Castile for Isabella

by Jean Plaidy

  ‘Oh my dear brother!’ she cried. And later she said: ‘And what will now become of me?’

  She remembered, when the first shock of her loss had diminished, that Carlos’ death left her the heiress of Navarre, and she knew that greedy hands would be waiting to snatch what was hers.

  Her sister, Eleanor de Foix, would be eager to step into her shoes, and how could she do that except through the death of her elder sister? Carlos had been removed. Would the same fate fall upon her?

  ‘Holy Mother of God,’ she prayed, ‘let me stay here, where at least I know peace. Here in this quiet spot, where I can watch over the poor people of Olit, who look to me for the little I am able to do for them, I can, if not find happiness, be at peace. Let me stay here. Preserve me from that battlefield of envy and ambition which has destroyed my brother.’

  Navarre was a dangerous possession. Joan Henriquez would want it for Ferdinand; Eleanor would want it for her son, Gaston, who had recently married a sister of Louis XI of France.

  ‘If my mother had known how much anxiety this possession would bring to me, she would have made a different will,’ she told herself.

  So Blanche continued to wait. Nor did she have to wait long.

  There arrived a letter from her father, in which he told her he had great news for her. She had been too long without a husband. Her marriage to Henry of Castile had been proved null and void; therefore she was at liberty to marry if she wished.

  And it was his desire that she should marry. Moreover, he had a brilliant prospect to lay before her. Her sister Eleanor enjoyed the favour of the King of France, and she believed that a match could be arranged between Blanche and the Duc de Berri, Louis’ own brother.

  ‘My dear daughter,’ wrote the King, ‘this is an opportunity of which we have not dared dream.’

  Blanche read and re-read the letter.

  Why is it, she asked herself, that when life has treated one badly and seems scarcely worth living, one still fought to retain it?

  She did not believe in this talk of marriage with the Duc de Berri. If Carlos had met his death by poison, why should not she, Blanche? And if she were dead, Eleanor would take Navarre. What a great gift that would be to her son; and since he was the husband of the French King’s sister, Blanche did not believe that Louis would raise any objection if such a crime were committed in his territory.

  ‘You must not go to France!’ There were warning voices within her which told her that. Her servants, who loved her, also warned her against going. So, she thought, I am not the only one who suspected the manner in which Carlos died.

  ‘Marriage is not for me,’ she wrote to her father. ‘I have no wish to go to France, even for this brilliant marriage. I intend to spend the rest of my days here in Olit, where I shall never cease to pray for the soul of my brother.’

  Perhaps the mention of her brother angered her father. How much, she wondered, was there on his conscience? He wrote in extreme irritation that she was foolish to dream of casting aside such a wonderful opportunity.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ was her reply, ‘I shall stay at Olit.’

  But she was wrong.

  Late one night there was a clattering of horses’ hoofs in the courtyard, followed by a hammering on the door.

  ‘Who goes there?’ called the guards.

  ‘Open up! Open up! We come in the name of King John of Aragon.’

  There was nothing to be done but let them in. Their leader, when he was taken to Blanche, bowed low with a deference which contained a hint of authority.

  ‘I crave your pardon, Highness, but the King’s orders are that you prepare to leave Olit at once.’

  ‘For what destination?’ she asked.

  ‘For Béarn, Madam, where your noble sister eagerly awaits you.’

  So Eleanor eagerly awaited her – yes, with a burning ambition for her son Gaston which equalled that of Joan Henriquez for the young Ferdinand!

  ‘I have decided to stay in Olit,’ she told him.

  ‘I am sorry to hear you say that,’ was the answer, ‘for the King’s orders are, Highness, that, if you will not consent to go, you must go by force.’

  ‘So,’ she cried, ‘it has come to that!’

  ‘These are the King’s orders.’

  She said: ‘Allow me to go to my women that I may make my preparations.

  ‘Holy Mother of God,’ she prayed, ‘why should there be this desire to cling to a life which is scarcely worth the living?’

  But the desire was there.

