Spain for the Sovereigns

Chapter IV ISABELLA AND THE ARCHBISHOP OF SARAGOSSA

Alfonso gave himself up to dreaming. He would sit in the room overlooking the inn yard, dreaming of the life he would lead in the monastery of his choosing. He had decided that he would become a Franciscan because their simple way of life best fitted his present mood. How different would existence at a Franciscan monastery be compared with that of a royal Court!

First, there would be his pilgrimage. He closed his eyes and saw himself, pack on back, simply clad in a flowing garment, the sun beating upon him, suffering a hundred discomforts. Imaginary discomforts were so comforting.

And as he sat dreaming there he heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs in the lane and started out of his world of imagination to see that several members of his retinue, whom he had left behind at the Court of France, had arrived at the inn.

He went down to greet them.

They bowed before him. ‘God be praised, Highness,’ said their leader, ‘that we have found you.’

‘Call me Highness no more,’ said the King. ‘I have relinquished my rank. Very soon I shall be nothing more than the humblest friar.’

His followers looked aghast, but he saw that they were already aware of his intended abdication; and it was for this reason that they, discovering his hiding-place, had come to him with all haste.

‘Highness,’ said one, ‘it is imperative that you return to Portugal with all speed. If there is any delay it may well be that the Prince, your son, will have become King.’

‘It is what I intended.’

‘There is also the Princess Joanna, who expects to be your bride.’

Alfonso looked pained. He had allowed the thought of Joanna to slip from his mind. But she was so young, so helpless. She would be a charmingly innocent bride.

The Franciscan robe lost some of its charm then; thinking of the soft body of the Princess Joanna, he was reminded of the hardship of the hair shirt.

A princess in distress, and he was sworn to rescue her! How could he desert her?

He remembered the Court – its balls and banquets, its fetes, all its pleasures. The life of a king was his life; he had been brought up to expect it.

‘It is too late,’ he said. ‘I have already written to my son. When he receives my letter he will make ready for his coronation. Once he is crowned King of Portugal, there will be no place there for me.’

‘Highness, it is not too late. Louis has offered a fleet of ships to carry you back to Portugal. We should leave without delay. And if we are fortunate we may reach Portugal before the coronation of Prince John.’

Alfonso shook his head. ‘But no,’ he said. ‘I have decided.’ He smiled. This would be the most quixotic adventure of them all. The charms of Joanna were appealing; the court life had its attractions; but he could not abandon the Franciscan habit as easily as this.

‘Highness,’ went on the chief of his advisers, ‘you cannot give up your crown. The Princess Joanna awaits you. She will be longing for your return. All Portugal will wish to see their King again. You cannot abandon the Princess Joanna. You cannot abandon your people.’

He told himself they were right.

My beautiful Joanna, my little niece-bride. Of course I could not abandon you.

Yet he remained aloof from their argument, for his dignity would not allow him to give way too easily.

They knew that; they also knew that in time they would persuade him to give up this dream of retirement; they would make him see it as the chimera it was.

Ferdinand faced Isabella in that apartment where they were alone with their children. Ferdinand was dressed for a long journey.

‘It grieves me to leave you,’ he was saying, ‘but you understand that it must be so.’

‘Indeed I understand. You must always go to your father when he needs you . . . as I must to my mother.’

Ferdinand thought that the one was not to be compared with the other. His father, the great warrior statesman, and Isabella’s mother, the insane creature of the Castle of Arevalo! But he did not comment on this. Isabella was, of course, referring to their duty.

‘At least,’ she said, ‘you have happier news for him than when you were last with him. Although we must not forget that we are not yet completely safe.’

‘I shall always be wary of Alfonso,’ he said. ‘How can one know what mad scheme he will think of next? The idea of giving up his throne to his son! He talks of going into a monastery!’

Isabella smiled. ‘He has been humiliated by Louis, and he cannot face his countrymen. Poor Alfonso! He is unfit to wear a crown.’

‘You will take care of yourself and our children while I am away.’

Isabella smiled at him fondly. ‘You can trust me to do so, Ferdinand.’

‘Care for them as assiduously as you care for Castile.’

‘I will, Ferdinand.’

‘There is a large enough force on the frontier to withstand an attack from Portugal should it come.’

‘Have no fear.’

‘You are a wise woman, Isabella. I regret I must leave my family. But the time is passing.’

‘You must say goodbye to the children,’ Isabella reminded him. She called to her daughter. ‘Isabella, my dear. Come. Your father has to leave us now.’

The eight-year-old Infanta Isabella came running at her mother’s call. She was a pretty though delicate child, and in her abundant hair was that hint of red which she had inherited from her Plantagenet ancestors. Even at eight she lacked the serenity of her mother.

She knelt before Ferdinand and Isabella, but Ferdinand swing her up in his arms and, holding her tightly against him, kissed her.

‘Well, daughter,’ he said, ‘are you going to miss me?’

‘So much, dear Father,’ she answered.

‘I shall soon be with you again.’

‘Please come back soon, Father.’

Isabella looked at them fondly.

‘You will not,’ said the Infanta, ‘look for a husband for me, Father.’

