‘You speak truth,’ said Ferdinand, and his voice was gruff with emotion.
‘And together we shall be invincible,’ she went on.
Then solemnly they embraced. Isabella was the first to withdraw.
‘And now,’ she said, ‘to business. We shall ignore these demands; but we must decide how we, with the few resources at our disposal, can defeat the might of Portugal.’
* * *
In spite of the ceremonial robes in which her women had dressed her, Joanna looked what she was, a child of barely thirteen.
There was an expression of mingled resignation and despair on her face. She was to be affianced to a man who was thirty years older than herself, and the prospect terrified her. But this was even more than a distasteful marriage; it was a prelude to war.
Her women had chattered as they prepared her for this important ceremony.
‘Why, Alfonso is the bravest of kings. They say he is called the African because of his exploits against the Moors of Barbary. He is a great soldier.’
‘He must be quite an old man,’ said Joanna.
‘No, Princess, it is you who are so young. You will not think of his age. He is the King of Portugal and he comes here to make you his Queen.’
‘And to make himself King of Castile.’
‘Well, only because he will make you Queen.’
‘I do not wish . . .’
But what was the use of stating her wishes? Joanna had lived through so many conflicts that she had long realised the futility of words.
Her friends were imploring her to enjoy her prospects. A king was coming to claim her hand. She should be joyful, they told her; because they did not understand.
And when she was robed and made ready she was taken to meet the man who had come to this town of Placencia for the purpose of the betrothal, and to take Castile from Isabella and Ferdinand and bestow it upon herself.
All about the Palace were encamped the armies of her future husband, so that she could not be unaware of his might.
And when she stood before him and lifted her eyes to his eager ones, she saw a man in his forties; and that seemed to her very old. She was trembling, but she smiled and greeted him as though with pleasure. All the time she was aware of those two men who had determined to set her on the throne – the Duke of Arevalo and the Marquis of Villena.
Alfonso took her hand and led her to two ornate chairs which had been set side by side. As they took their seats he said: ‘My dear Princess, you must not be afraid of me.’
‘I am so young for marriage,’ Joanna answered.
‘Youth is a blessing, compared with which the experience which comes with age is but a small compensation. Do not deplore your youth, my dear one, for I do not.’
‘Thank you, Highness,’ she whispered.
‘You look uneasy. Do you so fear me?’
‘We are very closely related. You are my mother’s brother.’
‘Have no fear, my dear. A messenger is being dispatched to the Pope. He will send us a dispensation without delay.’
She could not endure his inquiring tender gaze, and she feigned relief.
Alfonso felt happy. He was a man who must for ever pursue some cause, and he preferred it to be a romantic one. He had had great success against the Moors, but fighting the Moors was a commonplace occupation in the Iberian Peninsula. Now here was a young girl – his own niece – in need of a champion. To some she was the rightful heiress to the throne; to others the late Queen’s bastard. Her cause appealed to him because she was young and he, a widower, could make her his bride. This was the most romantic cause in which he had ever fought, and it delighted him – particularly as victory could bring such benefit to him.
He was not a man to bear a grudge, but he could not forget his meeting with the proud Isabella, who had shown so openly her distaste for marriage with him – King though he was.
It was not unpleasant therefore to contemplate the discomfiture of the haughty Isabella when she found herself ousted from the throne by the man whom once she had so recklessly refused.
He was smiling as he took Joanna’s hand, and those assembled, led by Villena and Arevalo, proceeded to declare Alfonso and Joanna Sovereigns of Castile.
* * *
As soon as the dispensation from the Pope arrived they would be married. Joanna prayed that the dispensation might be delayed.
In the meantime, the betrothal was celebrated, and on this and all occasions she must sit side by side with Alfonso and accept his tender attentions.
After some days Alfonso and his army, Joanna travelling with them, left Placencia for Arevalo.
Being aware of the sad state of the Castilian armies and that Isabella and Ferdinand had inherited a bankrupt state, Alfonso anticipated a victory which would be easy to complete.
At Arevalo he paused in his journey, and it seemed as though he halted there to prepare himself for the attack.
* * *
Isabella and Ferdinand were together when news was brought to them of Alfonso’s arrival at Placencia and of his betrothal to Joanna.
Ferdinand received the news gloomily. ‘This means he is prepared to risk his armies in her cause,’ he said.
‘She is his niece,’ cried Isabella, ‘and but a child.’
‘What cares he for either fact! He thinks she will bring him Castile and, if he is successful, depend upon it the Pope will not long deny him the dispensation he needs.’
‘If he is successful. He shall not be successful! I promise you that.’
‘Isabella, what do you know of war? And how can we prevent him?’
