Her women had chattered as they prepared her for this important ceremony.

‘Why, Alfonso is the bravest of kings. They say he is called the African because of his exploits against the Moors of Barbary. He is a great soldier.’

‘He must be quite an old man,’ said Joanna.

‘No, Princess, it is you who are so young. You will not think of his age. He is the King of Portugal and he comes here to make you his Queen.’

‘And to make himself King of Castile.’

‘Well, only because he will make you Queen.’

‘I do not wish . . .’

But what was the use of stating her wishes? Joanna had lived through so many conflicts that she had long realised the futility of words.

Her friends were imploring her to enjoy her prospects. A king was coming to claim her hand. She should be joyful, they told her; because they did not understand.

And when she was robed and made ready she was taken to meet the man who had come to this town of Placencia for the purpose of the betrothal, and to take Castile from Isabella and Ferdinand and bestow it upon herself.

All about the Palace were encamped the armies of her future husband, so that she could not be unaware of his might.

And when she stood before him and lifted her eyes to his eager ones, she saw a man in his forties; and that seemed to her very old. She was trembling, but she smiled and greeted him as though with pleasure. All the time she was aware of those two men who had determined to set her on the throne – the Duke of Arevalo and the Marquis of Villena.

Alfonso took her hand and led her to two ornate chairs which had been set side by side. As they took their seats he said: ‘My dear Princess, you must not be afraid of me.’

‘I am so young for marriage,’ Joanna answered.

‘Youth is a blessing, compared with which the experience which comes with age is but a small compensation. Do not deplore your youth, my dear one, for I do not.’

‘Thank you, Highness,’ she whispered.

‘You look uneasy. Do you so fear me?’

‘We are very closely related. You are my mother’s brother.’

‘Have no fear, my dear. A messenger is being dispatched to the Pope. He will send us a dispensation without delay.’

She could not endure his inquiring tender gaze, and she feigned relief.

Alfonso felt happy. He was a man who must for ever pursue some cause, and he preferred it to be a romantic one. He had had great success against the Moors, but fighting the Moors was a commonplace occupation in the Iberian Peninsula. Now here was a young girl – his own niece – in need of a champion. To some she was the rightful heiress to the throne; to others the late Queen’s bastard. Her cause appealed to him because she was young and he, a widower, could make her his bride. This was the most romantic cause in which he had ever fought, and it delighted him – particularly as victory could bring such benefit to him.

He was not a man to bear a grudge, but he could not forget his meeting with the proud Isabella, who had shown so openly her distaste for marriage with him – King though he was.

It was not unpleasant therefore to contemplate the discomfiture of the haughty Isabella when she found herself ousted from the throne by the man whom once she had so recklessly refused.

He was smiling as he took Joanna’s hand, and those assembled, led by Villena and Arevalo, proceeded to declare Alfonso and Joanna Sovereigns of Castile.

As soon as the dispensation from the Pope arrived they would be married. Joanna prayed that the dispensation might be delayed.

In the meantime, the betrothal was celebrated, and on this and all occasions she must sit side by side with Alfonso and accept his tender attentions.

After some days Alfonso and his army, Joanna travelling with them, left Placencia for Arevalo.

Being aware of the sad state of the Castilian armies and that Isabella and Ferdinand had inherited a bankrupt state, Alfonso anticipated a victory which would be easy to complete.

At Arevalo he paused in his journey, and it seemed as though he halted there to prepare himself for the attack.

Isabella and Ferdinand were together when news was brought to them of Alfonso’s arrival at Placencia and of his betrothal to Joanna.

Ferdinand received the news gloomily. ‘This means he is prepared to risk his armies in her cause,’ he said.

‘She is his niece,’ cried Isabella, ‘and but a child.’

‘What cares he for either fact! He thinks she will bring him Castile and, if he is successful, depend upon it the Pope will not long deny him the dispensation he needs.’

‘If he is successful. He shall not be successful! I promise you that.’

‘Isabella, what do you know of war? And how can we prevent him?’

‘I know,’ she said, her eyes flashing, ‘that I was born to be Queen of Castile.’

‘Well, you have had your brief glory.’

‘I have done nothing of what I intend to do. I know I shall succeed.’

Ferdinand took her gently by the arm and led her to a table on which a map was spread.