‘That had not been my intention.’

‘Because,’ said young Isabella, playing with the ornament on his doublet, ‘I shall never wish to leave you and the Queen to go to France and be the daughter of the French King.’

‘You shall not leave us for many years,’ Ferdinand promised.

And Isabella threw her arms about her father’s neck and hugged him tightly.

The Queen, watching them, found herself praying silently. ‘Preserve them both. Bring them happiness . . . the greatest happiness in life. If there are afflictions to be borne I will bear them. But let these two know perfect happiness.’

They seemed to her like two children. Ferdinand, who was so often like a spoilt boy, for all his valour in battle, for all his dignity; and dear Isabella, whose desire at this time was never to leave the heart of her family.

Isabella thrust away her emotion and said: ‘You should not forget your son, Ferdinand. He will wish to take his leave of you.’

‘He is too young to know our father,’ said young Isabella, pouting slightly, not wishing to share her parents’ attention with the baby who, she considered, usually had an unfair portion of it.

‘Yet your father will wish to take his leave of him,’ said the Queen.

So they went to the royal nursery. The nurses curtsied as they approached and stood back from the cradle, where little Juan crowed and smiled as though to show off his prowess to the spectators.

Ferdinand lifted him in his arms and kissed the small forehead, young Juan showing a mild protest; but he was a healthy, happy baby. A quiet baby, thought Isabella exultantly.

And so the farewells were said and Ferdinand left his wife and children to ride into Aragon.

He was shocked to see how his father had aged. John of Aragon was almost eighty-three years old, but, although he looked ill, his mental powers had not diminished in the least; moreover, his agility belied his years.

Ferdinand had no need to complain of any lack of respect shown to him in Aragon. Here his father insisted on treating him not only like a king, but a greater king than he was himself.

‘Ferdinand, King of Castile!’ cried John as he embraced his son. ‘It does my heart good to see you. Oh, no . . . no. I shall walk on your left. Castile should take precedence over Aragon.’

‘Father,’ said Ferdinand, deeply moved, ‘you are my father and always should take precedence.’

‘Not in public any more, my son. And I pray you do not kiss my hand. It is I who shall kiss yours on all public occasions. Oh, it does me good to see you thus. King of Castile, eh?’

‘Consort to the Queen, Father.’

‘That little matter? It is of no account. King of Castile you are, and as such worthy of the utmost respect.’

It was a delight to John to be alone with his son. He would hear all the news. So he was grandfather to two children now. That delighted him. And Ferdinand had a son. Juan! They had thought to delight him to the utmost by giving him that name. ‘May it be long before he comes to the throne of Castile,’ cried John emotionally.

He wanted news of Isabella. ‘She still refuses to allow you equal rights then? She is a strong woman.’

‘To understand Isabella one must be with her constantly,’ mused Ferdinand. ‘And even then perhaps one does not know her really well. She has the strongest character in Castile and the mildest manners.’

‘She is highly respected throughout all Spain, and France too, I believe. It is of France that I wish to speak to you, my son. I have been in communication with Louis, and he is prepared to relinquish his friendship with Portugal, to give no more support to the cause of La Beltraneja and to make an alliance with you and Isabella, that there shall be perpetual peace between France and Castile.’

‘If this could be effected, Father, it would lift great anxieties from our minds.’

‘If it should be effected! Do you not know your old father? It shall be effected.’

Ferdinand felt happy to be in Aragon.

‘There is something in one’s native air,’ he said to his attendants, ‘that lifts the spirits. How I miss my family! I long to see the Queen and my children. But nevertheless I could not be entirely unhappy while I am in Aragon.’

There were certain delights in Saragossa, but Ferdinand must enjoy them in secret.

He left his father’s palace and rode out at dusk. His destination was a house in the city, where he was received by a dignified lady who gave way to expressions of pleasure when she saw who her visitor was.

‘I have business,’ said Ferdinand, ‘with the Archbishop of Saragossa. I pray you take me to him.’

The lady bowed her head and led the way up a staircase. Ferdinand noted the expensive furnishings of the house and said: ‘It delights me that my lord Archbishop lives in a manner fitting to his rank.’

‘My lord is happy to enjoy the benefits of his rank,’ was the answer.

She opened a door on to a room where a boy of about seven years old was taking a fencing lesson.

He did not look up as the two stood in the doorway, but his tutor turned.

‘On guard!’ cried the boy.

‘Pray continue,’ said Ferdinand; and he smiled to watch the boy’s skill with the sword.

The tutor, no doubt thinking that the lesson should be brought to an end, with a flick of his wrist sent the boy’s sword spinning out of his hand.

‘How dare you! How dare you!’ cried the boy. ‘One day I will run you through for that.’

‘Alonso, Alonso,’ said the lady. She turned to Ferdinand. ‘He has such high spirits. He excels at most sports and cannot bear not to shine.’ She signed to the tutor to leave them, and when they were alone she said: ‘Alonso, your father has come.’

The boy stood for a few seconds, staring at Ferdinand; then he came forward, knelt, took Ferdinand’s hand and kissed it.

‘So my lord Archbishop is glad to see his father?’

