by Jean Plaidy
He was particularly noticeable, standing close to Henry, for he was almost as tall as the King; and, thought Isabella, if one did not know who was the real King and was asked to pick him out from all those assembled, one would pick Beltran de la Cueva, who had recently been made Count of Ledesma.
The Count was another of those people who were attracting so much attention, and as he watched the baby under the canopy, many watched him.
Unaccustomed though she was to such ceremonies, Isabella gave no sign of the excitement which she was feeling; and, if it appeared that there was a certain watchfulness directed at those three – the King, the Queen and the new Count of Ledesma – Alfonso and Isabella also had their share of this attention.
The thought was in many minds on that day that, if the rumours which were beginning to be spread through the Court were true – and there seemed every reason that they should be – these two children were of the utmost significance. And the fact that the boy was so handsome, and clearly showed he was eager to do what was expected of him, was noted. And so, also, was the decorous behaviour of the young girl, as she stood with the other sponsors, rather tall for her eleven years, her abundant hair – with the reddish tinge inherited from her Plantagenet ancestors – making a charming frame for her placid face.
In a small ante-chamber adjoining the chapel, the Archbishop of Toledo, whilst divesting himself of his ceremonial robes, was in deep conversation with his nephew, the Marquis of Villena.
The Archbishop, a fiery man, who would have been more suited to a military than an ecclesiastical career, was almost shouting: ‘It is an impossible situation. I never imagined anything so fantastic, so farcical in all my life. That man . . . standing there looking on . . .’
Villena, the wily statesman, had more control over his feelings than his uncle had over his. He lifted a hand and signed towards the door.
‘Why, nephew,’ said the Archbishop testily, ‘the whole Court talks of it, jeers at it, and the question is asked: “How long will those who want to see justice done endure such a situation?”’
Villena sat on one of the tapestry-covered stools and sardonically contemplated the tips of his shoes. Then he said: ‘The Queen is a harlot; the child is a bastard; the King is a fool; and the people in the streets cannot long be kept in ignorance of all that. Perhaps there have been wanton Queens who have foisted bastards on foolish kings before this. What I find impossible to endure is the favour shown to this man. Count of Ledesma! It is too much.’
‘Henry listens to him on all occasions. Why, in the name of God and all His saints, does he behave with such stupidity?’
‘Perhaps, Uncle, because he is grateful to their Beltran.’
‘Grateful to his wife’s lover, to the father of the child who is to be foisted on the nation as his own!’
‘Grateful indeed,’ said Villena. ‘I fancy our Henry did not care to see himself as one who cannot beget a child. Beltran is so obliging: he serves the King in every way . . . even to providing the Queen with his bastard to set upon the throne. We know Henry is incapable of begetting children. None of his mistresses has produced a child. After twelve years he was divorced from Blanche on the grounds that both were impotent. And he has been married to Joanna for eight years. It is surprising that Beltran and his mistress have taken so long.’
‘We must not allow the child to be foisted on the nation.’
‘We must go carefully, Uncle. There is time in plenty. If the King continues to shower honours on Beltran de la Cueva, he will turn more and more from us. Very well then, we will turn more and more from him.’
‘And lose our places at Court, lose all that we have worked for?’
Villena smiled. ‘Did you notice the children in chapel? What a pleasant pair!’
The Archbishop was alert. He said: ‘It would never do. You could never set up young Alfonso while Henry is alive.’
‘Why not . . . if the people are so disgusted with him and his bastard?’
‘Civil war?’
‘It might be arranged more simply. But, Uncle, as I said, there is no need to act immediately. Keep your eyes on those two . . . Alfonso and Isabella. They made a good impression on all who beheld them. Such pleasant manners. I declare our mad Dowager Queen has made an excellent job of their upbringing.
They already have all the dignity of heirs to the throne. Depend upon it, their mother would raise no objection to our schemes. And what struck you most about them, Uncle? Was it the same as that which struck me? They were so docile, both of them, so . . . malleable.’
‘Nephew, this is dangerous talk.’
‘Dangerous indeed! That is why we will not be hasty. Rumour is a very good ally. I am going to send for your servant now to help you dress. Listen to what I say in his hearing.’
Villena went to the door and, opening it, signed to a page.
In a few moments the Archbishop’s servant entered. As he did so, Villena was saying in a whisper which could easily be heard by anyone in the room: ‘It is to be hoped the child resembles her father in some way. What amusement that is going to cause throughout the Court. La Beltraneja should be beautiful, for her true father, I believe, is far more handsome than our poor deluded King; and the Queen has beauty also.’
‘La Beltraneja,’ mused the Archbishop, and he was smiling as the servant took his robe.
Within a few days the baby was being referred to throughout the Palace and beyond as La Beltraneja.
In the apartments of the Dowager Queen her two children stood before her, as they had been summoned. Isabella wondered whether Alfonso was as deeply aware as she was of the glazed look in their mother’s eyes, of the rising note in her voice.
The christening ceremony had greatly excited her.
