Spain for the Sovereigns

by Виктория Холт

  ‘You are my father. I am your boy.’

  Ferdinand crushed the child in his arms. ‘It is true,’ he said. ‘It is true.’

  ‘You are holding me too tightly.’

  ‘It is unforgivable,’ answered Ferdinand.

  ‘I will show you how I am a soldier now,’ the boy told him.

  ‘But it is night and you should be asleep.’

  ‘Not when my father has come.’

  ‘There is the morning.’

  The boy looked shrewd and at that moment was poignantly like Ferdinand. ‘Then he may be gone,’ he said.

  Ferdinand’s hand stroked the glossy hair.

  ‘It is his sorrow that he is not with you often. But tonight I am here and we shall be together.’

  The boy’s eyes were round with wonder. ‘All through the night,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, and tomorrow you will sleep.’

  ‘Tomorrow I will sleep.’

  The boy leaped out of bed. He was pulling open a trunk. He wanted to show his toys to his father. And Ferdinand knelt by the trunk and listened to the boy’s chatter while his mother looked on and ambition gleamed in her eyes.

  After a while the boy said: ‘Now tell me a story, Father. Tell me of when you were a soldier. Tell me about battles . . . and fighting and killing.’

  Ferdinand laughed. He sat down and nursed the boy in his arms.

  And Ferdinand began to tell a story of his adventures, but before he was halfway through his son was asleep.

  Ferdinand laid him gently in his bed, then with the boy’s mother he tiptoed out of the room.

  She said with a sudden fierceness: ‘You may have legitimate sons, princes born to be kings, but you will never have a child whom you can love as you love that one.’

  ‘I fear you may be right,’ said Ferdinand.

  The door between the two rooms was fast shut, and Ferdinand leaned against it, looking at his mistress in the candlelight; she was no less beautiful when her eyes shone with ambition for her son.

  ‘You may forget the love you once had for me,’ she went on, ‘but you will never forget me as the mother of your son.’

  ‘No,’ answered Ferdinand, ‘I shall never forget either of you.’

  He drew her to him and kissed her.

  She said: ‘In the morning you will have gone. When shall I see you again?’

  ‘Soon I shall be passing this way.’

  ‘And you will come,’ she answered, ‘to see the boy?’

  ‘To see you both.’ He feigned a passion he did not altogether feel, for his thoughts were still with the child. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘there is little time left to us.’

  She took his hand and kissed it.’ You will do something for him, Ferdinand. You will look after him. You will give him estates . . . titles.’

  ‘You may trust me to look after our son.’

  He led her to the bed and deliberately turned his thoughts from the child to his passion for the mother.

  Later she said: ‘The Queen of Castile might not wish our son to receive the honours which you as his father would be ready to bestow upon him.’

  ‘Have no fear,’ said Ferdinand a little harshly. ‘I shall bestow them nevertheless.’

  ‘But the Queen of Castile . . .’

  A sudden anger against Isabella came to Ferdinand. Were they already talking in Catalonia about his subservience to his wife? The Queen’s Consort! It was not an easy position for a proud man to find himself in.

  ‘You do not imagine that I will allow anything or anyone to come between me and my wishes for the boy!’ he exclaimed. ‘I will make a promise now. When the Archbishopric of Saragossa falls vacant it shall be bestowed upon him . . . for a beginning.’

  The Viscountess of Eboli lay back, her eyes closed; she was the satisfied mistress, the triumphant mother.

  * * *

  Early next morning, Ferdinand took a hurried leave of the Viscountess of Eboli and kissed their sleeping son; then he sent one of his attendants back to the inn to tell his men who had slept there that he had gone on ahead of them and that they should overtake him before he crossed the Segre and passed into Aragon.

  And as he rode on with his few attendants he tried to forget the son from whom he must part, and concentrate on the task ahead of him.

  He called one of his men to ride beside him.

  ‘What have you heard of this Ximenes Gordo who, it seems, rules Saragossa?’