‘The Archbishop has great pleasure in welcoming the King.’

Ferdinand’s lips twitched at the corners. This boy, with his flashing dark eyes and bold manners, was very dear to him. For his sake he had risked unpleasant scandal by bestowing on him, when he was only six years old, the Archbishopric of Saragossa, with all its attendant revenues, so the child was one of the richest people in Aragon.

‘He would wish,’ went on the boy, ‘that he was more often given the opportunity of doing so.’

Ferdinand smiled at the boy’s mother, who was clearly delighted with her son’s precocity.

‘It is a matter of deep regret to the King also,’ said Ferdinand. ‘But let us endure it, for the time being. There may come a day when we shall be more frequently in each other’s company.’

The boy’s eyes sparkled. His dignity deserted him and he was an eager child begging for a treat. He had seized Ferdinand’s arm and was shaking it. ‘When, Father, when?’ he demanded.

‘One day. Have no fear of that.’ Ferdinand pictured this boy at the Court of Castile. Isabella would have to know. Well, she must accept the fact that kings such as Ferdinand must be expected to have an illegitimate son here and there. He would insist on Isabella’s accepting this fact. Here, under the admiring gaze of his mistress and his son, he did not doubt that he would be capable of dealing with Isabella.

‘I shall come to Court.’

‘Certainly you shall come to Court. By the saints, what a dashing courtier you will make, eh?’

‘I shall be brave,’ said the boy. ‘And I shall be very important. All men will tremble at my approach.’

‘Will you be as fierce as all that?’

‘I shall be the King’s son,’ said Alonso simply.

Ferdinand replied solemnly: ‘You have learned much, Alonso – to strut like a courtier, to fence a little. But there is one thing you have not learned, and that is humility.’

‘Humility? You mean you would have me humble?’

‘It is a lesson we all have to learn at some time or other, whether we be archbishops or king’s sons. You lost your temper when your tutor showed more skill with the sword than you. Come, let me take his place.’

The Viscountess of Eboli stood aside, watching her son and lover fencing together.

Again and again Ferdinand sent the boy’s sword spinning out of his hand. Alonso was disconsolate, yet Ferdinand noticed with pleasure that the boy returned again and again to the play, always with the hope that this time it would not happen.

At last Ferdinand said: ‘That is enough.’ He threw aside his sword and put a hand on the boy’s arm. ‘You will be a great swordsman one day, my son,’ he said, ‘providing you learn your lesson. I want you to excel in all things which you attempt. But I would have you understand that while you must have complete confidence in your ability to succeed, you must always be prepared to learn from those who have greater experience. That is the true humility, Alonso – and the only sort worth having.’

‘Yes, Father,’ said the boy, a little subdued.

‘Now you shall tell me what you have been doing during my absence. There is little time left to us. My visit, as usual, must be brief.’

The boy’s face puckered in distress, and Ferdinand put his arm about him impulsively and embraced him.

‘Perhaps, my son,’ he said fervently, ‘it will not always be so.’

Alfonso of Portugal had arrived in his own country. Like most of his ventures, his arrival was ill-timed. As he set foot on the shores of his native land two items of news were brought to him, both of them disturbing.

His son John had been crowned King of Portugal five days before; and Pope Sixtus IV had been induced by Isabella and Ferdinand, and the conduct of Alfonso himself, to withdraw the dispensation which he had previously given to make the marriage between Alfonso and Joanna possible.

‘What an unhappy man I am,’ mourned Alfonso. ‘You see, my friends, the hand of God is turned against me. I promised myself that I would return to my country, that I would marry the Princess Joanna, that I would rule more wisely than I have in the past. You see, I am not to marry nor to rule. What is left to me? Oh, why did I allow myself to be dissuaded from living the monastic life! What is left to me . . . but that!’

He travelled to Lisbon, and he felt that, as he passed through the towns, people watched him furtively. They did not know how to receive him. He was a king and yet not a king. He had brought poverty to Portugal with his wild enterprises; he had brought more than poverty – humiliation.

His son John received him with affection.

‘You are the King of Portugal now,’ said Alfonso, kissing his hand. ‘You take precedence of your father. I was wrong to have come back to Court. I think I shall soon be leaving it.”

John answered: ‘Father, if it were possible to retrace our steps, would you have kept the crown for yourself?’

Alfonso looked sadly at his son. ‘There is no place at Court for a king who has abdicated. He only makes trouble for his successor.’

‘Then what will you do, Father?’

‘I think the monastery is the only answer.’

‘You would not long be happy in a monastery. The novelty would soon disappear, and you have been used to such an active life. How could you endure it?’

‘I should learn to live a new life.’

‘Father, you regret abandoning the crown to me, do you not?’

‘My son, I wish you all success.’

‘There comes a day when a son should take the crown from his father, and that is when his father is in his tomb.’

‘What do you mean, John?’

‘I mean, Father, that as you gave your crown to me, I now abdicate and give it back to you. My time to wear it has not yet come. I trust it will not come for many years.’

Alfonso smiled at John with tears in his eyes.