‘My children,’ she cried; then she embraced Alfonso and over his head surveyed Isabella. ‘You were there. You saw the looks directed at that . . . at that child . . . and at yourselves. I told you . . . did I not. I told you. I knew it was impossible. An heir to the throne of Castile! Let me tell you this: I have the heir of Castile here, in my arms. There is no other. There can be no other.’
‘Highness,’ said Isabella, ‘the ceremony has been exhausting for you . . . and to us. Could you not rest and talk to us of this matter later?’
Isabella trembled at her temerity, but her mother did not seem to hear her.
‘Here!’ she cried, raising her eyes to the ceiling as though she were addressing some celestial audience, ‘here is the heir to Castile.’
Alfonso had released himself from the suffocating embrace. ‘Highness,’ he said, ‘there may be some who listen at our door.’
‘It matters little, my son. The same words are being spoken all over the Court. They are saying the child is the bastard daughter of Beltran de la Cueva. And who can doubt it? Tell me that . . . tell me that, if you can! But why should you? You will be ready to accept the power and the glory when it is bestowed on you. That is the day I long for. The day I see my own Alfonso King of Castile!’
‘Alfonso,’ said Isabella, quietly, authoritatively, ‘go and call the Queen’s women. Go quickly.’
‘It will not be long,’ went on the Dowager Queen, who had not noticed that Isabella had spoken, nor that her son had slipped from the room. ‘Soon the people will rise. Did you not sense it in the chapel? The feeling . . . the anger! It would not have surprised me if the bastard had been snatched from under her silken canopy. Nothing . . . nothing would have surprised me . . .’
‘Holy Mother,’ prayed Isabella, ‘let them come quickly. Let them take her to her apartment. Let them quieten her before I have to see her held down by the doctors and forcibly drugged to quieten her.’
‘It cannot go on,’ cried the Queen. ‘I shall live to see my Alfonso crowned. Henry will do nothing. He will be powerless. His folly in showering honours on the bastard’s father will be his undoing. Did you not see the looks? Did you not hear the comments?’ The Queen had clenched her fists and had begun beating he
r breast.
‘Oh let them come quickly,’ prayed Isabella.
When her mother had been taken away she felt exhausted. Alfonso lingered and would have talked to her, but she was afraid to talk to Alfonso. There were so many imminent dangers, she felt certain, and in the great Palace one could never be sure who was hidden away in some secret place to listen to what was said.
It was highly dangerous, she knew very well, to discuss the displacement of kings while they still lived; and if it were true – which of course it was – that she and Alfonso had been brought to Court so that their brother might be sure that they should not be the centre of rebellion, it was certain that they were closely watched.
She put on a cloak and went out into the gardens. Those occasions when she could be alone were rare and, she knew, would become more so, for she must not expect to enjoy the same freedom here at Court as she had in the peace of Arevalo.
Still, as yet, she was regarded as but a child and she hoped that she would continue to be so regarded for some time to come. She did not want to be embroiled in the rebellious schemes which tormented her mother’s already overtaxed brain.
Isabella believed firmly in law and order. Henry was King because he was the eldest son of their father, and she thought it was wrong that any other should take his place while he lived.
She stared down at the stream of the Manzanares and then across the plain to the distant mountains; and as she did so she became aware of approaching footsteps and, turning, saw a girl coming towards her.
‘You wish to speak with me?’ called Isabella.
‘My lady Princesa, if you would be so gracious as to listen.’
This was a beautiful girl with strongly marked features; she was some four years older than Isabella and consequently seemed adult to the eleven-year-old Princess.
‘But certainly,’ said Isabella.
The other knelt and kissed Isabella’s hand, but Isabella said: ‘Please rise. Now tell me what it is you have to say to me.’
‘My lady, my name is Beatriz Fernandez de Bobadilla, and it is very bold of me to make myself known to you thus unceremoniously; but I saw you walking alone here and I thought that if my mistress could behave without convention, so might I.’
‘It is pleasant to escape from convention now and then,’ said Isabella.
‘I have news, my lady, which fills me with great joy. Shortly I am to be presented to you as your maid of honour. Since I learned this was to be I have been eagerly awaiting a glimpse of you, and when I saw you at the ceremony in the chapel I knew that I longed to serve you. When I am formally presented I shall murmur the appointed words which will convey nothing . . . nothing of my true feelings. Princesa Isabella, I wanted you to know how I truly felt.’
Isabella stifled the disapproval which these words aroused in her. She had been brought up to believe that the etiquette of the Court was all-important; but when the girl lifted her eyes she saw there were real tears in them, and Isabella was not proof against such a display of emotion.
She realised she was lonely. She had no companion to whom she could talk of those matters which interested her. Alfonso was the nearest to being such a companion, but he was too young and not of her own sex. She had never enjoyed real companionship with her mother, and the thought of having a maid of honour who could also be a friend was very appealing.
Moreover in spite of herself, she could not help admiring the boldness of Beatriz de Bobadilla.
She heard herself say: ‘You should have waited to be formally presented, but as long as no one sees us . . . as long as no one is aware of what we have done . . .’
This was not the way in which a Princess should behave, but Isabella was eager for this friendship which was being offered.
‘I knew you would say that, Princesa,’ cried Beatriz. ‘That is why I dared.’
