Spain for the Sovereigns

Chapter III THE PRINCE OF THE ASTURIAS

Isabella came riding to the Alcazar of Segovia.

More than a year had passed since she had lost her child and raised men and arms to fight the invading Alfonso. It had been an arduous period.

Yet Isabella had quickly recovered from her miscarriage; indeed, many said that it was her spirit which had proved the best doctor. There had been no time during that dark period to lie abed and woo back her health; Isabella had very soon to be on horseback, riding through her kingdom, calling a Cortes at Medina del Campo and by her eloquence moving all so deeply that she had raised the money she so badly needed.

That had been after the disasters at Toro and Zamora, which had both fallen to Alfonso, and when, had Alfonso been wise, he would have thrown in his full force against the inferior Castilian army of Ferdinand and Isabella.

But Alfonso had been timid; he had hesitated again, even when the Archbishop of Toledo, considering Alfonso’s gains at Toro and Zamora to be decisive, not only openly allied himself with the King of Portugal but took with him five hundred lancers to join his new friend in the fight against his old one.

But now the Castilian army had been vastly improved and was ready to do battle with the enemy; and on her journeys through her kingdom Isabella gave herself up to the pleasure of a short respite where she would enjoy the hospitality of her dearest friend.

When the news was brought to Beatriz de Bobadilla that the Queen was in the Alcazar she hurried to greet Isabella, and the two women embraced without formality.

‘This makes me very happy,’ said Beatriz emotionally. ‘I would I had known I might expect the honour.’

‘There would then have been no surprise.’ Isabella smiled.

‘But think of the anticipation I have missed!’

‘Beatriz, it is wonderful to see you. I would like to be alone with you as we used to be in the past.’

‘I will have food and wine sent to us, and we will take it in my small private chamber. I long to hear what has been happening to you.’

‘Pray lead me to that small private chamber,’ said Isabella.

Beatriz laid her hand on the Queen’s arm as they went together to the small room of which Beatriz had spoken.

‘I pray Your Highness sit down,’ said Beatriz. ‘Soon we shall be served, and then . . . we will talk in comfort.’ Beatriz called: ‘Food and wine, for the Queen and myself . . . with all speed.’

Isabella, smiling, watched her. ‘You have not changed at all,’ she said. ‘They all hold you in great awe, I’ll swear.’

‘Why should they not? They are my servants,’ said Beatriz, falling into the familiarity which had often existed between them.

‘And your husband, Andres too – do you still command him?’

Beatriz laughed. ‘Andres obeys me, he says, because he values peace and it is the only way to get it. And Ferdinand? He is well?’

‘He is very well, Beatriz. What should I do without him?’

Beatriz looked at the Queen, her head on one side, a smile playing about her mouth. So, thought Beatriz, she continues to adore that man. But not completely. Beatriz knew that Ferdinand had been disappointed not to have taken full authority from Isabella. Beatriz applauded the Queen’s resistance.

‘He fights for his kingdom as well as yours,’ said Beatrix, ‘for although you are Queen of Castile, he is your Consort.’

‘He has been magnificent. Beatriz, I do not believe there has ever been a soldier in Spain to compare with Ferdinand.’

Beatriz laughed aloud; then her servants appeared with refreshments and her manner changed. Now the utmost respect must be paid to the Queen, and Beatriz dropped the easy familiar manner.

But when they were alone again Beatriz said: ‘Isabella, you are looking a little tired. I hope you are going to stay here for some time that I may look after you, as I used to in the old days when we were together.’

‘Ah, those old days,’ sighed Isabella. ‘I was not a queen then.’

‘But we had some anxious times, nevertheless.’ Beatriz smiled reminiscently. ‘At least we do not have to worry that you will be snatched from Ferdinand and given to some husband who would be unacceptable to you!’

‘Thank God for that. Oh, Beatriz, I am a little worried about this battle that must soon take place.’

‘But you put your trust in Ferdinand.’

‘I do, indeed I do. But there are mighty forces against us.’

‘Ferdinand will succeed,’ said Beatriz. ‘He is a good soldier.’

Beatriz was thoughtful for a few seconds. A better soldier than a husband, she was thinking; and he will be determined to succeed. He will not allow himself to be driven from Castile.

‘I was very sad,’ went on Beatriz, ‘when I heard that you had lost your child.’

‘It seems long ago.’

‘But a bitter blow.’

‘As the loss of a child must be. But there was no time to brood. It was all-important that we should get an army together; and we did it, Beatriz, even though it may well be due to that that the child was lost.’

‘It might have killed you,’ said Beatriz gruffly.

‘But I am strong, Beatriz; have you not yet learned that? Moreover, I am destined to be Queen of Castile.’

‘You are Queen of Castile.’

‘I have never really reigned yet. Since my accession there has been this trouble. Once it is settled I shall be able to do for Castile what I always longed to do.’

‘Castile will prosper when you are firmly on the throne, Isabella.’

Isabella’s eyes were shining with purpose. She looked full of vitality at such times, thought Beatriz; it was rarely that those outside her intimate circle saw her so unreserved.

‘First,’ she was saying, ‘I shall abolish this disastrous anarchy. I shall bring law and order back to Castile. Then, when I have a law-abiding country, I shall do all in my power to make good Christians of my subjects. You remember Tomas de Torquemada, Beatriz?’