John felt relieved. He had been alarmed when his father had bestowed the crown upon him. He considered what often happened when there were two kings with only one crown between them. His father had abdicated, but there would almost certainly arise a faction which desired to put him back on the throne, whether he wished it or not.

John was happier waiting to inherit the crown on his father’s death than wearing it while he was still alive.

So Alfonso forgot his humiliating adventure in France and accepted the crown at the hands of John.

As for the people of Portugal, they had grown accustomed to the eccentricities of their King, and after a while they ceased to talk of the two abdications.

Alfonso sent for the Princess Joanna.

She was growing into a charming young woman, and it distressed him that Sixtus had withdrawn the dispensation.

‘My dear,’ he said, taking her hand and making her sit beside him, ‘how very unsettled life is for you.’

‘I am learning to be happy here, Highness,’ Joanna told him.

‘I am glad. But I cannot be happy while our marriage is delayed.’

‘Highness, we accept what is.’

‘Nay, my dear, we will not accept it. We will marry. I am determined on that.’

Joanna drew back in alarm. ‘We could not,’ she said, ‘without the dispensation.’

‘The dispensation!’ cried Alfonso. ‘Sixtus declares that he withdrew it because we did not give him the true facts. We know how much truth there is in that! He withdrew it because Isabella and Ferdinand insisted that he should; and they are supreme in Castile . . . at the moment.’

‘Yes,’ said Joanna, ‘the people accept Isabella as their Queen. They want no other.’

‘They are successful at the moment,’ said Alfonso. ‘But remember I say at the moment. This does not mean that they will always be so.’

‘We have tried,’ said Joanna, ‘and we have failed.’

‘My dear, your future husband never accepts failure. I have a plan.’

‘Not . . . not to go into Castile again?’ stammered Joanna.

‘We have failed once. But he wins who is successful in the last battle. That is the important one, my dear.’

‘You could not thrust the people of Portugal into war again.’

The dreamlike expression was creeping over Alfonso’s face.

‘We must fight,’ he said, ‘we must fight for the right.’

Ferdinand had returned from Aragon, and Isabella had prepared a banquet to welcome him.

She had wished it to be an elaborate feast. Not that Ferdinand was given to excessive eating or drinking any more than she was; not that he would care to see so much money spent, any more than she would; but he would appreciate the fact that his return was of such importance to herself and Castile.

Isabella carefully watched the expenditure of the treasury, but she was the first to admit that there were occasions when it was wise to spend; and this was one of them.

Ferdinand looked well, but she noticed a change in him. He was experiencing mingling anxiety and excitement. She felt she understood. His father’s health must be giving him that cause for anxiety, while it gave him equal cause for excitement.

Ferdinand was fond of his father; he would never cease to be grateful to him; but at the same time King John’s death would make Ferdinand King of Aragon; and, once that title was bestowed upon him, he would feel that he could stand in equality beside Isabella.

Isabella knew that all Ferdinand’s emotions must be mingled with his love of possessions, so that even the death of a beloved parent could not be entirely deplored if it brought him a crown.

When she had received him and they were at last alone she said to him: ‘And your father, Ferdinand? How fares your father?’

‘He is pleased with what we have done here in Castile; but he is ailing, I fear. He forgets that he is nearly eighty-three. And I think we forget it too.’

‘He has caused you to worry, Ferdinand.’

‘I cannot help feeling that his end is near.’

‘Yet it is largely due to him that this treaty of St Jean de Luz, between ourselves and the French, has been made.’

‘His mind will be active till the end, Isabella. But I fear I may never see him again.’

‘Come, Ferdinand, I will call our daughter. She will turn your thoughts from this melancholy subject.’

But even as Isabella called for her daughter she knew that the subject was not an entirely melancholy one; and the thought disturbed her.

It was early in the following year when the news came from Aragon.

The fierce winds of January, sweeping across the plain from the Guadarramas, penetrated the Palace, and in spite of huge fires it was difficult to keep it warm.

As soon as the messenger entered his presence, Ferdinand knew the nature of the news he had brought. It was evident, in the man’s attitude as he presented the message, that he was not merely in the presence of the heir to the throne but in that of the monarch himself.

The colour deepened in Ferdinand’s bronzed cheeks.

‘You bring news of the King of Aragon?’

‘Long live Don Ferdinand, King of Aragon!’ was the answer.

‘It is so?’ said Ferdinand, and he drew himself up to his full height while he tried to think of his sorrow and all that the loss of one of the best friends he could ever have would mean to him. He turned away as though to hide his emotion. But the emotion was not entirely grief, and he did not want the man to see how much it meant to him to have inherited the throne of Aragon.

He turned back and put his hand over his eyes. ‘I pray you leave me now,’ he said quietly.

He waved his hand, and those who had been with him retired also.

He sat down at a table and buried his face in his hands. He was trying to think of his father, who had schemed for him – murdered for him – and all those occasions when John of Aragon had given him advice and help. He remembered his father at his mother’s bedside when she had been afraid because she believed that the ghost of Carlos, Ferdinand’s murdered stepbrother, had been there at the bedside. Carlos had died, it was generally believed, at the hands of his father and stepmother, so that their son Ferdinand might find no one to stand in his way to the throne.

