by Jean Plaidy
‘I have great hopes of our sturdy Isabella,’ said the King. ‘And there is Henry. He will be a good brother to them.’
‘As he has been a good son to his father?’ demanded the Queen shrilly.
‘This is no time for recriminations, my dear. It may well be that there were faults on both sides.’
‘You . . . you are soft with him . . . soft.’
‘I am a weak man and I am on my death-bed. You know that as well as I do.’
‘You were always soft with him . . . with everybody. Even when you were well, you allowed yourself to be governed.’
The King lifted a weak hand for silence. Then he went on: ‘I believe the people are pleased. I believe they are saying “Good riddance to John II. Welcome to Henry IV. He will be a better king than his father was.” Well, my dear, they may be right in that, for they would have to search far and wide for a worse.’
John began to cough and the Queen’s eyes widened in fear. She made an effort to control herself. ‘Rest,’ she cried. ‘For the love of the saints, rest.’
She was afraid that he would die before she had made her plans. She distrusted her stepson Henry. He might seem to be good-natured, a less intellectual, a more voluptuous replica of his father, but he would allow himself to be ruled by favourites who would not easily tolerate rivals to the throne. They would impress upon him the fact that if he displeased his subjects they would rally round young Alfonso and Isabella. Therefore he would be watchful.
She trusted no one, and she was growing more and more determined that her own son should inherit the throne.
And what shall I do? the Queen asked herself; and her fist began to beat once more upon the bed. I, a weak woman, surrounded by my enemies!
Her wild gaze rested on the dying man in the bed.
He must not die until she was ready for him to do so; he must remain King of Castile until she was prepared to whisk her little son and daughter from Madrid.
They would go to a place where they could dwell in peace, where there was no danger of a morsel of poison being slipped into their food or drink, where it would be impossible for an assassin to slip into their sleeping chamber and press a pillow over their baby mouths as they slept. They should go where they might bide their time until that moment – and the Queen was sure it would come – when Henry should be ousted from the throne and little Alfonso – or Isabella – triumphantly take it, King – or Queen – of Castile.
King John lay back on his pillows watching his wife.
Poor Isabella, he thought, what will become of her – she who was already tainted with the terrible scourge of her family? There was madness in the royal house of Portugal; at the moment it had not completely taken possession of Isabella, his Queen, but now and then there were signs that it had not passed her by.
He was by no means stupid, bad King though he had been, and he wondered whether that tendency to insanity had been inherited by their children. There was no sign of it as yet. Isabella had inherited none of the hysteria of her mother; there could rarely have been a more serene child than his sedate little daughter. Little Alfonso? It was early to say as yet, but he seemed to be a normal, happy baby.
He prayed that the terrible disease of the mind had passed them by and that Isabella had not brought its taint into the royal house of Castile to the detriment of future generations.
He should never have married Isabella. Why had he? Because he was weak; because he had allowed himself to be led.
When Maria of Aragon, Henry’s mother, had died, it had naturally been necessary for John to find a new wife, and he had believed it would be an admirable gesture to ally himself with the French. He had considered marriage with a daughter of the King of France; but his dear friend and adviser, Alvaro de Luna, had thought differently. He had seen advantages to Castile, he said – and to himself, which he did not mention – through an alliance with Portugal.
Poor misguided de Luna! Little did he realise what this marriage was going to mean to him.
The dying John allowed himself to smile as he thought of de Luna in the early days of their friendship. Alvaro had first come to Court as a page – handsome, attractive, he had been a dazzling personality, a skilled diplomat, a graceful courtier, under whose spell John had immediately fallen. He asked nothing more than to stay there, and, in return for the pleasure this man’s company brought him, John had bestowed on him all the honours for which he craved. De Luna had been not only Grand Master of St James but Constable of Castile.
Oh yes, thought John, I was a bad king, for I gave myself completely to pleasure. I had no aptitude for statecraft and, because I was not a stupid man, because I had some intellectual leanings, my behaviour was the more criminal. I have not the excuse of inability to rule; I failed through indolence.
But my father, Henry III, died too young. And there was I, a minor, King of Castile. There was a Regency to rule in my stead. And how well! So well that there was every excuse why I should give myself to pleasure and not concern myself with the government of my country.
But regrettably there had come the day when John was old enough to be King in more than name. And there he had been, young, good-looking, accomplished in the arts, finding that there were so many more interesting things to do than govern a kingdom.
He had been frivolous; he had loved splendour; he had filled his Court with poets and dreamers. He was a dreamer himself. He had been touched perhaps by the Moorish influence of his surroundings. He had lived rather like a Caliph of some Arabic legend. He had sat, with his friends around him, reading poetry; he had staged colourful pageants; he had roamed about the brilliant gardens of his Madrid Alcazar with his tamed Nubian lion for companion.