Beatriz grimaced. ‘Who could forget him?’

‘You were harsh with him, Beatriz.’

‘He was too harsh with us all, including himself.’

‘He is a good man, Beatriz.’

‘I doubt it not. But I cannot forgive him for trying to suppress our laughter. He thought laughter was sinful.’

‘It was because he realised how necessary it was for me to avoid frivolous ways. I remember that one day, after confession, he made me promise that if ever it were in my power I would convert my kingdom to the true faith.’

‘Let us hope that in converting them you will not make them as lean and wretched looking as friend Tomas.’

‘Well, Beatriz, there is another task of mine when all is at peace. I will endeavour to free every inch of Spanish soil from Moslem rule; I will raise the flag of Christ over every Alcazar, over every town in Spain.’

‘I am sure you will do it,’ said Beatriz, ‘but only if you have some little regard for your health. Stay with me a while, dear Isabella. Give me the pleasure of looking after you myself. Please. I beg of you.’

‘How I should enjoy that!’ said Isabella. ‘But there is work to do. I have stolen these few short hours from my duty because I was in the neighbourhood of Segovia and could not resist the joy of seeing you. But tomorrow I must be on my way.’

‘I shall do my utmost to persuade you to stay.’

But Isabella was not to be persuaded; the next day she set out for Tordesillas.

The battlefield was between Toro and Zamora, along the banks of the glittering Douro. The armies were now equally matched; Alfonso was old compared with Ferdinand, but his son, Prince John, had joined him and was in command of the cavalry.

Ferdinand, surveying the enemy, determined to succeed or die in the attempt. Alfonso lacked Ferdinand’s zeal; it was characteristic of him to tire quickly of the causes for which he had originally been so enthusiastic. He had been long in Castile, and his presence was needed in his own country; his men were restive; they too had been a long time away from home. Alfonso had intended to make speedy war in Castile, drive Isabella, whom he called the usurper, from the throne and put his betrothed Joanna in her place. But the affair had been long drawn out; and already he was tiring of it. His son John was enthusiastic, but John had not much experience of war; and Alfonso longed for the end of this day’s battle.

Ferdinand, riding between the Admiral of Castile and the Duke of Alva, cried aloud: ‘St James and St Lazarus!’ which was the old cry of Castile; and those Castilians in the Portuguese ranks who heard it, trembled. It was as though Ferdinand were reminding them that they were traitors.

There was one riding furiously towards the enemy, who cared not for the old cry of Castile. The Archbishop of Toledo enjoyed battle, and he was determined to exploit this opportunity to the full.

The battle had begun, and furiously it raged; it was as though every soldier in those armies knew what depended upon its issue.

Ferdinand shouted to his men. They must fight. In the name of Isabella, they must fight. Their future and the future of their Queen, the future of Castile, depended on them.

There were many who remembered the Queen; they thought of the pregnant woman who had endured great discomfort to come to them that she might move them with her eloquence, that she might remind them of their duty to Castile. They remembered that these men who fought against them were their old enemies, the Portuguese, and those Castilians who had seen fit to fight against their own Queen.

Lances were shattered, and swords were drawn; and men grappled hand to hand with one another in the melee.

And Ferdinand’s heart leaped with joy, for he knew that the outcome of this day’s battle would be victory for him.

But there were a few men in the Portuguese Army who were determined that it should not be so. Edward de Almeyda, the Portuguese flag bearer, was an example to all. He had snatched the Portuguese Emblem from Castilian soldiers who were about to trample it in the dust and, with a shout of triumph, held it aloft, a sign to all Portuguese that the day was not lost for Alfonso.

But even as he rode away a Castilian soldier had lifted his sword and cut off the right arm which held the flag. But as it would have fallen, Almeyda, ignoring the loss of his right arm, had caught it in his left hand.

‘Joanna and Alfonso!’ he shouted as swords hacked at the arm which now held the flag aloft.

With both arms shattered and bleeding he managed to transfer the standard to his mouth; and he was seen riding among his defeated fellow countrymen, armless, the standard in his mouth, for some minutes before he was unhorsed.

Even such heroism could not save the day. Prince John was missing. Alfonso had also disappeared.

Ferdinand found himself master of the field.

In the castle of Castro Nufio, some miles from the battlefield, the young Joanna waited in apprehension. She knew that this battle would prove decisive, and she believed that her affianced husband would be the victor.

Then all hope of a peaceful existence for her would be over. She did not believe that Isabella would ever quietly stand aside and allow her to take the throne.

What would happen to her if Isabella’s armies were victorious she could not imagine; all she knew was that neither solution could bring her much joy; and she greatly wished that she could have been allowed to stay in the Madrid convent, living a life which was governed by bells.

All day she had waited for news. She had placed herself at a window in the fortified castle where she could command a good view of the surrounding country.

Soon, she knew, a rider would appear, perhaps several; she would know then whether the result of the conflict was defeat or victory for Alfonso.

It was almost dusk when her vigil was rewarded, and she saw a party of riders coming towards the castle. She stood alert, her eyes strained, and as they came nearer she recognised the leader of the party. It was Alfonso, and with him were four of his men.

She knew what this must mean; for Alfonso did not come riding to Castro Nuno as a victor; it was obvious from his demeanour that he came as a fugitive.

She hurried down, calling as she went: ‘The King is riding to the castle. He will be here in a few minutes.’