  ‘That he is a man of great cunning, Highness, and, in spite of his many crimes, has won the support of the people.’

  Ferdinand was grave. ‘I am determined,’ he said, ‘to countenance no other rulers but my Father and myself in Saragossa. And if this man thinks to set himself against me, he will discover that he is foolish.’

  They rode on in silence and were shortly joined by the rest of the party. Ferdinand believed that none of them was aware of the visit he had paid to the Viscountess of Eboli. Yet, he thought, when it is necessary to bestow honours on the boy there will be speculation.

  He felt angry. Why should he have to pay secret calls on a woman? Why should he demean himself by subterfuge? He had never been ashamed of his virility before his marriage. Was he – Ferdinand of Aragon – allowing himself to be overawed by Isabella of Castile?

  It was an impossible situation; and Isabella was like no other woman he had ever known. It was strange that when they had first met he had been most struck by her gentleness.

  Isabella had two qualities which were strange companions – gendeness and determination.

  Ferdinand admonished himself. He was dwelling on domestic matters, on love and jealousy, when he should be giving all his thoughts to the situation in Saragossa, and the all-important task of raising funds for his father.

  * * *

  Ferdinand was welcomed at Saragossa by its most prominent citizen – Ximenes Gordo. It was Gordo who rode through the streets at the side of the heir to the crown. One would imagine, thought Ferdinand, that it was Ximenes Gordo who was their Prince, and Ferdinand his henchman.

  Some men, young as Ferdinand was, might have expressed displeasure. Ferdinand did not; he nursed his resentment. He had noticed how the poor, who gathered in the streets to watch the procession, fixed their eyes admiringly on Gordo. The man had a magnetism, a strong personality; he was like a robber baron who held the people’s respect because they both feared and admired him.

  ‘The citizens know you well,’ said Ferdinand.

  ‘Highness,’ was the bland answer, ‘they see me often. I am always with them.’

  ‘And I am often far away, of necessity,’ said Ferdinand.

  ‘They rarely have the pleasure and honour of seeing their Prince. They must content themselves with his humble servant who does his best to see that justice is administered in the absence of his King and Prince.’

  ‘It would not appear that the administration is very successful,’ Ferdinand commented dryly.

  ‘Why, Highness, these are lawless times.’

  Ferdinand glanced at the debauched and crafty face of the man who rode beside him; but still he did not betray the anger and disgust he felt.

  ‘I come on an urgent errand from my father,’ he announced.

  Gordo waited for Ferdinand to proceed – in a manner which seemed to the young Prince both royal and condescending. It was as though Gordo were implying: You may be the heir to Aragon, but during your absence I have become the King of Saragossa. Still Ferdinand restrained his anger, and continued: ‘Your King needs men, arms and money – urgently.’

  Gordo put his head on one side in an insolent way. ‘The people of Saragossa will not tolerate further taxation, I fear.’

  Ferdinand’s voice was silky. ‘Will not the people of Saragossa obey the command of their King?’

  ‘There was recently a revolt in Catalonia, Highness. There might be a revolt in Saragossa.’

  ‘Here . . . in the heart of Aragon! The Aragonese are not Catalans. They would be loyal to their King. I know
it.’

  ‘Your Highness has been long absent.’

  Ferdinand gazed at the people in the streets. Had they changed? he wondered. What happened when men such as Ximenes Gordo took charge and ruled a city? There had been too many wars, and how could kings govern their kingdoms wisely and well when they must spend so much time away from them in order to be sure of keeping them? Thus it was that scoundrels seized power, setting up their evil control over neglected cities.

  ‘You must tell me what has been happening during my absence,’ said Ferdinand.

  ‘It shall be my pleasure, Highness.’

  * * *

  Ferdinand had been several days in the Palace of Saragossa, yet he had made no progress with his task. At every turn, it seemed, there were Ximenes Gordo and his friends to obstruct him.

