‘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 alw
ays 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 . . . ev
en 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.
Spain for the Sovereigns Page 7