The splendour of the Palace was notorious; so was the extravagance and frivolity of the King. And side by side with royal extravagance was the hardship and poverty of the people. Taxes had been imposed to provide revenue for favourites; there was misery and privation throughout the land. These were the inevitable results of his misrule and, if the country had been split by civil war and his own son Henry had taken sides against him, he blamed himself, because here on his death-bed he saw more clearly where he had failed.
And always beside him had been his beloved Alvaro de Luna, who, having begun life humbly, could not resist the opportunity to flaunt his possessions, to show his power. He had made himself rich by accepting bribes, and wherever he went he was surrounded by lackeys and trappings of such magnificence that the King’s retinue was put in the shade.
Some said that de Luna dabbled in witchcraft, and it was to this cult that he owed his power over the King. That was untrue, John told himself now. He had admired the brilliant, dashing courtier, this illegitimate son of a noble Aragonese family, because he was possessed of the strong character which John himself lacked.
John was the sort of man who seemed willingly to accept the domination of others. He had been as docile as usual when he agreed to his marriage with Isabella of Portugal.
If that marriage had brought him little peace, it had brought disaster to de Luna, for the bride was a woman of strong character in spite of her latent taint. Or was it that he himself was so weak and feared her outbursts of hysteria?
‘Who,’ she had demanded, ‘is King of Castile, you or de Luna?’
He had reasoned with her; he had explained what good friends he and the Constable had always been.
‘Of course he flatters you,’ she had retorted scornfully. ‘He coaxes you as he would a horse he was riding. But he holds the reins; he decides which way you shall go.’
It was when she was pregnant with Isabella that the real wildness had begun to show itself. It was then that he began to suspect the taint might exist in her blood. Then he had been ready to do anything to calm her in order not to have to face the terrifying fear that he might have introduced madness into the royal bloodstream of Castile.
She had fretted and worked for the disgrace of de Luna, and now he felt bitterly ashamed of the part he h
ad played; he tried to shut this out of his thoughts, but he could not do so. Some perversity in his dying self forced him to face the truth as he had never done before.
He remembered the last time he had seen de Luna; he remembered what friendship he had shown the man, so that poor Alvaro had reassured himself, had told himself that he cared nothing for the enmity of the Queen while the King was his friend.
But he did not save his friend; he loved him still, yet he had allowed him to go to his death.
That, he thought, is the kind of man I am. That action was characteristic of John of Castile. He entertained warm feelings for his friends, but he was too indolent, too much of a coward to save one whom he had loved more than any. He had been afraid of angry scenes, of being forced to face that which he dared not; and so the Queen, balanced very delicately between sanity and insanity, had achieved in a few months what his ministers had plotted for thirty years: the downfall of de Luna.
John felt tears in his eyes as he thought of de Luna’s brave walk to the scaffold. He had heard how gallantly his friend had gone to death.
And up to the moment of de Luna’s execution he, the King, who should have been the most powerful man in Castile, had promised himself that he would save his friend, had longed to quash the sentence of death and bring de Luna back to favour; but he had not done so, for he, who had once been dominated by the charm of de Luna, was now the thrall of the latent madness of his wife.
All I wanted was peace, thought the dying King. All? It was more difficult to find than anything else in turbulent Castile.
In his tapestried apartment of the Palace, Henry, heir to the throne, was waiting to hear the news of his father’s death.
The people, he knew, were eager to acclaim him. When he rode through the streets they shouted his name; they were tired of the disastrous rule of John II and they longed to welcome a new King who could bring a new way of life to Castile.
As for Henry, he was very eager to feel the crown on his head, and he was determined to keep the popularity which was his. He had no doubt that he could do this, for he was fully aware of his charm. He was good-tempered, easy-going, and he had the art of flattering the people, which never failed to delight them. He could condescend to be one of them without apparent condescension; that was the secret of the people’s love for him.
He was determined to dazzle his subjects. He would raise armies and achieve victories; he would go into battle against the Moors, who for centuries had remained in possession of a large part of Spain. The Moors were perennial enemies, and the proud Castilians could always be brought to a wild enthusiasm by talks of campaigns against them. He would give them pageants to delight their eyes, spectacles and entertainments to make them forget their miseries. His reign should be one of continual excitement and colour.
And what did Henry want? He wanted more and more pleasure – that meant new pleasures. They would not be easy to find, for he was a man of great erotic experience.
While he was waiting, his wife, Blanche, came to him. She too was expectant, for would she not be Queen of Castile when the news was brought to them? She would wish to receive the homage, to stand beside Henry and swear with him to serve the people of Castile with every means at her disposal.
He took her hand and kissed it. Always affectionate in public, even when they were alone he did not show his indifference; he was never actively unkind, for it was against his nature to be so. Now the look of affection he gave her disguised the distaste which she was beginning to rouse in him.
It was twelve years since Blanche of Aragon became his wife. At first he had been delighted to have a wife, but she was not his kind; she could not share his pleasures as his many mistresses could; and since the union had proved fruitless he had no further use for her.
He needed a child – never more than at this time – and he had recently been considering what action he might take to remedy matters.
