Castile for Isabella

by Виктория Холт

  ‘She should send for him,’ said Mencia. ‘He would surely come.’

  ‘You forget that at Toros de Guisando she promised that she would not marry without the consent of the King, as he in turn promised that she should not be forced into marriage against her will. Do you not see that it could quite well be that Isabella will never marry at all, for such conditions, it seems, could produce a deadlock. It is for this reason that she does not communicate with Aragon. Isabella would keep her promise. But I wonder what has happened, and what paper this is.’

  The page returned and handed it to Beatriz.

  She read it quickly and said to Mencia: ‘This is the work of her enemies. They declare that the proceedings at Toros de Guisando were not valid, that the Princess Joanna has not been proved illegitimate and is therefore heiress to the throne. They do not accept Isabella.’

  Beatriz screwed up the paper in her hands.

  She murmured: ‘I see stormy days ahead for Isabella... and Ferdinand.’

  * * *

  It was an angry Marquis of Villena who rode to Ocaña to visit Isabella.

  He was determined to show her that she must obey the King’s wishes – which were his own – and that she had offended deeply by her refusal of the King of Portugal.

  She had received the Archbishop of Lisbon in her castle at Ocaña and, when he had put forward the proposals of his master, she had told him quite firmly that she had no intention of marrying the King of Portugal. The Archbishop of Lisbon had retired to his lodgings in Ocaña in great pique, declaring that this was a direct insult to his master.

  It was for this reason that Villena came to Isabella.

  She received him with dignity, yet she did not seek to hide the fact that she considered it impertinent of Henry, who at the meeting at Toros de Guisando had agreed that she should not be forced to marry without her consent, to send Villena to her thus.

  ‘Princesa,’ said Villena when he was shown into her presence. His manner was almost curt, which was doubtless his way of telling her that he did not consider her to be heiress to the throne. ‘The King wishes you to know that he deeply deplores your attitude towards Alfonso, King of Portugal’

  ‘I do not understand why he should,’ said Isabella. ‘I have explained with courtesy that I decline his suit. I could do no more nor less than that.’

  ‘You decline his suit! On what grounds?’

  ‘That the marriage would not be one of my choosing.’

  ‘It is the wish of the King that you should marry the King of Portugal.’

  ‘I am sorry that I cannot fall in with the King’s wishes in this respect.’

  ‘It is the King’s command that you marry the King of Portugal.’

  ‘The King cannot so command me and expect me to obey. Has he forgotten our agreement at Toros de Guisando?’

  ‘Your agreement at Toros de Guisando! That, my dear Princesa, is not taken very seriously in Castile.’

  ‘I take it seriously.’

  ‘That will avail you little, if no one else does. The King insists that you marry the King of Portugal.’

  ‘And I refuse.’

  ‘I am sorry, Infanta, but if you do not agree I may be forced to make you my prisoner. The King would have you remain in the royal fortress at Madrid until you obey his command.’

  Isabella’s heart beat fast with alarm. They would make her a prisoner. She knew what could happen to prisoners whom they wanted out of the way. She looked calmly at Villena, but her outward appearance belied the fear within her.

  She said: ‘You must give me a little time to consider this.’

  ‘I will leave you and return tomorrow,’ said Villena. ‘But then you must tell me that you consent to this marriage. If not...’ He lifted his shoulders. ‘It would grieve me to make you my prisoner, but I am the King’s servant and I must obey his commands.’

  With that he bowed and left her.

  When he had gone she sent for Beatriz and told her all that had taken place.

  ‘You see,’ she said, ‘they are determined to be rid of me. And they will be rid of me in one way or another. I have been offered a choice. I may go to Portugal as the bride of Alfonso, or I must go to Madrid as the King’s prisoner. Beatriz, I have a feeling that, if I go to Madrid, one day my servants will come to me and find me as we found Alfonso.’

  ‘That shall not be!’ declared Beatriz hotly.

  ‘And the alternative... marriage with Alfonso? I swear I would prefer the Madrid prison.’