‘I know,’ she said, her eyes flashing, ‘that I was born to be Queen of Castile.’
‘Well, you have had your brief glory.’
‘I have done nothing of what I intend to do. I know I shall succeed.’
Ferdinand took her gently by the arm and led her to a table on which a map was spread.
He pointed to South Castile. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘the friends of Alfonso are waiting. They are numerous and they have men and arms at their disposal. Arevalo, Villena, Cadiz . . . they are his men. They will give all they have to drive us from the throne and set up Joanna and Alfonso. He has only to turn south tomorrow and there traitors will be ready for him. Town after town will freely give itself into his hands. And we . . . we shall find ourselves unable to attack, for on his march through Castile he will grow richer and richer as important towns pass into his possession.’
Ferdinand,’ Isabella reproved him, ‘I do not understand you. Have we not our friends?’
‘There are waverers.’
‘Then they shall cease to be waverers.’
‘They will cease to be when they see the might of Alfonso’s army!’
‘They must be converted to our cause.’
‘But who shall convert them?’
‘I shall. I . . . their Queen.’
Ferdinand looked at her with mild surprise; there were times when he felt that even now he did not know Isabella. She seemed so dedicated to her cause, so certain of her ability to fight and win in this unequal struggle, that Ferdinand believed her.
It was at times like this that he forgave her for insisting on her supremacy, when he was glad that he had not returned to Aragon in a fit of pique because she had been determined to be supreme in Castile.
‘You forget, Isabella,’ he said gently, ‘you are in no fit state to conduct a campaign. You have our unborn son to think of.’
‘It is because of our unborn son that I must be doubly sure that none shall rob me of the throne,’ she told him.
* * *
Isabella had lived through many hazards, but she felt that never had she faced danger so great as that which threatened during the months that followed. The days were full and she worked far into the night. She spent a great deal of time at prayer, for she was sure that she had previously been granted Divine protection and that it would be afforded her again.
Yet, even while she pray
ed, she never forgot that if she were to win heavenly aid she must neglect nothing of which her human strength was capable.
She would sit during the night receiving from and sending messages to the pitiably few troops she possessed. That was not all. She had decided that she herself must visit those towns which, she feared, were waiting to see which was the stronger party before bestowing their allegiance.
She set out on a tour of these towns. Riding was difficult; the roads were rough and the hours she was forced to spend in the saddle were very irksome, as with each passing week her pregnancy became more apparent.
It was impossible for the townsfolk to see Isabella and listen to her without being deeply affected. Isabella was inspired; she believed in her destiny; she knew she could not fail, and she conveyed this certainty to many of those whom she had come to rally to her standard.
Ferdinand was with her army endeavouring to prepare it for the attack, which, for some strange reason, Alfonso was hesitating to make. Each day both Ferdinand and Isabella expected to hear that Alfonso was on the march; they dreaded to hear that news.
‘Give us a few more weeks,’ prayed Isabella. ‘Then we shall not be so vulnerable.’
‘A month . . . two months of preparation,’ declared Ferdinand to his generals, ‘and, if the Queen continues to rally men to our cause as she has begun to do, I think we shall give a very good account of ourselves and soon send Alfonso marching back across the frontier. But we need those weeks . . . we need them desperately.’
So while they worked they watched anxiously for Alfonso to move; yet he remained at Arevalo awaiting, he said, the arrival of his Castilian supporters, so that when he attacked there should be one decisive battle.
‘How could such a man have scored such successes against the Moors?’ wondered Ferdinand. ‘He must be in his dotage. Castile lies open to him now – and he hesitates. If he will but hesitate a few weeks longer we have as good a chance as he has of winning this war.’
And as Isabella neared Toledo on her journey through the kingdom she thought of that old ally, Alfonso Carillo, Archbishop of Toledo, without whose support she could never have attained the throne.
She believed that if she could meet him, if she could reason with him, she would win him back to her cause; and if the Archbishop were on her side she would have secured the most important man in Spain as her ally. It was difficult to believe that a man of his intelligence could desert her out of pique, yet first he had resented Ferdinand, and then Cardinal Mendoza. She had not realised that, although he was capable of great valour and possessed political skill, he could also be capable of petty jealousy.
She called to one of her servants and said to him: ‘We are near Alcalá de Henares, and the Archbishop of Toledo is in residence there. Go to him and tell him that I propose calling at his palace, as I wish to talk with him.’ When her messenger returned from his visit to the Archbishop he came almost shamefacedly into Isabella’s presence.
‘What news?’ she asked. ‘You saw the Archbishop?’
‘Yes, Highness. I saw the Archbishop.’