  They ruled the town, for Gordo had placed all his adherents in the important posts. All citizens who were possessed of wealth were being continually robbed by him; his power was immense, because wherever he went he was cheered by the great army of beggars. They had nothing to lose, and it delighted them to see the industrious townsfolk robbed of their possessions.

  Ferdinand listened to all that his spies told him. He was astounded at the influence Gordo exercised in the town. He had heard of his growing power, but he had not believed it could be so great.

  Gordo was not perturbed by the visit of the heir to the throne, so convinced was he of his own strength, and he believed that, if it came to a battle between them, he would win. His friends, who profited from his unscrupulous ways, would certainly not want a return to strict laws and justice. He had only to call to the rabble and the beggars to come to his aid and he would have a fierce mob to serve him.

  Ferdinand said: “There is only one course open to me; I must arrest that man. I must show him and the citizens who is master here. Until he is imprisoned I cannot begin to raise the money my father needs, and there is no time for delay.’

  ‘Highness,’ he was told by his advisers, ‘if you arrest Gordo, the Palace will be stormed by the mob. Your own life might be in danger. The scum of Saragossa and his rascally friends stand behind him. We are powerless.’

  Ferdinand was silent; he dismissed his advisers, but his thoughts were not idle.

  * * *

  Gordo was with his family when the message arrived from the Prince.

  He read it and cried: ‘Our haughty little Prince has changed his tune. He implores me to visit him at the Palace. He wishes to talk with me on an urgent matter. He has something to say to me which he wishes to say to no other.’

  Gordo threw back his head and laughed aloud.

  ‘So he has come to heel, our little Ferdinand, eh! And so it should be. This young bantam! A boy! What more? They say that in Castile he is the one who wears the skirt. Well, as Dona Isabella can keep him in order in Castile, so can Ximenes Gordo in Saragossa.’

  He waved a gay farewell to his wife and children, called for his horse and rode off to the Palace.

  The people in the streets called to him: ‘Good fortune, Don Ximenes Gordo! Long life to you!’

  And he answered these greetings with a gracious inclination of the head. After all, he was King of Saragossa in all but name.

  Arriving at the Palace he flung his reins to a waiting groom. The groom was one of the Palace servants, but he bowed low to Don Ximenes Gordo.

  Gordo was flushed with pride as he entered the building. He should be the one who was living here. And why should he not do so?

  Why should he not say to young Ferdinand: ‘I have decided to take up my residence here. You have a home in Castile, my Prince; why do you not go to it? Dona Isabella, Queen of Castile, will be happy to welcome her Consort. Why, my Prince, it may well be that there is a happier welcome awaiting you there in Castile than you find even here in Aragon.’

  And what pleasure to see the young bantam flinch, to know that he realised the truth of those words!

  The servants bowed to him – he imagined they did so with the utmost obsequiousness. Oh, there was no doubt that Ferdinand was beaten, and realised who was the master.

  Ferdinand was waiting for him in the presence chamber. He looked less humble than he had expected, but Gordo reminded himself that the young man was arrogant by nature and found it difficult to assume a humble mien. He must be taught. Gordo relished the thought of watching Ferdinand ride disconsolately out of Saragossa, defeated.

  Gordo bowed, and Ferdinand said in a mild and, so it seemed, placating voice: ‘It was good of you to come so promptly at my request.’

  ‘I came because I have something to say to Your Highness.’

  ‘First,’ said Ferdinand, still mildly, ‘I shall beg you to listen to me.’

  Gordo appeared to consider this, but Ferdinand had taken his arm, in a most familiar manner, as though, thought Gordo, he accepted him as an equal. ‘Come,’ said Ferdinand, ‘it is more private in my ante-chamber, and we shall need privacy.’

  Ferdinand had opened a door and gently pushed Gordo before him into a room. The door had closed behind them before Gordo realised that they were not alone.

  As he looked round that room Gordo’s face turned pale; in those first seconds he could not believe that his eyes did not deceive him. The room had been converted into a place of execution. He saw the scaffolding, the rope and a masked man whom he knew to be the public hangman. Beside him stood a priest, and several guards were stationed about the room.