From all over the castle men and women came hurrying into the hall, and Joanna was in the courtyard when Alfonso and his party rode in.

Poor Alfonso! Indeed, he looked an old man today. He was dishevelled and dirty, his face grey; and for the first time she felt tender towards him.

He leaped from his horse and threw the reins to a groom, crying: ‘The army is routed. We must leave almost immediately for Portugal.’

‘I am to go to Portugal?’ stammered Joanna.

Alfonso put a hand on her shoulder. His eyes were suddenly alight with that quixotic expression which was not unendearing.

‘Do not despair,’ he said. ‘It is a defeat. A temporary defeat. I will win your kingdom for you yet.’

Then he took her hand and they went into the castle.

A few hours later, when Alfonso and his party had refreshed themselves, they left Castro Nuno and rode westward over the border into Portugal; and Joanna went with them.

Isabella was at Tordesillas when the news was brought to her. Ferdinand triumphant! The King of Portugal and his son John in flight! Through great endeavour and fervent prayer she had overcome yet another ordeal which in the beginning had seemed impassable.

Never before had Isabella been so sure of her destiny as now.

At the Convent of Santa Clara she gave thanks to God for this further proof of His favour. There in that beautiful building which had once been the palace of a king’s mistress she remained in her cell, on her knees, while she reminded herself that she owed this victory to the intervention of God. The atmosphere of the Convent of Santa Clara suited her mood. She, the triumphant Queen of Castile, was prostrated in humility, in that beautiful building with its Moorish baths which had once been the delight of Dona Maria de Padilla, who herself had delighted Pedro the Cruel; these walls, which must once have been the scene of voluptuous entertainments, now enclosed the refuge of silent-footed nuns.

Isabella wanted all to know that the victory was due to Divine guidance. All her subjects must understand that she was now the undoubted ruler of Castile.

The next day, in a loose and simple gown, her feet bare, Isabella led a procession to the Church of St Paul, where, in the greatest humility, she gave thanks to God for this victory which could leave no doubt that she, and she alone, was Queen of Castile.

Although the battle which had been fought between Toro and Zamora was decisive, it did not bring complete peace to Castile.

Louis XI of France, who had come to the aid of Alfonso, was still giving trouble, and Ferdinand could not disband his army; and when Isabella studied the effect of the war, following on the disastrous reigns of her half-brother and her father, she knew that her task had hardly begun.

It was September before she was able to spend a few days in Ferdinand’s company.

She was in residence at the Madrid Alcazar and, when messengers brought her news that he was on the way, she set her cooks to prepare a banquet worthy of the victor.

Isabella was not by nature extravagant and she knew that Ferdinand was not. How could they be when they considered the state of the exchequer; when they had had to work so hard to get together the means to fight their enemies? But although Isabella was cautious in spending money, she knew that there were times when she must put aside that caution.

Those about her must understand the importance of this victory. They must not whisper among themselves that the Queen of Castile and her Consort were a parsimonious pair who did not know how to live like royalty.

This would be the first real celebration she and Ferdinand together had had since the Battle of Toro, and everyone must be aware of its importance.

Ferdinand came riding in triumph to the Alcazar, and Isabella was waiting to receive him.

As she stood, surrounded by her ministers and attendants, and Ferdinand came towards her, her heart beat faster at the sight of him. He had aged a little; the lines were more deeply marked on his face; that alertness of his eyes was accentuated. But even in those first few seconds the rivalry was there between them. Ferdinand in battle was the supreme leader. Here in the Alcazar he was merely the Queen’s Consort. He had to adjust himself, and the adjustment was somewhat distasteful.

He took Isabella’s hand, bowed over it and put his lips against it.

‘Welcome, my husband,’ she said, and her voice had lost its habitual calm. ‘Welcome, my dearest husband.’

The heralds blew a few triumphant notes on their trompas and the drummers beat their baldosas.

Then Isabella laid Ferdinand’s hand on her arm, and this was the signal for them to enter the castle.

There was feasting and music, and Isabella was happier than she had been for a very long time.

Ferdinand did not leave her side during the banquet and the ball which followed, and she believed that he had such an affection for her that he ceased to fret because in Castile she was supreme.

Isabella almost wished that she were not a queen on that night, and that she and Ferdinand could have retired in peace from their guests and spent an hour or so with their little seven-year-old Isabella.

When the ball was at last over and they had retired to their apartments she reminded him that it was eight years almost to the month since they had married.

‘It is difficult to believe it is so long,’ said Isabella, ‘for in that eight years we have seen far too little of each other.’

‘When the kingdom is at peace,’ Ferdinand answered, ‘there will not be these separations.’

‘I shall be so much happier then. Oh, Ferdinand, what should I have done without you? You have brought victory to Castile.’

‘It is only my duty,’ he said. She saw the faintly sullen lines beginning to form about his mouth, and she went swiftly to him and put an arm about his shoulders.

‘We have a great task before us, Ferdinand,’ she said, ‘but I thank God that we are together.’

He was a little mollified. ‘Now it is our task to deal with the French,’ he told her.

‘You think it will be difficult, Ferdinand?’

‘No, I do not think so. Louis has his hands full with the trouble between himself and Burgundy, and now that we have driven Alfonso back where he belongs he’ll have little heart for this fight.’