  She said to her most trusted women: ‘Prepare. We have to leave Olit. We must escape. It is imperative that we are not taken to Béarn.’

  But where could she go? she asked herself. To Castile? Henry would befriend her. He had repudiated her, but he had never been actively unkind. For all his faults she did not believe Henry would connive at murder. She would explain to him her suspicions of Carlos’ end; she would implore him to save her from a like fate.

  To Castile . . . and Henry. It was the answer.

  If she could slip out of the Palace by some secret way . . . if a horse could be ready for her . . . .

  She whispered instructions. ‘We must be swift. My father’s men are already in the Palace. Have the horses ready. I will slip out, and my head groom and one of my ladies will accompany me. Quick . . . there is not a moment to lose.’

  As she was being dressed for the ride she could hear the sound of voices outside her door, and the tramp of her father’s soldiers’ feet in her Palace.

  With madly beating heart she left the Palace by a secret door. The groom was waiting, and silently he helped her into the saddle. Her favourite woman attendant was with her.

  ‘Come,’ she cried.

  Lightly she touched her horse’s flank, but before he could spring into action, his bridle was caught in a pair of strong hands.

  ‘Our grateful thanks, Highness,’ said a triumphant voice at her side. ‘You have dressed with great speed. Now we will not delay. We will leave at once for the border.’

  And through the night they rode. It was dark, but not darker than the sense of foreboding in Blanche’s heart as she rode towards Béarn.

  A great event had burst upon the Court of Castile. That which most Castilians had begun to believe would never happen was about to come to pass.

  The Queen was pregnant.

  ‘It cannot be by the King,’ was the comment. ‘That is an impossibility.’

  ‘Then by whom?’

  There was only one answer. Joanna’s faithful lover was Beltran de la Cueva, who was also a friend of the King.

  He was clever, this brilliant and handsome young man. He knew how to entertain the King, how to be his witty and adventurous companion while at the same time he was the Queen’s devoted and passionate lover.

  There were many to laugh at the audacity of this man, some to admire it; but there were also those whom it angered and who felt themselves neglected.

  Two of these were the Marquis of Villena and his uncle, Alfonso Carillo, Archbishop of Toledo.

  ‘This,’ said Villena to his uncle, ‘is a ridiculous state of affairs. If the Queen is pregnant it is certainly not with Henry’s child. What shall we do? Allow an illegitimate child to be heir to the throne?’

  ‘We must do everything to prevent it,’ said the Archbishop righteously.

  They were both determined to bring about the fall of Beltran de la Cueva, who was gradually ousting them from the positions of authority over the King which they had held for so long.

  It was not that Beltran alone was politically ambitious, but about him, as about all favourites, there gathered the hangers-on, the seekers after power; and these, naturally enough, were in opposition to Villena and the Archbishop and desired to snatch from them the power they had held.

  ‘If this child is born and lives,’ said Villena to his uncle, ‘we shall know what to do.’

  ‘In the meantime,’ added the Archbishop, ‘we must make sure everyone bears in mind th
at the child cannot possibly be the King’s, and that without a doubt Beltran de la Cueva is its father.’

  Henry was delighted that at last, after eight years of marriage, the Queen had become pregnant.

  He knew that there were rumours, not only of his sterility, but of his impotence. It was said that it was for this reason that unnatural and lascivious orgies had to be arranged for him. Therefore the fact of Joanna’s pregnancy delighted him. It would, he hoped, quash the rumours.

  Did he believe himself to have been the cause of it? He could delude himself. He had come to depend more and more on delusions.

  So he gave balls and banquets in honour of the unborn child. He was seen in public more often with his Queen than hitherto. Of course Beltran de la Cueva was often their companion – dear friend of both King and Queen.

  When Henry raised Beltran to the rank of Count of Ledesma, the Court raised cynical eyebrows.

  ‘Are there now to be honours for obliging lovers who supply that which impotent husbands cannot?’

  Henry cared not for the whispers, and pretended not to hear them.