  ‘We have delayed too long,’ said Beatriz.

  ‘Yes,’ said Isabella, and her eyes began to sparkle, ‘we have delayed too long.’

  ‘The King,’ went on Beatriz, ‘no longer carries out the vows he made at Toros de Guisando.’

  ‘So why should I?’ demanded Isabella.

  ‘Why indeed! A messenger could be sent into Aragon. It is time you were betrothed. I will go to the Archbishop of Toledo and Ferdinand’s grandfather, Don Frederick Henriquez, and tell them you wish to see them urgently.’

  ‘That is right,’ said Isabella. ‘I will send an embassy into Aragon.’

  ‘This is no time,’ Beatriz declared, ‘for feminine modesty. This is a marriage of great importance to the state. Ferdinand’s father has asked for your hand, has he not?’

  ‘Yes, he has, and I shall send my embassy to tell him that I am now ready for marriage.’

  ‘It is time Ferdinand came to Castile. But, Isabella, Villena is here, and he is a determined man. It may well be that, before we have news from Ferdinand, he will have carried out his threat and you will be in that Madrid prison.’ Beatriz shuddered. ‘They will have to take me with you. I will taste everything before it touches your lips.’

  ‘Much good would that do!’ cried Isabella. ‘If they were attempting to poison me, they would poison you. What should I do without you? No. We will not fall into their hands. We will stay out of their Madrid prison. And I think I know how.’

  ‘Then pray tell me, Highness, for I am in dreadful suspense.’

  ‘Villena would have to take me out of Ocaña, and the people of Ocaña love me... not the King. If we let it be known that I am threatened, they would rally to me and make it impossible for Villena to take me away.’

  ‘That is the answer,’ Beatriz agreed. ‘You may leave this to me. I shall see that it is known throughout the town that Villena is here to force you into a marriage which is distasteful to you, and that you have sworn to take as husband none other than handsome Ferdinand of Aragon.’

  * * *

  The streets of Ocaña were crowded. People stood outside the castle and cheered themselves hoarse.

  ‘Isabella for Castile!’ they cried. ‘Ferdinand for Isabella!’

  The children formed into bands; they made banners which they carried high. On some of these they had drawn grotesque figures to represent the middle-aged King of Portugal, and on others the young and handsome Ferdinand.

  Sly songs were sung, extolling the beauty and bravery of Ferdinand, and jeering at the decrepit and lustful old man of Portugal.

  And the purposes of these processions and their songs were: ‘We support Isabella, heiress to the crowns of Castile and Leon. And where Isabella wishes to marry, there shall she marry; and we will rise in a body against any who seek to deter her.’

  The Marquis of Villena, watching the processions from a window of his lodgings, ground his teeth in anger.

  She had foiled him... as yet, for how could he convey her through those rebellious crowds – his prisoner? They would tear him to pieces rather than allow him to do so.

  * * *

  The Archbishop of Toledo and Don Frederick Henriquez were with Isabella.

  The Archbishop had declared himself to be completely in favour of the Aragonese match.

  For, as he explained, this would be the means of uniting Castile and Aragon, and unity was needed throughout Spain. Isabella’s dream of an all-Catholic Spain had become the Archbishop’s dream. He brought all hi
s fire and fanaticism and laid them at her feet.

  ‘The embassy,’ he said, ‘must be despatched into Aragon with all speed. Depend upon it, our enemies are growing restive. They will do all in their power to further the Portuguese match; and that, Highness, would be disastrous, as would any marriage which necessitated your leaving Castile.’

  ‘I am in entire agreement with you,’ said Isabella.

  ‘Then,’ cried Don Frederick Henriquez, ‘why do we hesitate? Let the embassy set out at once, and I’ll warrant that, in a very short time, my grandson will be riding into Castile to claim his bride.’

  Thus it was that when Villena and the Portuguese envoys rode disconsolately out of Ocaña, Isabella’s embassy was riding with all speed to Aragon – and Ferdinand.