  Ferdinand’s manner had changed. His eyes glittered as he addressed Gordo in stern tones. ‘Don Ximenes Gordo, you have not long to make your peace, and you have many sins on your conscience.’

  Gordo, the bully, had suddenly lost all his swaggering arrogance.

  ‘This cannot be . . .’ he cried.

  ‘It is to be,’ Ferdinand told him.

  ‘That rope is for . . . for . . .’

  ‘You have guessed right. It is for you.’

  ‘But to condemn me thus . . . without trial! Is this justice?’

  ‘It is my justice,’ said Ferdinand coolly. ‘And in my father’s absence I rule Aragon.’

  ‘I demand a trial.’

  ‘You would be better advised to concern yourself with the salvation of your soul. Your time is short.’

  ‘I will not submit . . .’

  Ferdinand signed to the guards, two of whom came forward to seize Gordo.

  ‘I beg of you . . . have mercy,’ he implored.

  ‘Pleasant as it is to hear you beg,’ said Ferdinand, ‘there will be no mercy for you. You are to die, and that without delay. This is the reward for your crimes.’ Ferdinand signed to the priest. ‘He has urgent need of you and the time is passing.’

  ‘There have been occasions,’ said Gordo, ‘when I have served your father well.’

  ‘That was before you became puffed up by your arrogance,’ answered Ferdinand, ‘but it shall not be forgotten. Your wife and children shall receive my protection as reward for the service you once gave my father. Now, say your prayers or you will leave this earth with your manifold sins upon you.’

  Gordo had fallen to his knees; the priest knelt with him.

  Ferdinand watched them.

  And after an interval he signed to the hangman to do his work.

  * * *

  There was silence in the streets of Saragossa. The news was being circulated in the great houses and those haunts frequented by the rabble. There had been arrests, and those who had been seized were the more prominent of Gordo’s supporters.

  Then in the market-place the body of a man was hung that all might see what befell those who flouted the authority of the rulers of Aragon.

  Gordo! It seemed incredible. There was the man who a few days before had been so sure of his ability to rule Saragossa. And now he was nothing but a rotting corpse.

  The young Prince of Aragon rode through the streets of Saragossa; there were some who averted their eyes, but there were many to cheer him. They had been mistaken in him. They had thought him
a young boy who could not even take first place in Castile. They had been mistaken. Whatever happened in Castile, he was, in the absence of his father, master of Aragon.

  The volume of the cheers began to increase.

  ‘Don Ferdinand for Aragon!’

  Ferdinand began to believe that he would successfully complete the task which he had come to Saragossa to perform. He had been ruthless; he had ignored justice; but, he assured himself, the times were harsh and, when dealing with men such as Gordo, one could only attack with weapons similar to their own.

  So far he had succeeded; and success was all that mattered.

  The money so desperately needed was coming in, and if it was less than he and his father had hoped for that was due to the poverty of the people, not to their unwillingness to provide it.

  Soon he would rejoin his father; and on the way he would call and see his little Alonso.

  * * *

  Messengers from Castile came riding into Saragossa. They had come in great haste, fearing that they might arrive to find Ferdinand had already left.

  Ferdinand had them brought to him immediately.

  He was thoughtful as he read what his wife had written. It was all the more effective because Isabella was by nature so calm.

  She was asking him to return without delay. There was trouble about to break in Castile. An army was gathering to march against her, and many powerful nobles of Castile had gone over to the enemies’ camp.

  These men were insisting that she was not the rightful heir to the crown. It was true she was the late King Henry’s half-sister, and he had no son. But he had a daughter – whom many believed to be illegitimate, and who was even known as La Beltraneja because her father was almost certainly Beltran de la Cueva, Duke of Albuquerque.

  Those who had set themselves against Isabella now sought to place La Beltraneja on the throne of Castile.

  There was a possibility that Portugal was giving support to their enemies.

  Castile was in danger. Isabella was in danger. And at such a time she needed the military skill and experience of her husband.