‘Soon, then, we shall have peace, and then, Ferdinand, begins our real task.’

‘I have news for you. Arevalo has made advances. I think he is prepared to forget the claims of Joanna and offer his allegiance to you.’

‘That is excellent news.’

‘It shows which way the wind blows, eh?’

‘And the Archbishop of Toledo?’

‘He will follow doubtless.’

‘Then victory will indeed be ours.’

Ferdinand seized her hands and drew her to her feet. She was comely; she was a woman; and here in the bedchamber he was no longer merely the Consort of the Queen.

‘Have we not fought for it, sacrificed for it?’ he demanded. ‘Why, Isabella, you might have lost your life. You were very ill when you lost our child.’

‘It is a great grief to me . . . a continual grief. Yet our crown depended on the army I could raise.’

‘And all these months,’ went on Ferdinand, ‘I have scarcely seen you.’ He drew her towards him. ‘We are young, eh, Isabella. We are husband and wife. The quickest way to forget our sorrow is to have a son who will replace the child we lost. We have won a great victory, Isabella, and this should not be beyond our powers.’

Then he laughed and lifted her in his arms. That cold dignity dropped from her as though it were a cloak which he had loosened. And there was Isabella, warm, loving, eager.

It was during Ferdinand’s stay at the Madrid Alcazar that their son was conceived.

From his residence at Alcalá de Henares, Alfonso de Carillo, the Archbishop of Toledo, grimly reviewed the situation.

King Alfonso had fled with Joanna into Portugal. There were victories all over Castile for Ferdinand. Many of the Archbishop’s possessions had already passed into the hands of Ferdinand, and very soon he himself would do so.

Ferdinand would have no mercy on him. Was this the end, then, of an exciting and glorious career?

His only hope lay with the Queen, and Isabella, after all, was the ruler of Castile.

He would write to her reminding her of all she owed him. It was true that he had boasted of having raised her up and that he would cast her down. He had been wrong. He had not understood the force of her character. He had believed her to be steadfast and firm in her determination to support what she believed to be right. So she was. But she was shrewd also; or was it that her belief in her destiny was so strong that she forced others to share that belief even against their will?

The Archbishop of Toledo, statesman and soldier, was forced to admit that he had been foolish in allying himself with the wrong side.

Now he must humble himself. So he wrote to Isabella offering her his allegiance. He reminded her of all that he had done for her in the past. He asked pardon for his folly and arrogance.

Ferdinand, who was with Isabella when this plea arrived, laughed scornfully. ‘This is the man who, when you were risking your life to ride about the country pleading for funds, took five hundred lances and rode at the head of them to serve our enemy. He must think we are fools.’

Isabella was thinking of that occasion when she had called at his palace and the Archbishop had said that if she entered by one door he would go out at the other. It was hard to forget such an insult. It was also hard to forget that occasion when she had been threatened with capture at Madrigal, and the Archbishop of Toledo had come galloping to her rescue.

She smiled. He was a fiery old man, whose dignity must be preserved at all costs. And he had been piqued by her reliance on Ferdinand and Cardinal Mendoza.

‘We should not be too harsh with the old Archbishop,’ mused Isabella.

Ferdinand looked at her in amazement.

‘Public execution should be his lot.’

‘Once he was my very good friend,’ she reminded him.

‘He was also our very bad enemy. It will be good for the people to see what happens to those who work against us.’

Isabella shook her head. ‘I should never agree to the execution of the Archbishop,’ she said.

‘You are a sentimental woman.’

‘That may be, but I cannot forget all he once did for me.’

Ferdinand snapped his fingers. ‘There was a time, Isabella, when defeat stared us in the face. If Alfonso had been a better general we should not be rulers of Castile at this moment. Fugitives we should be. Or you might. I should doubtless have died on the field of battle.’

‘Do not speak of it,’ said Isabella.

‘Then I pray you be reasonable. This man is dangerous.’

‘This man is old and broken in spirit.’

‘Such as he is never accept age; their spirit is unbreakable.’

‘I would rather have him my friend than my enemy.’

‘Then send him where he can be neither.’

‘I could not do that, Ferdinand.’

‘Nevertheless . . .’

Gently she interrupted: ‘I shall not do it, Ferdinand.’

She watched the slow flush spread over Ferdinand’s face. He clenched his hands and said between his teeth: ‘I intrude. I had forgotten. You are the Queen. I ask Your Highness’s permission to retire.’

With that he bowed and left her.

It was not the first of such scenes. Isabella sighed. She feared it would not be the last. But she was right – she knew she was right.

She must rule Castile with that dignity and calm of which she – and so few others – was capable. Anger and resentment could never go hand in hand with justice.

The Archbishop had been her bitter enemy, she knew; but he had also been her friend.

She had decided how he should be dealt with. He should buy his pardon. He was rich, and the royal exchequer was low. He should remain in exile at Alcalá de Henares for the rest of his life.

He would be saddened, of course, by his exile from Court. But he was ageing, and he would find plenty to occupy him at Alcalá de Henares. He was an alchemist of some ability, and he would turn his immense energy into that field for the years that were left to him.

Isabella wrote the order which decided the future of the Archbishop of Toledo, and when she had dispatched it she sat silent for a few moments, and a sad wistful smile touched her mouth.

She was thinking of Ferdinand.