This man was dead now. Never again could Ferdinand turn to him for guidance. The father who had loved him, surely as few were loved, was now no more. Every action of his had been for the advancement of Ferdinand; not only was Ferdinand his idolised son but the son of the woman whom he had loved beyond all else in the world.

Even in dying he gave Ferdinand a crown.

Isabella had heard the news and came in haste to the apartment.

He glanced up as she approached. She looked grave; and he thought then that there could not be a woman in the world who disguised her feelings as successfully as Isabella.

She knelt at his feet; she took his hand and kissed it. She was offering him solace for the loss of his father and at the same time homage to the King of Aragon.

‘It has come, Isabella,’ he said, ‘as I feared.’ He might have added, and as I hoped. For he had certainly longed to feel the crown upon his head.

He felt a flicker of irritation against her because, being aware of his own mercenary feelings at this time, he could blame Isabella for them. It was Isabella’s determination to remain supreme in Castile that made it so necessary for him to be a king in his own right – not merely of Sicily, but of the great province of Aragon.

Now that had happened and, when he should be grieving for his father, he found himself elated.

‘You must not grieve,’ said Isabella. ‘He would not have it so. Ferdinand, this is a great occasion. I am Queen of Castile; you are King of Aragon. All that I have is yours; all that you have is mine. Now almost the whole of Spain is united.’

‘The whole of Spain apart from that accursed Moorish kingdom – ours . . . ours, Isabella.’

‘We have a son who will be King of Spain, Ferdinand. I remind you of this, because I know how you suffer at this moment.’

Ferdinand was suddenly aware of his loss. He said: ‘He was so good to me. No one ever had a better father.’

‘I know,’ she said; and she lifted her kerchief to her eyes.

But she was thinking: Castile and Aragon – we reign over almost the whole of Spain. Our destiny is being fulfilled. We are God’s chosen rulers.

And he was thinking: I am a king . . . a king in my own right. King of Aragon, to stand side by side with the Queen of Castile.

The King of Aragon was no longer quite so insistent on the deference which must be paid to him. It was clear that he was the King. . . the King in his own right. He had a crown which he did not owe to his wife.

Isabella was delighted to see this change in him. She believed it augured well for their future. Ferdinand would not now grudge her her power in Castile.

If the war for the Succession could only be settled once and for all, Isabella would be ready to set her kingdom in order; but as long as Alfonso boasted of his intention to set Joanna on the throne of Castile in place of Isabella there could be no peace.

Yet her hopes for the future were high. She had her family – her charming Isabella, her healthy little Juan, so normal, both of them – and she for a brief spell had Ferdinand with her, a contented Ferdinand no longer looking for slights: Don Ferdinand, the King of Aragon.

It was during those spring months that Isabella once more discovered that she might expect a child.

Isabella found it necessary to visit the fortified towns on the borders of Castile and Portugal.

As she travelled from place to place she brooded on the sad state of her kingdom. Robbers were still numerous on the road. The Hermandad was doing good work, but while war threatened it was impossible to find the necessary funds to keep the organization going. The position was not as serious as it had once been, but there must be continual vigil in the frontier towns.

Beatriz came from Segovia to be with her.

‘You should rest,’ said Beatriz. ‘Eight months after the birth of Juan and you become pregnant again!’

‘It is a queen’s duty, Beatriz,’ Isabella reminded her friend with a smile, ‘to ensure that the royal line is continued.’

‘And to take care of herself that she may perform this duty,’ retorted Beatriz. ‘Has Your Highness forgotten another occasion, when you lost your child?’

Isabella smiled. She allowed Beatriz to speak to her in this rather hectoring manner because she knew that it was the outward sign of a great affection. Perhaps no one in Castile loved her, reflected Isabella, as did this forthright, bold Beatriz de Bobadilla.

‘It is not for me to think of the peril to myself,’ she said calmly. ‘If I am timid, how can I expect my friends to be otherwise?’

Beatriz attempted once more to dissuade Isabella from making these journeys, which were not only arduous but dangerous; but Isabella firmly implied that she wished to hear no more; and although Beatriz was by nature overbearing and Isabella so calm, Beatriz always realised when the moment had come to say no more and to drop the role of privileged friend for that of humble confidante.

It was while Isabella was inspecting the border fortifications that she received a communication from the Infanta Dona Beatriz of Portugal. The Infanta, who was Isabella’s maternal aunt, deplored the fact that Castile and Portugal, whose sovereigns were so closely related, should be continually at war. She would be grateful, she wrote, if Isabella would meet her, and if together they could discuss some means of making peace between the two countries.

Isabella was eager for the meeting, and she immediately agreed to it.

Meanwhile, with Ferdinand and her counsellors, she drew up the peace terms.

Isabella, not yet incapacitated by pregnancy, rode to the border town of Alcantara, where Dona Beatriz of Portugal was waiting for her.

The ladies embraced and, because each was so eager to bring about peace, they wasted no time in celebrations but began their discussions immediately.