She stood up and her eyes sparkled. ‘I could scarcely wait for a glimpse of you, my lady,’ she went on. ‘You are exactly as I imagined you. You will never have reason to regret that I was chosen to serve you. When we are married, I beg you let it make no difference. Let me continue to serve you.’
‘Married?’said Isabella.
‘Why yes, married. I am promised to Andres de Cabrera, even as you are promised to Prince Ferdinand of Aragon.’
Isabella flushed slightly at the mention of Ferdinand, but Beatriz hurried on: ‘I follow the adventures of Prince Ferdinand with great interest, simply because he is betrothed to you.’
Isabella caught her breath and murmured: ‘Could we walk a little?’
‘Yes, my lady. But we should be careful not to be seen. I should be scolded for daring to approach thus, if we were.’
Isabella for once did not care if they were discovered, so urgently did she desire to talk of Ferdinand.
‘What did you mean when you said you had followed the adventures of Prince Ferdinand?’
‘That I had gleaned information about him on every possible occasion, Princesa. I gathered news of the troublous state of affairs in Aragon, and the dangers which beset Ferdinand.’
‘Dangers? What dangers?’
‘There is civil war in Aragon, as you know, and that is a dangerous state of affairs. They say it is due to the Queen of Aragon, Ferdinand’s mother, who would risk all she possesses in order to ensure the advancement of her son.’
‘She must love him dearly,’ said Isabella softly.
‘Princesa, there is no one living who is more loved than young Ferdinand.’
‘It is because he is so worthy.’
‘And because he is the only son of the most ambitious woman living. It is a mercy that he has emerged alive from Gerona.’
‘What is this? I have not heard of it.’
‘But, Princesa, you know that the Catalans rose against Ferdinand’s father on account of Carlos, Ferdinand’s elder brother whom they loved so dearly. Carlos died suddenly, and there were rumours. It was said he was hastened to his death, and this had been arranged so that Ferdinand should inherit his father’s dominions.’
‘Ferdinand would have no hand in murder!’
‘Indeed no. How could he? He is only a boy. But his mother – and his father too, for she has prevailed upon him to become so – are overweeningly ambitious for him. When his mother took Ferdinand into Catalonia, to receive the oath of allegiance, the people rose in anger. They said that the ghost of Ferdinand’s half-brother, Carlos, walked the streets of Barcelona crying out that he was the victim of murder and that the people should avenge him. They say that miracles have been performed at his grave, and that he was a saint.’
‘He asked for my hand in marriage,’ said Isabella with a shudder. ‘And shortly afterwards he died.’
‘Ferdinand is intended for you.’
‘Yes, Ferdinand and no other,’ said Isabella firmly.
‘It was necessary for the Queen of Aragon and her son Ferdinand to fly from Barcelona to Gerona; and there, with Ferdinand, she took possession of the fortress. I have heard that the fierce Catalans almost captured that fortress, and only the Queen’s courage and resource saved their lives.’
‘He was in such danger, and I did not know it,’ murmured Isabella. ‘Tell me . . . what is happening to him now?’
Beatriz shook her head. ‘That I cannot say, but I have heard that the war persists in the dominions of the King of Aragon and that King John and Queen Joan will continue to be blamed for the murder of Carlos.’
‘It is a terrible thing to have happened.’
‘It was the only way for Ferdinand to become his father’s heir.’
‘He knew nothing of it,’ affirmed Isabella. ‘He can never be blamed.’
And to herself she said: Nor could Alfonso be if they insisted on putting him in Henry’s place.
‘I think,’ she said aloud, ‘that there are stormy days ahead for both Castile and Aragon – for Ferdinand and perhaps for me.’
‘A country divided against itself provides perpetual danger,’ said Beatriz
solemnly; then her eyes sparkled. ‘But it will not be long before Ferdinand comes to claim you. You will be married. I shall be married. And, Princesa, you said that, when we were, we should still be . . . friends.’
Isabella was astonished that she could be so touched by this offer of friendship.
She said in subdued tones: ‘I think it is time that I returned to my apartments.’
Beatriz sank to her knees and Isabella swept past her. But not before Beatriz had lifted her face and Isabella had given her a swift, almost shy smile.
From that moment Isabella had a new friend.
The Queen’s little daughter lay on her silken cushions under a canopy in the state apartments, and one by one the great nobles came forward to kiss her hand and swear allegiance to her as heiress of the throne of Castile.
Beltran de la Cueva looked down at her with satisfaction. His position was unique. So many suspected that he was the baby’s father, and yet, instead of this suspicion arousing the wrath of the King, it had made Henry feel more kindly towards him.
He could see a glorious future before him; he could still remain the Queen’s very good friend, the King’s also. And the child – now generally known as La Beltraneja – was to inherit the throne.
He fancied he had behaved with great skill in a difficult situation.
As he stood smiling with satisfaction his eyes met those of the Archbishop of Toledo, and he was quickly conscious of the smouldering anger there.
Rant as much as you like, my little Archbishop! thought Beltran. Plot with your sly nephew whose nose has been considerably put out of joint during this last year. I care not for you . . . nor does the King nor the Queen, nor this baby here. There is nothing you can do to harm us.