Isabella was riding towards Arevalo. Beside her was her friend Beatriz de Bobadilla and a few of her attendants.

It was early spring, and soon Isabella would be too heavy to trust herself on horseback.

Beatriz would stay with her until after the confinement. Isabella turned to smile at her friend. Beatriz had declared her intention of resuming her old position with the Queen as chief maid of honour until the baby had been born; she was going to see that no undue exertion threatened the life of this one. And Beatrix was a forceful woman. Once she had stated her intention, Andres, her husband, must allow her to leave him; and Isabella, her Queen, must be ready to receive her.

‘Your Highness is amused?’ asked Beatriz.

‘Only by your determination to look after me.’

‘Indeed I will look after you,’ said Beatriz. ‘And who better than one who loves you as I do?’

‘I know, Beatriz. You are good, and it gives me great pleasure to have you with me. I am sorry though for poor Andres.’

‘Do not be. He has his work to do. Mayhap he is glad of a little respite from my tongue. This journey is too much for Your Highness.’

‘You tried hard to dissuade me from making it,’ said Isabella. ‘But I fear that in the next few weeks I shall feel still less inclined to do so.’

‘After this you must rest more frequently.’

There was a frown between Beatriz’s well-marked brows. She knew Isabella as well as anyone knew her; she was aware of that firm spirit behind the serene facade. She knew that she could only appear to persuade Isabella when the Queen had made up her own mind. That was why she had ceased to rail against this journey to Arevalo, once she realised that Isabella was quite determined to make it.

But Beatriz was not only worried by the effect this journey might have on Isabella; she was wondering how much the Queen would have to suffer during her stay at the castle of Arevalo.

Beatriz had made up her mind that their stay there should be as brief as she could make it.

Isabella turned to her friend. ‘I always feel deeply moved when I come to Arevalo,’ she said. ‘There are so many memories.’

‘Perhaps we should have delayed the journey until after the child is born.’

‘No, it is long since I have seen my mother. She may be growing anxious. It is very bad for her to be anxious.’

‘I would rather she was anxious because you were absent than that I and Ferdinand, and all who love you, should be because of your state of health.’

‘You fret too much, Beatriz. It is all in the hands of God.’

‘Who would have as little patience with us now as He had last time,’retorted Beatriz.

‘Beatriz, you blaspheme.’

Isabella was really shocked, and Beatriz seeing the horror in the Queen’s face, hastened to apologise.

‘You see, Highness,’ she murmured, ‘I am as I always was. I speak without thinking.’

A gentle smile crossed Isabella’s face. ‘It is on account of your care for me, I know. But I would hear no more of the hazards of this journey and your disapproval of our visit to my mother.’

‘I see I have offended Your Highness, and crave pardon.’

‘Not offended, Beatriz, but please say no more.’

It was an order and, as they rode on to Arevalo, Beatriz was silent for a while; and Isabella’s thoughts went back to the day when she, with her mother and young brother, had hurried away from her half-brother’s Court to live for so many years in obscurity in the castle of Arevalo.

Isabella knelt before the woman in the chair. This was her mother, also Isabella, Queen-widow of King John II of Castile.

And as Isabella knelt there she felt an urge to weep, for she remembered so well those days when she had watched her mother’s face for a sign of the madness which could be terrifying to a small daughter.

The long thin fingers stroked her hair and the woman said: ‘Who is this who has come to see me?’

‘It is Isabella.’

‘I am Isabella.’

‘It is that other Isabella, Highness. Your daughter.’

‘My daughter Isabella.’ The blank expression lifted and the eyes became more bright. ‘My little child, Isabella. Where is your brother, Isabella? Where is Alfonso?’

‘He is dead, Mother,’ answered Isabella.

‘One day he could be King of Castile. One day he shall be King of Castile.’

Isabella shook her head and the tears stung her eyes.

The old Queen put her face close to her daughter’s, but she did not seem to see her. She said in a husky whisper: ‘I must take them away while there is time. One day Alfonso could be King of Castile. And if aught should happen to him, my little Isabella would be Queen.’

Isabella took the trembling fingers and laid her lips against them.

‘Mother, so much time has passed. I am your Isabella and I am Queen of Castile. That makes you happy, does it not? Is it not what you always wanted?’

The old Queen rose in her chair, and Isabella stood up and quickly put her arms about her.

‘Queen . . .’ she murmured. ‘Queen of Castile?’

‘Yes, Mother. I . . . your little Isabella. But little no longer. Mother, I am married to Ferdinand. It was the match we always wanted, was it not? And we have a daughter . . . yet another Isabella. A sweet and lively child. And, Mother, there is another soon to be born.’

‘Queen of Castile . . .’ repeated the old Queen.

‘She stands before you now, Mother, your own daughter.’

There was a smile about the twitching lips. She had understood and she was happy.

How glad I am that I came, thought Isabella. She will be at peace now. She will remember.

‘Come, Mother,’ she said, ‘let us sit down. Let us sit side by side, and I will tell you that the war is over and there is no more danger to my crown. I will tell you how happy I am with my kingdom, with my husband and my family.’

She led her mother to her chair, and they sat side by side. They held hands while Isabella talked and the old woman nodded and from time to time said: ‘Isabella . . . my little daughter, Queen of Castile.’