‘My dear Dona Beatriz,’ said Isabella, as they sat together in the council chamber, ‘the Portuguese Army was beaten in the field, and should it come against us once more we should be confident of annihilating it.’

‘That is true,’ said Dona Beatriz, ‘but let us not consider the possibility of war. Let us turn our thoughts to peace.’

‘By all means,’ was the answer. ‘The first clause that we should insist on would be that Alfonso gives up the title and armorial bearings of Castile which he has assumed.’

‘That is reasonable. I feel sure he will agree to that.’

‘There must be no more claims from or on behalf of Joanna, and the King must no longer consider himself betrothed to her. Moreover, he must never again aspire to her hand.’

Dona Beatriz frowned. ‘He has a great fondness for Joanna,’ she said.

‘And for the crown of Castile,’ replied Isabella dryly, ‘to which he pretends to believe she has a claim.’

‘I can put this clause before him,’ said Beatriz. ‘It will be for me to persuade him to accept it.’

‘You are convinced of the justice of it?’

‘I am convinced that there must be peace between Castile and Portugal.’

‘Between Castile and Aragon and Portugal,’ said Isabella with a smile. ‘We are stronger now.’

‘I will remind the King of that also.’

‘As for Joanna,’ went on Isabella, ‘she must either leave Portugal or be betrothed to my son, Juan.’

‘Juan! He is not yet a year old . . . and she . . . she is now a young woman.’

‘It is a condition,’ said Isabella. ‘We will give her six months to decide whether she will leave Portugal or be betrothed to my son. If, when he reaches a marriageable age, she prefers to enter a convent, I shall not stand in her way. If she did enter a convent it would be necessary for her to take the veil’

Beatriz looked long into the smiling face of Isabella, and she thought: We are discussing the life of a young girl who, although she has been a menace to Isabella, is in herself innocent. Yet Isabella, herself so happy in her marriage and her family, is so determined to be secure upon the throne, that she is not only denying this girl any hope of the crown but of the normal life of a woman. The face Isabella showed to the world was completely enigmatic. It would be well not to be deceived by that gentle façade.

‘It is a hard choice for a young girl,’ mused Beatriz. ‘Betrothal to a baby or the veil!’

‘It is an important condition,’ said Isabella.

‘I can put these terms before Joanna,’ said Beatriz, ‘and before the King. I can do no more.’

‘That is understood,’ said Isabella. ‘All Castilians who have fought with the King of Portugal for Joanna will be pardoned and, to show that I and my husband wish for friendship with Portugal, my daughter, the Infanta Isabella, shall be betrothed to Alonso, son of the Prince of Portugal.’

‘So these are your conditions,’ said Beatriz. ‘I do not think it will be easy to obtain the King’s consent to all of them.’

‘I deplore war,’ Isabella told her. ‘But it will be necessary for the King to agree to all these conditions if we are to have peace. He must remember that he was defeated in the field. He will know that, eager as Castile is for peace, it does not need it so desperately as does Portugal.’

The two ladies took their leave of each other, Beatriz travelling westward to Lisbon, Isabella eastward to Madrid.

Isabella waited. The conditions were hard, but they were necessarily so, she told herself, to secure lasting peace. She was sorry for Joanna, who had been a helpless puppet in the hands of ambitious men, but the comfort and happiness of one young woman could not be considered when the prosperity of Castile was at stake.

Isabella was large with her child when news came that Alfonso had accepted her terms.

Her spirits were high. The War of the Succession, which had lasted four years, was over.

And very soon another child would be born to her and Ferdinand.

The city of Toledo was set high on a plateau of stone which appeared to have been carved out of the surrounding mountains in the gorge of the Tagus. Only on the north side was it accessible by a narrow isthmus which connected it with the plain of Castile. In no other city in Isabella’s Castile was there more evidence of Moorish occupation.

Isabella could never visit her city of Toledo without reiterating the vow that one day she would wrest from the Moors those provinces of Spain which were still under their domination, and that the flag of Christian Spain should float over every city.

But, to remind her of the state of her country, not far from this very palace of Toledo in which she now lay was that great rock, from which it was the custom to hurl alleged criminals. Many would meet their fate at the rock of Toledo before Castile would be safe for honest men and women to live in.

A tremendous task lay before her, and as soon as she had left this childbed she must devote herself to stabilising her country. Nothing should be spared, she had decided. She would be harsh if harshness were needed, and all her honest subjects would rejoice. She had sworn to rid Castile of its criminals, to make the roads safe for travellers by imposing such penalties on offenders that even the most hardened robber would think twice before offending.

But now there was the child about to be born.

It would be soon, and she was unafraid. One grew accustomed to childbearing. The pains of birth she could bear stoically. She had a daughter and son, and she no longer had any uneasy feelings regarding a child she would bear. Her mother was living in a dark world of her own at Arevalo, and the dread that the children should be like her had disappeared. Why should they be? Isabella was in full possession of her mental powers. No one in Castile was more balanced, more controlled than the Queen. Why, then, should she fear?

The pains were becoming more frequent. Isabella waited a while before she called to her women.

It was some hours later when, in the fortress town of Toledo, Isabella’s second daughter and third child was born.