He pointed to South Castile. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘the friends of Alfonso are waiting. They are numerous and they have men and arms at their disposal. Arevalo, Villena, Cadiz . . . they are his men. They will give all they have to drive us from the throne and set up Joanna and Alfonso. He has only to turn south tomorrow and there traitors will be ready for him. Town after town will freely give itself into his hands. And we . . . we shall find ourselves unable to attack, for on his march through Castile he will grow richer and richer as important towns pass into his possession.’

Ferdinand,’ Isabella reproved him, ‘I do not understand you. Have we not our friends?’

‘There are waverers.’

‘Then they shall cease to be waverers.’

‘They will cease to be when they see the might of Alfonso’s army!’

‘They must be converted to our cause.’

‘But who shall convert them?’

‘I shall. I . . . their Queen.’

Ferdinand looked at her with mild surprise; there were times when he felt that even now he did not know Isabella. She seemed so dedicated to her cause, so certain of her ability to fight and win in this unequal struggle, that Ferdinand believed her.

It was at times like this that he forgave her for insisting on her supremacy, when he was glad that he had not returned to Aragon in a fit of pique because she had been determined to be supreme in Castile.

‘You forget, Isabella,’ he said gently, ‘you are in no fit state to conduct a campaign. You have our unborn son to think of.’

‘It is because of our unborn son that I must be doubly sure that none shall rob me of the throne,’ she told him.

Isabella had lived through many hazards, but she felt that never had she faced danger so great as that which threatened during the months that followed. The days were full and she worked far into the night. She spent a great deal of time at prayer, for she was sure that she had previously been granted Divine protection and that it would be afforded her again.

Yet, even while she prayed, she never forgot that if she were to win heavenly aid she must neglect nothing of which her human strength was capable.

She would sit during the night receiving from and sending messages to the pitiably few troops she possessed. That was not all. She had decided that she herself must visit those towns which, she feared, were waiting to see which was the stronger party before bestowing their allegiance.

She set out on a tour of these towns. Riding was difficult; the roads were rough and the hours she was forced to spend in the saddle were very irksome, as with each passing week her pregnancy became more apparent.

It was impossible for the townsfolk to see Isabella and listen to her without being deeply affected. Isabella was inspired; she believed in her destiny; she knew she could not fail, and she conveyed this certainty to many of those whom she had come to rally to her standard.

Ferdinand was with her army endeavouring to prepare it for the attack, which, for some strange reason, Alfonso was hesitating to make. Each day both Ferdinand and Isabella expected to hear that Alfonso was on the march; they dreaded to hear that news.

‘Give us a few more weeks,’ prayed Isabella. ‘Then we shall not be so vulnerable.’

‘A month . . . two months of preparation,’ declared Ferdinand to his generals, ‘and, if the Queen continues to rally men to our cause as she has begun to do, I think we shall give a very good account of ourselves and soon send Alfonso marching back across the frontier. But we need those weeks . . . we need them desperately.’

So while they worked they watched anxiously for Alfonso to move; yet he remained at Arevalo awaiting, he said, the arrival of his Castilian supporters, so that when he attacked there should be one decisive battle.

‘How could such a man have scored such successes against the Moors?’ wondered Ferdinand. ‘He must be in his dotage. Castile lies open to him now – and he hesitates. If he will but hesitate a few weeks longer we have as good a chance as he has of winning this war.’

And as Isabella neared Toledo on her journey through the kingdom she thought of that old ally, Alfonso Carillo, Archbishop of Toledo, without whose support she could never have attained the throne.

She believed that if she could meet him, if she could reason with him, she would win him back to her cause; and if the Archbishop were on her side she would have secured the most important man in Spain as her ally. It was difficult to believe that a man of his intelligence could desert her out of pique, yet first he had resented Ferdinand, and then Cardinal Mendoza. She had not realised that, although he was capable of great valour and possessed political skill, he could also be capable of petty jealousy.

She called to one of her servants and said to him: ‘We are near Alcalá de Henares, and the Archbishop of Toledo is in residence there. Go to him and tell him that I propose calling at his palace, as I wish to talk with him.’ When her messenger returned from his visit to the Archbishop he came almost shamefacedly into Isabella’s presence.

‘What news?’ she asked. ‘You saw the Archbishop?’

‘Yes, Highness. I saw the Archbishop.’

‘I pray you do not hesitate,’ said Isabella gently. ‘Come, what is his answer?’

‘The Archbishop replied, Highness, that even though Your Highness wishes to see him, he does not wish to see you; and if you should enter his palace by one door he will go out by another.’