‘So now, Mother, you know,’ said Isabella. ‘There is no need for you to be sad any more. As often as I can I will come to Arevalo and we will talk together. You can be happy now, Mother.’

The old Queen nodded.

‘I shall rest here for a few days,’ said Isabella, ‘then I shall go. I do not wish to stay too long at this time because of my condition. You understand, Mother?’

Old Isabella went on nodding her head.

Isabella put her lips to her mother’s forehead. ‘While I am here we shall be together often. That makes me happy. Now I shall go to my apartment and rest awhile. It is necessary, you see, because of the child.’

The old Queen put out a hand suddenly. She whispered: ‘Have a care.’

‘I will take great care,’ Isabella assured her.

‘He will never get a child,’ said her mother. ‘It is the life he has led.’ She laughed suddenly. It was an echo of that wild laughter which had once terrified the young Isabella when she had first become aware of the taint of insanity in her mother. ‘He will try to foist the Queen’s child on the people, but they’ll not have it. No, they’ll not have it.’

She was talking of her stepson, King Henry IV, who had been dead for some years. She still at times lived in the past.

She gripped Isabella’s hand. ‘I must keep the children away from him. A pillow over their mouths . . . that is what it would be. Poison mixed with their food. I do not trust them . . . neither Henry nor his Queen. They are evil . . . evil, and I have my babies to protect. My little Alfonso could be King of Castile . . . my little Isabella could be Queen.’

So all that she had said had left only a momentary impression on that poor dazed mind.

Isabella felt the sobs about to choke her as she took a hurried leave of her mother.

She lay on her bed, and slowly the tears ran down her cheeks. This was weakness. She, the Queen of Castile, to be in tears! No one must see her thus.

It was so tragic. That poor woman, who cared so much, who had planned for her children, whose unbalanced state had no doubt been aggravated by her anxieties for them, might now see one of her dearest dreams realised; but her poor mind could not grasp the truth.

‘Poor sad Highness!’ murmured Isabella. ‘Dearest Mother! Is there any sickness worse than that of the mind?’

Beatriz had come into the apartment.

‘I did not send for you,’ said Isabella.

But Beatriz had thrown herself on her knees beside the bed.

‘Highness, you are unhappy. When you are so, if I could comfort you in the smallest measure, nothing would keep me from you.’

Beatriz had seen the tears; it was no use hiding the distress. Isabella put out a hand, and Beatriz took it.

‘It makes me weep; it is so sad,’ said Isabella.

‘It is not wise that you should upset yourself. ‘You were right, I think, Beatriz. I should not have come. There is no good I can do her. Or is there? I fancy she was pleased to see me.’

‘The little good you may do her by your visit might mean a lot of harm to your health.’

‘I have been thinking about the child, Beatriz. I am a little upset this day, because my thoughts are melancholy.’

‘There is nothing to fear. You are healthy. The miscarriage was due to your exertions. There will be no more miscarriages.’

‘It was not a miscarriage that I feared, Beatriz.’

‘You feared for your own health. But you are strong, Highness. You are young. You will bear many children yet.’

‘It was seeing her, Beatriz. How did she become like that? Why was she born with a mind that could plunge into darkness? I can tell you the answer, my dear friend. It is because others in her family have suffered so.’

‘What are you thinking?’ cried Beatriz aghast.

‘That she is my mother . . . even as I am the mother of this life which stirs within me now.’

‘These are morbid thoughts. It is bad for a pregnant woman to harbour such.’

‘It is a sudden fear grown up within me, Beatriz, like an evil weed in a plot of beautiful flowers. There were others before her who were afflicted thus. Beatriz, I think of my child.’

‘It is folly. Forgive me, Highness, but I must say what I think. The Princess Isabella is a beautiful child, her mind is lively and quick. This darkness has come to your mother because of the sad life she led. It has nothing to do with her blood.’

‘Is that so, Beatriz? Do you believe it?’

‘Indeed I do,’ lied Beatriz. ‘I will tell you something else. It will be a boy. I know it from the way you carry it.’

‘A boy, Beatriz. It is what Ferdinand wants. Do you know he would like our heir to be a boy? He thinks that sovereigns should be male.’

‘We ourselves have seen Castile under two kings, and we are not greatly impressed by masculine rule. Now we have a Queen, and I’ll warrant that in a very short time Castile will have good reason to be thankful for that.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Isabella, ‘I should appoint you as my Primate.’

‘Nay,’ said Beatriz, ‘I would prefer to be the power behind the throne. Do you think we could leave tomorrow?’

‘Our stay has been so short.’

‘Isabella, my dearest mistress, she does not know who you are nor why you are here. Let us leave tomorrow. It would be better for you . . . and the child.’

‘I believe you are right,’ said Isabella. ‘What good can we do by staying here? But when my child is born I shall come again and see her . . . I shall come often. There are times when her mind clears a little. Then she understands and is happy to see me.’

‘She is as happy here as she could be. You are her very dutiful daughter. It is enough, Isabella, that she is cared for. You must think of the child.’

Isabella nodded slowly.

She was thinking of the child. A new dread had come into her life. She believed that it would always be haunted by a shadow.

She would think often of those wild fits of laughter which used to overtake her mother; she would think of the poor dazed mind, lost in a half-world of darkness; and in the future she would watch her children, wondering and fearful. Her mother had brought the seeds of insanity from Portugal. It was possible that they had taken root and would break into hideous flower in the generations to come.