She called her Juana.

Joanna knew herself to be deserted. Alfonso had agreed to Isabella’s terms, and she had been offered her choice: a marriage with a boy who was still a baby, or the veil.

Joanna knew that only would that marriage take place if by the time Prince Juan was in his teens there were still people to remember her cause in Castile. She wondered what sort of marriage she could hope for with a partner so many years younger than herself.

The peace of the cloister seemed inviting; but to take the veil, to shut herself off from the world for ever! Could she do that?

Yet what alternative was Isabella offering her? Shrewd Isabella who, so gently and with seeming kindness, could drive a poor bewildered girl into a prison from which there was no escape!

She must resign herself. She would take the veil. It was the only way to end conflict. How unhappy were those who, by an accident of birth, could never be allowed to live their lives as they would choose to do.

‘I think,’ she said to her attendants, ‘that I will prepare myself to go to the convent of Santa Clara at Coimbra.’

The visiting embassy called upon her when her decision was made known.

The leaders of this embassy were Dr Diaz de Madrigal, a member of Isabella’s Council, and Fray Fernando de Talavera, her confessor.

Talavera gave Joanna his blessing.

‘You have chosen well, my daughter,’ he said. ‘In the convent of Santa Clara you will find a peace which you have never known outside the convent walls.’ Joanna smiled wanly.

She knew then how fervent had been Isabella’s wish that she would take this course,

Alfonso came to her to take his last farewell.

‘My dearest,’ he said, taking both her hands and kissing them. ‘So this is the end of all our hopes.’

‘It is perhaps better so,’ said Joanna. ‘Many seem to be of that opinion.’

‘It leaves me desolate,’ declared Alfonso. ‘My dearest Joanna, I had made so many dreams.’

‘Too many dreams,’ said Joanna wistfully.

‘What shall I do when you are immersed in your convent? What shall I do when there is an impenetrable barrier between us?’

‘You will govern your country and doubtless make another marriage.’

‘That I shall never do,’ cried Alfonso. His eyes kindled, and Joanna guessed that he was conceiving a new plan to marry her in spite of the Pope, in spite of the agreement he had made with Isabella.

Joanna shook her head. ‘You have agreed to these terms,’ she said. ‘There can be no going back. That would result in a war which might prove disastrous to Portugal.’

‘Must I let you go?’

‘Indeed you must.’

Alfonso’s looks became melancholy. He had abandoned the idea of defiance. He now said: ‘Since you are to incarcerate yourself in a convent, I shall spend the rest of my days in a monastery. As it must be the veil for you, it must be the Franciscan habit for me.’

She smiled at him sadly. ‘You remember, Alfonso,’ she said, ‘that on a previous occasion you came near to entering a monastery. On that occasion, you changed your mind.’

‘This time I shall not change,’ said Alfonso, ‘for this is the only way I can bear the loss of my lady Joanna.’

Never before had Isabella felt so confident, never so sure of her powers.

She had summoned a Cortes to meet at Toledo, and here new laws had been discussed and introduced. Isabella had made it clear that she intended to crush the power of the nobles and to eliminate crime in her dominions as far as possible.

The Santa Hermandad must be extended; only if it were efficient could crime be dealt with, and Isabella was certain that only harsh punishment, meted out to proved offenders, could deter others from following their example. Officers of the Hermandad were sent to every village in Castile, where they took up residence so that order there might be maintained. Two alcaldes were set up in every village. This had to be paid for, and a house tax of 18,000 maravedis was imposed on every hundred householders.

But Isabella was fully aware of the fact that she could not punish with great severity those who carried out their crimes in a small way and allow those who offended on a larger scale to escape.

During the reigns of her father and half-brother many sinecures had been created, and those men who had supported these kings had received large incomes as a reward. Isabella was determined that such drains on the exchequer should cease. Those who supported her must do so for love of their country, not for monetary reward. Thus Isabella deprived Beltran de la Cueva of a yearly income of a million and a half maravedis, in spite of the fact that he had turned from Joanna, alleged to be his daughter, to offer his services to Isabella; the Duke of Alva lost 600,000 maravedis, the Duke of Medina Sidonia 180,000 and Ferdinand’s relative, Admiral Henriquez, 240,000.

This caused discontent among these nobles, but they dared not protest; and thus these large sums, which they had been squandering, helped to support the Santa Hermandad; and the effect of Isabella’s stern rule soon began to be noticed throughout the land.

She was confident that in a few years’ time she would transform the anarchical kingdom, which Castile had been when she had become its Queen, into a well-ordered state; she believed that the empty coffers of the treasury would be filled.

And once she had set her own house in order she would look farther afield.

Her eyes were on the Kingdom of Granada, and Ferdinand was beside her in this. He yearned to go into battle against the Moors, but she, the wiser one, restrained him for a while.

When they went into battle there should be victory for them. But they would not engage in war until there was peace and prosperity at home.

In spite of her preoccupation with state affairs, Isabella tried not to forget that she was a wife and mother. She deplored her own lack of education. Often she thought of those years at Arevalo, where she lived with her mother and her brother Alfonso, and where she was taught that one day she might be Queen, but little Latin, Greek or any other language which would have been useful to her. Her children should not suffer similarly; they should have the best of tutors. Most important of all was their religious instruction. That should certainly not be neglected.