Isabella’s expression scarcely changed.

‘I see that it was a fruitless errand. But perhaps not entirely so. We have discovered an enemy where we thought to have a friend. You have my leave to retire.’

When she was alone she went to a chair and sat down heavily. She felt sick through her pregnancy and with fear for the future. Had the Archbishop believed she had the slightest chance of beating Alfonso he would never have dared send her such a message. Quite clearly he believed her to be on the brink of defeat.

She felt the child move within her, and with her awareness of this other life she longed to go to her bed and stay there, to give up this weary pilgrimage through her kingdom, to trust in God and her destiny and to be able to say to herself: If I lose the Kingdom of Castile I shall then be merely Queen of Aragon, and I shall devote myself to my husband, the child we already have and the children which will surely be ours. That would be so easy; and the churlish conduct of one who had once been so firm an ally filled her with such despair that she wanted nothing so much as the peace of her own apartments.

But there were dispatches to be sent off to Ferdinand, telling him of her progress; there were more towns to be visited.

There was one important factor. Others would know of the rebuff she had received from the Archbishop; she must wear an even bolder face; she must be even more certain of success.

She ignored the stirring life within her, the great desire for rest.

Never for one moment must she forget her destiny, nor the fact that only if she were worthy to wear the crown of Castile could she hope for Divine favour.

Isabella was reading a dispatch from Ferdinand.

‘The position has changed for the better, thanks to your efforts. I now have at my disposal four thousand men-at-arms, eight thousand light horse and thirty thousand foot. We lack equipment, and many of these men know little of soldiering, but my confidence grows daily. And should Alfonso attack us now he will find he has missed the great chance which was his two months ago.’

Isabella looked up and smiled.

They had worked a miracle. They had found men ready to fight for them; and if these men were as yet inexperienced that would be remedied. She had Ferdinand as the commander of her army, and Ferdinand was experienced in war; he was young and Alfonso was old. Ferdinand would win.

Isabella’s smile became tender.

Her great friend, Beatriz de Bobadilla, wife of Andres de Cabrera, believed that she idealised Ferdinand, that she saw him as a god among men.

It was not entirely true nowadays. The years of marriage had changed that. Yet when he had first come to Castile she had thought him wonderful. She loved him no less; but she was aware of the vanity, the arrogance, the signs of cupidity which were all part of Ferdinand’s character. She did not forget the sulkiness he had displayed when he had realised that, for all her love, she was not prepared to give him control of Castilian affairs. Yet these faults made her the more tender, even as did those of her young daughter Isabella. And if Ferdinand at times had the faults of a boy, he had also the attributes of a man. She trusted his generalship; she knew she could rely on him to fight her cause – perhaps because it was also his own – more than she could rely on any other man in the kingdom. But the disaffection of the Archbishop of Toledo had made her realise how unwise she would be to put complete trust in anyone.

She rose from her table, and as she did so her body was racked with a pain so violent that she could not repress a cry.

One of her women who had been in the apartment came hurrying to her side.

‘Highness . . .’ The woman gasped at the pallor of Isabella’s face, and caught her in her arms, for she believed the Queen was on the point of fainting. She called to others, and in a few seconds Isabella was surrounded by her women.

She put out a hand to steady herself against the table. She knew the violent pain was coming again.

‘Help me . . .’ she murmured. ‘Help me to my bed. I fear my time has come . . . and it is so soon . . . too soon.’

So it was over.

There would be no child. Isabella felt limp and defeated. Should she have considered the child? If she had done so there would not be that army under Ferdinand’s generalship; Castile would lie open to the invader.

And because it had been necessary to rally men to her cause – and only she, the Queen, could do it – she had lost her child, the son she and Ferdinand were to have made the heir to Castile and Aragon.

She felt bitter.

It was time they had more children; but what chance had they of being parents while they lived this troubled life.

She lay thinking of the journeyings over rough roads, the jolting, the uncomfortable nights often spent in humble beds in roadside inns.

And so . . . she had lost her child. But in doing so she had formed an army.

She smiled briefly.

There would be other children. Once this weary matter of La Beltraneja’s right to the throne was settled, she and Ferdinand would be together always; they would have many children.

She dozed a little, and when her women came to see how she fared she was smiling peacefully. She murmured a little in her sleep, and when one of the women stooped to hear what she said she heard not the lament for the lost child but the words: ‘Eight thousand light horse.’