Meanwhile Alfonso of Portugal had not been idle. No sooner had he returned to his country in the company of the young Joanna than he was eager to make another attempt to win for her and himself the crown of Castile, for although he had tired of the old campaign, he was very eager to begin a new one.

He discussed this with his son John.

‘Are we to allow the crown of Castile to slip from our grasp?’ he demanded. ‘What of our young Joanna – this lady in distress? Is she to be deprived of what is hers by right?’

‘What do you propose to do, Father? We have lost the best of our army in Castile. We are not equipped to go to war again.’

‘We should need help,’ Alfonso agreed. ‘But we have our old ally. Louis will help us.’

‘At the moment he is deeply involved with Burgundy.’

Alfonso’s eyes were glittering with a new purpose.

‘He will help if our ambassadors can persuade him of the justice of our cause.’

‘And the profit our success might bring to him,’ added John cynically.

‘Well, Louis will see that there is profit in it for himself.’

‘Whom shall we send into France? You had someone in mind?’

Alfonso was restless. His desire for adventure did not leave him with advancing years. He wished to enjoy his youthful bride, but he could not marry a girl – however young, however charming – who might be illegitimate and have no claim to a crown whatsoever. There was only one way in which he could deal with this matter. He must set a crown on his little Joanna’s head. Then he would marry her; then Castile would be under the sway of Portugal.

He could not bear to wait for what he wanted. He must be on the move all the time.

He thought of the long journey into France, of his

ambassadors trying to set the case before Louis, whose mind would be on the threatened war with Burgundy.

There was only one man in Portugal, he felt sure, who could explain to Louis what great good could come to France and Portugal through an invasion of Castile and the setting up of Joanna in place of Isabella.

He looked as eager as a boy as he turned to John. ‘I myself will go to Louis,’ he said.

It was a triumphal progress which Alfonso made through France with the retinue of two hundred which he had taken with him.

Louis XI had given the order: ‘The King of Portugal is my friend. Honour him wherever he should go.’

Thus the people of France gave a warm welcome to this friend of their King’s, and those in the country villages threw flowers at his feet and cried ‘Long life’ to him as he went on his way.

Louis himself, seeming so honest in his shabby fustian doublet and battered old hat, in which he wore a leaden image of the Virgin, took Alfonso in his arms and kissed him on both cheeks before a large assembly, to assure all those who did not know Louis of his friendship and esteem for his ally.

There was a meeting between the two kings, when they sat opposite each other in the council chamber surrounded by their ministers and advisers. Louis was as affable as ever, but his friendly words were couched in cautious phrases and he did not offer that which Alfonso had come to France to obtain.

‘My dear friend and brother,’ said Louis, ‘you see me here in a most unhappy state – my kingdom plunged in war, my resources strained to their limit in this conflict with Burgundy.’

‘But my brother of France is master of great resources.’

‘Great!’ The eyes of the King of France flashed with fire rarely seen in them. Then he smiled a little sadly, stroking his fustian doublet as though to call attention to his simple and shabby garments that the King of Portugal might compare them with his own finery. He shook his head. ‘Wars deplete our treasury, brother. I could not burden my poor people with more taxes than they already suffer. Nay, when I have brought this trouble with Burgundy to an end . . . then . . . why then I should be most happy to come to your help, that together we may defeat the usurper Isabella and set the rightful heiress on the throne of Castile. Until then . . .’ Louis lifted his hands and allowed a helpless expression to creep over his cunning features.

‘Wars have a way of dragging on,’ said Alfonso desperately.

‘But until this conflict has been brought to a satisfactory conclusion you will stay in my kingdom as my guest . . . my very honoured guest.’

Louis had leaned forward in his chair, and certain of the Portuguese retinue shivered with distaste. Louis reminded them of a great spider in his drab garments, his pale face brightened only by those shrewd, alert eyes.

‘And it may well be,’ went on the King of France, ‘that by that time His Holiness can be persuaded to give you the dispensation you need for marriage with your niece.’

It was a further excuse for delay. The marriage could not take place without the dispensation from the Pope, and was he likely to give it while Isabella was firmly on the throne of Castile?

If the journey through France had delighted the King of Portugal, his meeting with France’s King could only fill him with foreboding.

Alfonso had been right to feel apprehensive. As the months passed, although the French continued to treat him with respect, Louis, on every occasion when the purpose of his visit was mentioned, became evasive.

Burgundy! was the answer. And where was the dispensation from the Pope?

A whole year Alfonso lingered in France, for, having made the long journey, how could he face a return without having achieved what he had come for?

The unhappy figure of the King of Portugal at the Court of France had become a commonplace. He was looked upon as a hanger-on whose prestige waned with each passing week.

The Duke of Burgundy had died and Louis had invaded his dominions. The Pope had given the dispensation.

Still there was no answer for Alfonso.

He began to grow melancholy and to wonder what he should do, for he could not stay indefinitely in France.

And one day, after he had been a year in Louis’s dominions, one of his retinue asked to speak to Alfonso privately; and when they were alone he said to the King: ‘Highness, we are being deceived. Louis has no intention of helping us. I have proof that he is at this time negotiating with Ferdinand and Isabella, and seeking a treaty of friendship with them.’

‘It is impossible!’ cried Alfonso.

‘There is proof, Highness.’