  CHAPTER XII

  FERDINAND IN CASTILE

  A great sorrow had descended on the King of Aragon. His beloved wife was dying and he could not help but be aware of this.

  Nor was Joan Henriquez ignorant of the fact. She had for several years fought against the internal disease which she knew to be a fatal one, and only her rare and intrepid spirit had kept her alive so long.

  But there came a time when she could not ignore the warnings that she had but a few hours to live.

  The King sat at her bedside, her hand in his. Ferdinand sat with them, and it was when the Queen’s eyes fell on her son that mingling emotions moved across her face.

  There he was, her Ferdinand, this handsome boy of sixteen, with his fair hair and strong features, in her eyes as beautiful as a god. For him she had become the woman she was, and even on her death-bed she could regret nothing.

  She, the strong woman, was responsible for the existing state of affairs in Aragon. She had taken her place by the side of her son and husband in the fight to quell rebellion. She was wise enough to know that they were fortunate because Aragon was still theirs. She had risked a great deal for Ferdinand.

  The Catalans would never forget what they called the murder of Carlos. They had refused to admit any member of the Aragonese Cortes into Barcelona; they had elected, in place of John of Aragon, Rene le Bon of Anjou to rule over them, in spite of the fact that he was an ageing man and could not fight, as he would have to, to hold what they had bestowed upon him.

  But he had a son, John, Duke of Calabria and Lorraine, a bold adventurer who, with the secret help of sly Louis XI, came to do battle against the King of Aragon. King John of Aragon was no longer young. To help him there was his energetic wife and his brave son Ferdinand; but there were times when John felt that the ghost of his murdered son, Carlos, stood between him and final victory.

  For some years John’s eyesight had been failing him, and he lived in daily terror of going completely blind.

  Now, beside his wife’s bed, he could say to himself: ‘She will be taken from me, even as my eyesight. But the loss of her will mean more than the loss of my sight.’

  Was ever a man so broken? And he believed he knew why good fortune had forsaken him. The ghost of Carlos knew the answer too.

  And so he sat by his wife’s bed. He could not see her clearly, yet he remembered every detail of that well-loved face. He could not see the handsome boy kneeling there, yet the memory of that eager young face would never leave him.

  ‘John,’ said Joan, and her fingers tightened on his, ‘it cannot be long now.’

  For answer he pressed her hand. He knew it was useless to deny the truth.

  ‘I shall go,’ went on Joan, ‘with many sins on my conscience.’

  John kissed her hand. ‘You are the bravest and best woman who has ever lived in Aragon... or anywhere else.’

  ‘The most ambitious wife and mother,’ murmured Joan. ‘I lived for you two. All I did was for you. I remember that now. Perhaps because of that I may in some measure be forgiven.’

  ‘There will be no need of forgiveness.’

  ‘John... I sense a presence here. It is not you. It is not Ferdinand. It is another.’

  ‘There is no one here but ourselves, Mother,’ Ferdinand reassured her.

  ‘Is there not? Then my mind wanders. I thought I saw Carlos at the foot of my bed.’

  ‘It could not be, my dearest,’ whispered John, ‘for he is long since dead.’

  ‘Dead... but perhaps not resting in his tomb.’

  Ferdinand raised his eyes and looked at his dying mother, at his aged and blind father. He thought: The end of the old life is near. She is going, and he will not live long after her.

  It was as though Joan sensed his thoughts, as though she saw her beloved Ferdinand still but a boy. He was sixteen. It was not old enough to wage a war against Lorraine, against sly Louis. John must not die. If she had committed crimes – which she would commit again for Ferdinand – they must not have been committed in vain.

  ‘John,’ she said, ‘are you there, John?’

  ‘Yes, my dearest.’

  ‘Your eyes, John. Your eyes... You cannot see, can you?’

  ‘Each day they grow more dim.’

  ‘There is a Hebrew doctor in Lerida. I have heard he can perform miracles. He has, it is said, restored sight to blind men. He must do that for you, John.’

  ‘My eyes are too far gone for that, my love. Do not think of me. Are you comfortable? Is there anything we can do to make you happier?’