‘I pray you do not hesitate,’ said Isabella gently. ‘Come, what is his answer?’
‘The Archbishop replied, Highness, that even though Your Highness wishes to see him, he does not wish to see you; and if you should enter his palace by one door he will go out by another.’
Isabella’s expression scarcely changed.
‘I see that it was a fruitless errand. But perhaps not entirely so. We have discovered an enemy where we thought to have a friend. You have my leave to retire.’
When she was alone she went to a chair and sat down heavily. She felt sick through her pregnancy and with fear for the future. Had the Archbishop believed she had the slightest chance of beating Alfonso he would never have dared send her such a message. Quite clearly he believed her to be on the brink of defeat.
She felt the child move within her, and with her awareness of this other life she longed to go to her bed and stay there, to give up this weary pilgrimage through her kingdom, to trust in God and her destiny and to be able to say to herself: If I lose the Kingdom of Castile I shall then be merely Queen of Aragon, and I shall devote myself to my husband, the child we already have and the children which will surely be ours. That would be so easy; and the churlish conduct of one who had once been so firm an ally filled her with such despair that she wanted nothing so much as the peace of her own apartments.
But there were dispatches to be sent off to Ferdinand, telling him of her progress; there were more towns to be visited.
There was one important factor. Others would know of the rebuff she had received from the Archbishop; she must wear an even bolder face; she must be even more certain of success.
She ignored the stirring life within her, the great desire for rest.
Never for one moment must she forget her destiny, nor the fact that only if she were worthy to wear the crown of Castile could she hope for Divine favour.
* * *
Isabella was reading a dispatch from Ferdinand.
‘The position has changed for the better, thanks to your efforts. I now have at my disposal four thousand men-at-arms, eight thousand light horse and thirty thousand foot. We lack equipment, and many of these men know little of soldiering, but my confidence grows daily. And should Alfonso attack us now he will find he has missed the great chance which was his two months ago.’
Isabella looked up and smiled.
They had worked a miracle. They had found men ready to fight for them; and if these men were as yet inexperienced that would be remedied. She had Ferdinand as the commander of her army, and Ferdinand was experienced in war; he was young and Alfonso was old. Ferdinand would win.
Isabella’s smile became tender.
Her great friend, Beatriz de Bobadilla, wife of Andres de Cabrera, believed that she idealised Ferdinand, that she saw him as a god among men.
It was not entirely true nowadays. The years of marriage had changed that. Yet when he had first come to Castile she had thought him wonderful. She loved him no less; but she was aware of the vanity, the arrogance, the signs of cupidity which were all part of Ferdinand’s character. She did not forget the sulkiness he had displayed when he had realised that, for all her love, she was not prepared to give him control of Castilian affairs. Yet these faults made her the more tender, even as did those of her young daughter Isabella. And if Ferdinand at times had the faults of a boy, he had also the attributes of a man. She trusted his generalship; she knew she could rely on him to fight her cause – perhaps because it was also his own – more than she could rely on any other man in the kingdom. But the disaffection of the Archbishop of Toledo had made her realise how unwise she would be to put complete trust in anyone.
She rose from her table, and as she did so her body was racked with a pain so violent that she could not repress a cry.
One of her women who had been in the apartment came hurrying to her side.
‘Highness . . .’ The woman gasped at the pallor of Isabella’s face, and caught her in her arms, for she believed the Queen was on the point of fainting. She called to others, and in a few seconds Isabella was surrounded by her women.
She put out a hand to steady herself against the table. She knew the violent pain was coming again.
‘Help me . . .’ she murmured. ‘Help me to my bed. I fear my time has come . . . and it is so soon . . . too soon.’
* * *
So it was over.
There would be no child. Isabella felt limp and defeated. Should she have considered the child? If she had done so there would not be that army under Ferdinand’s generalship; Castile would lie open to the invader.
And because it had been necessary to rally men to her cause – and only she, the Queen, could do it – she had lost her child, the son she and Ferdinand were to have made the heir to Castile and Aragon.
She felt bitter.
It was time they had more children; but what chance had they of bein
g parents while they lived this troubled life.
She lay thinking of the journeyings over rough roads, the jolting, the uncomfortable nights often spent in humble beds in roadside inns.
And so . . . she had lost her child. But in doing so she had formed an army.
She smiled briefly.
There would be other children. Once this weary matter of La Beltraneja’s right to the throne was settled, she and Ferdinand would be together always; they would have many children.
She dozed a little, and when her women came to see how she fared she was smiling peacefully. She murmured a little in her sleep, and when one of the women stooped to hear what she said she heard not the lament for the lost child but the words: ‘Eight thousand light horse.’
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.
Spain for the Sovereigns Page 5