When he was assured that he had been told the truth Alfonso was overcome with mortification.

What can I do? he asked himself. Return to Portugal? There he would become the object of ridicule. Louis was not to be trusted, and he, Alfonso, had been a fool to think he could bargain with such a man. Louis had never intended to help him; and it was obvious that, since he sought the friendship of Isabella and Ferdinand, he believed them to be secure on the throne of Castile.

He called to three of his most trusted servants.

‘Prepare,’ he said, ‘to leave the Court immediately.’

‘We are returning home, Highness?’ asked one eagerly.

‘Home,’ murmured the King. ‘We can never go home again. I could never face my son, nor my people.’

‘Then where shall we go, Highness?’

Alfonso looked in a bewildered fashion at his servants.

‘There is a little village in Normandy. We will make for that place, and there we shall live in obscurity until I have made up my mind what I had best do.’

Alfonso stared out of the window of the inn at the fowls which scrabbled in the yard.

I, he mourned, a King of Portugal to come to this!

For several days he had lived here, like a fugitive, incognito, afraid to proclaim his identity lest even these humble people should be laughing at him.

At the Court of France his retinue would be asking themselves what had become of him; he did not care. All he wanted now was to hide from the world.

In Portugal Joanna would hear of his humiliation; and what would become of her? Poor child! A sad life hers, for what hope had she now of ever attaining the throne of Castile?

He had dreamed of a romantic enterprise. A fair young girl in distress, a gallant king to her rescue, who should become her bridegroom; and here he was, an ageing man in hiding, perhaps already known to the world as a fighter of lost causes.

What is left to me? he asked himself. What is left to Joanna? A convent for her. And for me?

He saw himself in coarse robe and hair shirt. He saw himself barefoot before some shrine. Why not a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and, after that, return home to the monastic life? Thus if he could not procure the crown of Castile he could make sure of his place in heaven.

He did not pause long to consider. When had he ever done so?

He called for pen and paper.

‘I have a very important letter to write,’ he said.

‘My son, [he wrote] I have decided to retire from the world. All earthly vanities which were once within me are dead. I propose to go on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and after that devote myself to God in the monastic life.

‘It is for you to hear this news as though it were of my death, for dead I am to the world. You will assume the sovereignty of Portugal. When you receive this letter Alfonso is no longer King of Portugal. I salute King John . . .’

Isabella lay in her bed awaiting the birth of her child. It would not be long now, and she was glad that Beatriz was with her.

The Queen’s journeyings had brought her to Seville. It was the month of June, the heat was intense and the sweat was on Isabella’s brow as the intermittent pain tortured her body.

‘Beatrix,’ she murmured, ‘are you there, Beatriz?’

‘Beside you, my dearest.’

‘There is no need to worry, Beatriz. All will be well.’

‘Indeed all will be well!’

‘The child will be born in the most beautiful of my towns. Seville, La Tierra de Maria Santisima. One understands why it is so called, Beatriz. Last night I sat at my window and looked out on the fertile vineyards. But how hot it is!’

Beatriz leaned over Isabella, moving the big fan back and forth.

‘Is that better, my dearest?’

‘Better, Beatriz. I am happy to have you with me.’

A frown had puckered Isabella’s brow, and Beatriz asked herself: ‘Is she thinking of the woman in the castle of Arevalo? Oh, not now, my dearest, not at this time. It would be wrong. It might work some evil. Not now . . . Isabella, my Queen, when the child is about to come into the world.’

‘It is the pain,’ said Isabella. ‘I should be able to endure it better than this.’

‘You are the bravest woman in Castile.’

‘When you think what it means! Our child is about to be born . . . mine and Ferdinand’s. This child could be King or Queen of Castile. That was what my mother used to say to us . . .’

Isabella had caught her breath, and Beatriz, fanning more vigorously, said quickly: ‘The people are already gathering outside. They crowd into the patios and in the glare of the sun. They await news of the birth of your child.’

‘I must not disappoint them, Beatriz.’

‘You will never disappoint your people, Isabella.’

Beatriz held the child in her arms. She laughed exultantly. Then she handed it to a nurse and went to kneel by Isabella’s bed.

‘The child?’ said Isabella.

‘Your Highness has borne a perfect child.’

‘I would see the child.’

‘Can you hear the cries? Loud . . . healthy . . . just as they should be. Oh, this is a happy day! Oh, my dearest mistress, your son is born.’

Isabella lay back on her pillows and smiled.

‘So it is a son.’

‘A Prince for Castile!’ cried Beatriz.

‘And he is well . . . quite well . . . in all ways?’

‘He is perfect. I know it.’

‘But . . .’

She was thinking that, when her mother had been born, doubtless there had been no sign of the terrible affliction which was to come to her.

‘Put unhappy thoughts from your mind, Highness. They are doubly bad at such a time. All is well. This is a beautiful child, a fine heir for Castile. Here he is.’ She took him from the nurse and laid him in Isabella’s arms.

And as she looked at her son, Isabella forgot her fears.

He was born at last – the son for whom she and Ferdinand had longed.

‘He shall be John . . . Juan,’ she said, ‘after Ferdinand’s father. That will delight my husband.’

She kissed the baby’s brow and whispered: ‘Juan . . . my little son, born in the most beautiful of my towns, welcome . . . welcome to Castile.’