  As for Joanna she laughed at them, but she constantly referred to the child as hers and the King’s, and in spite of the whispers there were some who believed her.

  Now the Court was tense, waiting for the birth. A boy? A girl?

  Would the child resemble its mother or its father?

  ‘Let us hope,’ said cynical courtiers, ‘that it resembles somebody in some way which can be recognised. Mysteries that cannot be solved are so wearying.’

  Change came to Arevalo on that March day, such change as Isabella would never forget, because there came with it the end of childhood.

  Isabella had been living in a state of exultation since she had heard of the death of Carlos. It seemed to her then that her prayers had been answered; she had prayed that there should be a miracle to save her for Ferdinand, and behold, the man who was to have taken his place had been removed from this world.

  It was her mother who brought the news, as she always did bring news of the first magnitude.

  There was the wildness in her eyes once more, but Isabella was less afraid than she had been as a child. One could grow accustomed to those outbursts, which almost amounted to frenzy. On more than one occasion she had seen the physicians, holding her mother down while she laughed and cried and waved her arms frantically.

  Isabella accepted the fact that her mother could not always be relied upon to show a sane front to the world. She had heard it whispered that one day the Dowager Queen would have to retire into solitude, as other members of her family had before her.

  This was a great sadness to the girl, but she accepted it with resignation.

  It was the will of God, she told Alfonso; and both of them must accept that and never rail against it.

  It would have been comforting if she had a calm gentle mother in whom she could have confided. She could have talked to her of her love for Ferdinand – but perhaps it would have been difficult to talk to anyone of a love one felt for a person whom one had never seen.

  Yet, said Isabella, to herself, I know I am for Ferdinand and he is for me. That is why I would rather die than accept another husband.

  But how could one explain this feeling within her which was based, not on sound good sense, but on some indescribable intuition? It was, therefore, better not to talk of it.

  And in the peace of Arevalo, Isabella had gone on dreaming.

  Then came this day, and Isabella had rarely seen her mother look more wild. There was the angry light in her eyes. So Isabella knew that something alarming had happened.

  Isabella and her brother Alfonso had been summoned to their mother’s presence and, before they had time to perform the necessary curtsies and bows, the Dowager Queen exclaimed: ‘Your brother’s wife has given birth to a child.’

  Isabella had risen to her feet with astonishing speed. Her mother did not notice this breach of etiquette.

  ‘A girl . . . fortunately . . . but a child. You know what this means?’ The Queen glared at Alfonso.

  ‘Why, yes, Highness,’ said the boy in his high-pitched voice, ‘it means that she will be heir to the throne and that I must step aside.’

  ‘We shall see,’ said the Queen. ‘We shall see who is going to step aside.’

  Isabella noticed that a fleck of foam had appeared at the side of her mouth. That was a bad sign.

  ‘Highness,’ she began, ‘perhaps the child is not strong.’

  ‘I have heard nothing of that. A child there is . . . a girl brought into the world to . . . to rob us of our rights.’

  ‘But Highness,’ said Alfonso, who had not learned to keep quiet as Isabella had, ‘if she is my brother’s child she is heir to the throne of Castile.’

  ‘I know. I know.’ The Dowager Queen’s eyes flashed briefly on Isabella. ‘There is no law to prevent a woman’s taking the crown. I know that. But there are rumours about this girl. You would not understand. But let us say this: Has she a right to the throne? Has she . . . ?’

  ‘Holy Mother of God,’ prayed Isabella. ‘Calm her. Do not let the doctors have to hold her down this time.

  ‘Highness,’ she said soothingly, ‘here we have lived very happily.’

  ‘You are not going to live here happily much longer, my daughter,’ spat out the Queen. ‘In fact, you are to prepare for a journey at once.’

  ‘We are going away?’

  ‘Ah!’ cried the Queen, her voice rising on a note of hysterical laughter. ‘He does not trust us here. He thinks that Arevalo will become a hot-bed of rebellion now. And he is right. They cannot foist a bastard on Castile . . . a bastard who has no right to the crown. I doubt not that there will be many who will want to take Alfonso and put a crown upon his head. . . .’