There were occasions when she liked to escape to the nursery to forget the magnitude of the task of governing a kingdom which until recently had been on the verge of decay.

She liked to sit and sew with a few of her women as though she were a simple noblewoman, and talk of matters other than those concerned with the state. There was little time for this, and greatly she treasured those brief hours when she could indulge in it.

It was on one of these occasions, when her women were chattering together, that one of them who had recently come from Aragon talked of a ceremony she had seen there.

Isabella listened idly to the conversation. ‘. . . such a ceremony! The churchmen, brilliant in their vestments. And the one who attracted most attention was, of course, the Archbishop of Saragossa. An Archbishop only ten years old . . . certainly little more. Such a handsome little fellow . . . with all the dignity required of his rank.’

‘An Archbishop, ten years old?’ said Isabella.

‘Why yes, Highness, the Archbishop of Saragossa. He cannot be much more.’

‘He is very young to have attained such a post. The Archbishop of Saragossa must be a remarkable person indeed.’

Isabella changed the subject, but she kept in mind the young Archbishop of Saragossa.

Isabella was discussing that ever-present problem with Ferdinand – the state of the treasury; and she said: ‘I am determined to divert the wealth of the great Military and Religious Orders to the royal coffers.’

‘What?’ cried Ferdinand. ‘You will never do that.’

‘I think I shall.’

‘But how?’

‘By having you elected Grand Master of each of them when those offices fall vacant.’

Ferdinand’s eyes took on that glazed look which the contemplation of large sums of money always brought to them.

‘Calatrava, Alcantara, Santiago . . .’ he murmured.

‘All shall fall gradually into our hands,’ said Isabella. ‘When I contemplate the wealth in the possession of these Orders – the armies, the fortresses – it is inconceivable that they should exist to threaten the crown. We should be able to rely on the loyalty of these Orders without question, to use their arms and their wealth as we need it. Therefore they should be the property of the crown. And when you are Grand Master that will be achieved.’

‘It is a brilliant idea,’ agreed Ferdinand gleefully, and he gave his wife a glance of admiration. At such times he did not resent her determination to stand supreme as ruler of Castile.

‘You shall see it achieved,’ she told him. ‘But it will be when the time is ripe.’

‘I believe,’ said Ferdinand, ‘that our struggles are behind us. A glorious future will be ours, Isabella, if we stand together.’

‘And so we shall stand. It was what I always intended.’

He embraced her, and she drew back from his arms to smile at him.

‘Castile and Aragon are ours! We have three healthy children,’ she said.

Ferdinand caught her hands and laughed.’ We are young yet,’ he reminded her.

‘Our little Isabella will be Queen of Portugal. We must arrange grand marriages for the others.’

‘Never fear. There will be many who will wish to marry with the children of Ferdinand and Isabella.’

‘Ferdinand, I am glad they are young yet. I shall suffer when they are forced to go from us.’

‘But they are still children as yet. Why, our little Isabella is but eleven years old.’

‘Eleven years old,’ mused Isabella. ‘But perhaps that is not so young. I hear you have an Archbishop in Saragossa of that age.’

Ferdinand’s face grew a little pale and then flushed. His eyes had become alert and suspicious.

‘An Archbishop . . .’ he murmured.

‘You must have had your reasons for sanctioning the appointment,’ she said with a smile. ‘I wondered what great qualifications one so young could have.’

She was unprepared for Ferdinand’s reaction. He said: ‘You have made the affairs of Castile yours. I pray you leave to me those of Aragon.’

It was Isabella’s turn to grow pale. ‘Why, Ferdinand . . .’ she began.

But Ferdinand had bowed and left her.

Why, she asked herself, should he have been so angry? What had she done but ask a simple question?

She stared after him and then sat down heavily. Understanding had come to her.

To have made a boy of that age an Archbishop, Ferdinand must have a very special reason for favouring him. What reason could Ferdinand have?

She refused to accept the explanation which was inevitably forcing itself into her mind.

He would have been born about the same time as their . . . first-born, little Isabella.

‘No!’ cried Isabella.

She, who had been so faithful to him in every way, could not tolerate this suspicion. But it was fast becoming no longer a suspicion. She now knew that Ferdinand was the lover of other women, that they had given him children – children whom he must love dearly to have risked exposure by making one of them Archbishop of Saragossa.

There was nothing that could have hurt her more. And this discovery had come to her at a time when all that she had hoped for seemed to be coming her way.

Her marriage was to have been perfect. She had known that he was jealous of her authority, but that she had understood. This was different.

She felt numb with the pain of this discovery. She felt a longing to give way to some weakness, to find Ferdinand, to rail against him, to throw herself onto her bed and give way to tears – to rage, to storm, to ease in some way the bitterness of this knowledge which wounded her more deeply than anything had ever done before.

Her women were coming to her.

She set her face in a quiet smile. None would have guessed that the smiling face masked such turbulent emotions and jealous humiliation.