He had been a voluptuary from boyhood, when there had always been pages, attendants, and teachers to encourage a very willing pupil; and the exploitation of the senses had appealed to him so much more than book-learning.
His father had been an intellectual man who had filled the Court with literary figures, but Henry had nothing in common with men such as Iñigo Lopez de Mendoza, Marquis of Santillana, the great literary figure, nor for the poet John de Mena.
What had such men done for his father? Henry asked himself. There had been anarchy in the Kingdom and unpopularity for the King – civil war, with a large proportion of the King’s subjects fighting against him. If he had pursued pleasure as indefatigably as his son he could not have been more unpopular.
Henry was determined to go his own way and now, looking at Blanche, he was making up his mind that since she could not please him she must go.
She said in her gentle way: ‘So, Henry, the King is dying.’
‘It is so.’
‘Then very soon . . .’
‘Yes, I shall be King of Castile. The people can scarcely wait to call me King. If you look out of the window you will see that they are already gathering about the Palace.’
‘It is so sad,’ she said.
‘Sad that I shall soon be King of Castile?’
‘Sad, Henry, that you can only be so because of the death of your father.’
‘My dear wife, death must come to us all. We must take our bow at the end of the performance and move on, so that the next player may strut across the stage.’
‘I know it, and that is why I am sad.’
He came to her and laid an arm about her shoulders. ‘My poor, sweet Blanche,’ he said, ‘you are too sensitive.’
She caught his hand and kissed it. Temporarily, he deceived even her with his gentle manners. Later she might wonder what was going on in his mind as he caressed her. He was capable of telling her that she was the only woman he really loved at the very moment when he was planning to rid himself of her.
Twelve years of life with Henry had taught her a great deal about him. He was as shallow as he was charming, and she would be a fool to feel complacent merely because he implied that she still held a high place in his affections. She was aware of the life he led. He had had so many mistresses that he could not have been sure how many. He might, even at a moment when he was suggesting that he was a faithful husband, be considering the pursuit and seduction of another.
Lately she had grown fearful. She was meek and gentle by nature, but she was not a fool. She was terrified that he would divorce her because she had failed to bear a child, and that she would be forced to return to her father’s Court of Aragon.
‘Henry,’ she said on impulse, ‘when you are indeed King it will be very necessary that we have a son.’
‘Yes,’ he replied with a rueful smile.
‘We have been so unfortunate. Perhaps . . .’ She hesitated. She could not say: Perhaps if you spent less time with your mistresses we might be successful. She had begun to wonder whether it was possible for Henry to beget a child. Some said that this could be a result of a life of debauchery. She could only vaguely visualise what went on during those orgies in which her husband indulged. Was it possible that the life he had led had rendered him sterile?
She glanced at him; did she imagine this or had his gaze become a little furtive? Had he really begun to make plans to rid himself of her?
So she was afraid. She realised that she was often afraid. She dared not state frankly what was in her mind.
Instead she said: ‘There is trouble at my father’s Court.’
He nodded and made a little grimace. ‘It would seem that there must be trouble when a King has children by two wives. We have an example here at home.’
‘None could prevent your taking the crown, Henry.’
‘My stepmother will do her utmost, never fear. She is already making plans for her little Alfonso and Isabella. It is a dangerous thing when a King’s wife dies and he takes another . . . that is, when there are children of both first and second uni
ons.’
‘I think, Henry, that my stepmother is even more ambitious than yours.’
‘She could scarcely be that; but let us say that she has as high hopes for her little Ferdinand as mine has for Alfonso and Isabella.’
‘I have news from home that she dotes on the child, and that she has influenced my father to do the same. Already I hear that he loves the infant Ferdinand more than Carlos, myself and Eleanor combined.’
‘She is a strong woman and your father is her slave. But never fear, Carlos is of an age to guard that which is his – as I am.’
Blanche shivered. ‘Henry, I am so glad I am not there . . . at my father’s Court.’
‘Do you never feel homesick?’
‘Castile became my home when we were married. I have no other home than this.’
‘My dear,’ he said lightly, ‘it makes me happy that you should feel thus.’
But he was not looking at her. He was not a man who cared to inflict cruelty; indeed he would go to great lengths to avoid anything which was unpleasant. That was why he found it difficult to face her now.
She was trembling in spite of her endeavours to appear calm. What would happen to her if she were sent back to her father’s Court, she wondered. She would be disgraced, humiliated – a repudiated wife. Carlos would be kind to her, for Carlos was the kindest of men. Eleanor would not be there, for her marriage with Gaston de Foix had taken her to France. Her father would not be her friend, for his affection was all for the brilliant and attractive Joan Henriquez who had given him young Ferdinand.
Carlos had inherited the Kingdom of Navarre from his mother; and, should Carlos die without heirs, Navarre would fall to Blanche herself as her mother, who had been the widow of Martin, King of Sicily, and daughter of Charles III of Navarre, had left Navarre to her children, excluding her husband from its possession.
She had, however, stated in her will that Carlos should, in governing the Kingdom, seek the good will and approbation of his father.