  Alfonso looked alarmed.

  ‘Highness,’ said Isabella quickly, ‘it would not be possible while the King my brother lives.’

  The Queen surveyed her children through narrowed eyes.

  ‘Your brother commands,’ she said, ‘that I, taking you two children with me, return at once to Court.’

  Isabella’s heart was leaping within her, and she was not sure whether it was with fear or pleasure.

  She said quickly: ‘Highness, give us your leave to retire and we will begin preparations. We have been here so long that there will be much for us to do.’

  The Queen looked at her eleven-year-old daughter and nodded slowly.

  ‘You may go,’ she said.

  Isabella seized her brother’s hand and, forcing him to bow, almost dragged him from the apartment.

  As she did so she heard her mother’s muttering; she heard the laughter break out.

  This, thought Isabella, is really the end of my childhood. At Court I shall quickly become a woman.

  How would she fare at that most scandalous Court – she who had been so carefully nurtured here at Arevalo? She was a little alarmed, remembering the rumours she had heard.

  Yet she was conscious of an intense elation, for she believed that she must now grow up quickly; and growing up meant marriage . . . with Ferdinand.

  LA BELTRANEJA

  The March sunshine shone through the windows of the Chapel in the Palace of Madrid on to the brilliant vestments of those taking part in the most colourful ceremony Isabella had ever witnessed. She was awed by the chanting voices, by the presence of glittering and important men and women.

  She was not unconscious of the tension in the atmosphere, for she was wise enough to know that the smiling faces were like the masks she had seen worn at the fêtes and tournaments which had heralded this event.

  The whole Court pretended to rejoice because of the birth of Isabella’s little niece, but Isabella knew that those smiling masks hid the true feelings of many people present at this christening.

  There stood her half-brother Henry, looking very tall indeed and somewhat untidy, with his reddish hair straggling out beneath his crown. Beside him stood his half-brother,
nine-year-old Alfonso.

  Alfonso was quite handsome, thought Isabella, in his robes of state. He appeared to be solemn too, as though he knew that many people would be looking his way on this occasion. It seemed to Isabella that Alfonso was one of the most important people present – more important than the baby herself perhaps – and Isabella knew why. She could never entirely escape from that high-pitched voice of her mother’s, reminding them that, should the people decide they had had enough of Henry, they would turn to Alfonso.

  Isabella herself had an important part to play in the christening.

  With the baby’s sponsors, of whom she was one, she stood beside the font. The others were the Frenchman, Armignac, and the brilliantly clad Juan Pacheco, Marquis of Villena, and his wife. It was the Marquis who held her attention. Through eavesdropping whenever possible, she had heard his name mentioned often and she knew a great deal about him.

  Echoes of conversations came back to her. ‘He is the King’s right hand.’ ‘He is the King’s right eye.’ ‘Henry does not take a step without consulting the Marquis of Villena.’ ‘Ah, but have you heard that . . . lately there has been a little change?’ ‘It cannot be . . .’ ‘Oh, but they say it is so. Now that is a joke.’

  It was so interesting. Far more interesting here at Court, where she could actually see the people who had figured so largely in the rumours she had overheard at Arevalo.

  The Marquis was smiling now, but Isabella felt that his mask was the most deceitful of them all. She sensed the power of the man and she wondered what he would look like when he was angry. He would be very formidable, she was sure.

  Now the heavy, dark brows of Alfonso Carillo, the Archbishop of Toledo, were drawn together in a frown of concentration as he performed the christening ceremony and blessed the baby girl who had been carried to him under a canopy by Count Alba de Liste.

  There was another whom Isabella could not fail to notice. This was a tall man, who might be said to be the handsomest man present; his clothes were more magnificent than those of any other; his jewels glittered with a brighter lustre – perhaps because there were so many of them. His hair was so black that it held a bluish tinge, his eyes were large and dark, but he had a fine fair skin which made him look very young.