  ‘You must allow this man to perform the operation, John. It is necessary. Ferdinand...’

  ‘I am here, my mother.’

  ‘Ah, Ferdinand, my son, my own son. I was speaking to your father. I would not forget that, though you be brave as a lion, you are young yet. You must be there, John, until he is a little older. You must not be blind. You must see this Jew. Promise me.’

  ‘I promise, my dearest.’

  She seemed contented now. She lay back on her pillows.

  ‘Ferdinand,’ she whispered, ‘you will be King of Aragon. It is what I always intended for you, my darling.’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘You will be a great King, Ferdinand. You will always remember what obstacles were in the way of your greatness and how I and your father removed them... one by one.’

  ‘I will remember, Mother.’

  ‘Oh Ferdinand, my son... Oh, John my husband, we are not alone, are we?’

  ‘Yes, Mother, we are alone.’

  ‘Only the three of us here together, my love,’ whispered John.

  ‘You are wrong,’ said Joan; ‘there is another. There is a presence here. Can you not see him? No, you cannot. It is because of your eyes. You must see that Jew, husband. You have promised. It is a sacred promise given on my death-bed. Ferdinand, you cannot see either for you are too young to see. But there is another here. He stares at me from the end of the bed. It is my stepson, Carlos. He comes to remind me. He is here that I may not forget my sins.’

  ‘She rambles,’ said Ferdinand. ‘Father, should I call the priests?’

  ‘Yes, my son, call the priests. There is little time left, I fear.’

  ‘Ferdinand, you are leaving me.’

  ‘I will be back soon, Mother.’

  ‘Ferdinand, come close to me. Ferdinand, my son, my life, never forget me. I loved you, Ferdinand, as few are loved. Oh my son, how dear you have cost your mother.’

  ‘It is time to call the priests,’ said the King. ‘Ferdinand, delay no longer. There is so little time left. There is only time for repentance and departure.’

  So Ferdinand left the King and Queen of Aragon together, and the King bent over the bed and kissed the dying lips of the woman for love of whom he had murdered his first-born son.

  * * *

  King John of Aragon lay on his couch while the Jew performed the operation on his eye. The Jew had been reluctant. He was ready enough to try his skill on men of lesser rank, but he feared what would be his fate if an operation on the King should fail.

  John lay still, scarcely feeling the pain, indeed being almost glad of it.

  He had lost his wife and he no longer cared to
live. For so long Joan had been everything to him. He saw her as the perfect wife, so handsome, so brave, so determined. He would not face the fact that it was due to her ambition for her own son that Aragon had suffered a long and bloody civil war. He had loved her with all the devotion of which he was capable; and now that she was gone, he could only find pleasure in carrying out her wishes.

  That was why he now lay on this couch placing his life in the hands of the Hebrew doctor. If it were possible to save his eyes, this man would do it, he knew. There were no doctors in Spain to compare with the Jewish doctors, who had advanced far beyond the Spaniards in medical skill; and this man would know that his fortune would be made if he saved the eyes of the King.

  And when I have the sight of one eye, thought John, I shall dedicate myself, as she would have wished, to making secure Ferdinand’s succession to the throne of Aragon.

  * * *

  The operation was successful, and John had recovered the sight of one eye. He sent for the doctor and said: ‘Now you must perform the same operation on the other eye.’

  The man was afraid. He had done it once, but could he repeat it? Such operations were by no means always successful.

  ‘Highness,’ he said, ‘I could not attempt to work on your second eye. The stars are against success.’

  ‘A plague on the stars!’ cried John. ‘You will forget them and give my other eye its sight.’

  Everyone at Court trembled when they heard what was about to take place. They believed that, since the stars were against the performing of the operation, it could not succeed.

  The doctor was in great fear, but he thought it more expedient to obey the King than the stars, and the operation was performed.

  Thus John of Aragon, now almost eighty years of age, was cured of his blindness and, in obedience to the wishes of his dead wife, prepared himself to hold the crown of Aragon for Ferdinand.