Castile for Isabella

by Jean Plaidy

  She whispered gently: ‘Dearest Highness, he has gone now. He is evil . . . but has left us. We will never see him again. Do not tremble so. Let me take you to your bed. There you will lie down. He has gone now, that evil man.’

  The Dowager Queen stood up and allowed Isabella to take her arm.

  From that moment Isabella felt that she was the one who must care for her mother, that she was the strong one who must protect her brother and her mother from this wicked Court, this whirlpool of intrigue which was threatening to drag them down to . . . what? She could not imagine.

  All she knew was that she was capable of defending herself, of bridging the dangerous years through which she must pass before she was safe as the bride of Ferdinand.

  The Dowager Queen sent for Isabella. She had recovered from the shock of Giron’s proposals and was no longer stunned; she was very angry.

  ‘I am sorry, my daughter,’ said the Queen, ‘that you should have overheard such a revolting outburst. That man shall be severely punished. He shall very soon regret the day he submitted me to such indignity. You are coming with me to the King, to bear witness of what you overheard.’

  Isabella was alarmed. She fully realised that the Grand Master of the Order of Calatrava had behaved disgracefully, but she had hoped that, once the man had been dismissed from her mother’s presence, his conduct might be forgotten; for remembering it could only serve to over-excite her mother.

  ‘We are going to Henry now,’ said the Dowager Queen. ‘I have told him that I must see him on a matter of great importance, and he has agreed to receive us.’ The Dowager Queen looked at her daughter, and tears came into her eyes.

  ‘My dear Isabella,’ she said, ‘I fear you are fast leaving childhood behind you. That is inevitable, since you must live at this Court. I could wish, my dear, that you and I and your brother could return to Arevalo. I think we should be so much happier there. Come.’

  Henry received them with a show of affection.

  He complimented Isabella on her appearance. ‘Why,’ he said, ‘my little sister is no longer a child. She grows every day. We are a tall family, Isabella; and you are no exception.’

  He greeted his stepmother with equal warmth, although he was wondering what grievance had brought her – he felt sure it was a grievance.

  ‘Henry,’ said the Dowager Queen, ‘I have a complaint to make . . . a complaint of a most serious nature.’

  The King put on an expression of concern, but Isabella, who was watching closely, saw that it thinly veiled one of exasperation.

  ‘I have been insulted by Don Pedro Giron,’ said the Dowager Queen dramatically.

  ‘That is very shocking,’ said Henry, ‘and I am grieved to hear it.’

  ‘The man came to my apartment and made outrageous proposals.’

  ‘What were these proposals?’

  ‘They were of an immoral nature. Isabella will bear witness, for she heard all that was said.’

  ‘He made these proposals in Isabella’s presence then?’

  ‘Well . . . she was there.’

  ‘You mean he was not aware that she was there?’

  ‘No . . . he was not. I know, Henry, that you will not allow such outrageous conduct to go unpunished.’

  Henry shifted his gaze from his stepmother’s face. He said, ‘He did not . . . attack you?’

  ‘He attacked my good name. He dared presume to make immoral suggestions to me. If Isabella had not come from her hiding-place in time . . . I think it is very possible that he might have laid hands on me.’

  ‘So Isabella was in hiding?’ Henry looked sternly at his half-sister.

  ‘I thank the saints that she was!’ cried the Queen. ‘No woman’s virtue is safe when there are such men at Court. My dear son, you will, I know, not suffer such conduct to go unpunished.’

  Henry said: ‘Dear Mother, you excite yourself unnecessarily. I have no doubt that you protected your virtue from this man. You are still a beautiful woman. I cannot entirely blame him – nor must you – for being aware of that. I am sure, if you consider this matter calmly, you will come to the conclusion that the best of men sometimes forget the honour due to rank when beauty beckons.’

  ‘This is carnal talk,’ cried the Queen. ‘I beg of you not to use it before my daughter.’

  ‘Then I marvel that you should bring her to me when making such a complaint.’

  ‘But I told you she was there.’

  ‘She had been concealed . . . by your wishes, or was it some sly prank of her own? Which was it, eh? You tell me, Isabella.’

  Isabella looked at her mother; she dared not lie to the King, yet at the same time she could not betray her mother.

  Henry saw her embarrassment and was sorry for her. He laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Do not fret, Isabella. Too much is being made of very little.’

  ‘Do you mean,’ screeched the Queen, ‘that you will ignore the insulting behaviour of this man towards a member of the royal family?’

  ‘Dear Mother, you must be calm. I have heard how excited you become on occasions, and it has occurred to me that it might be advisable if you left Court for some place where events which excited you were less likely to occur. As for Don Pedro Giron, he is the brother of the Marquis of Villena, and therefore not a man who can be lightly reprimanded.’

  ‘You would allow yourself to be ruled by Villena!’ cried the Queen. ‘Villena is important . . . more important than your father’s wife! It matters not that she has been insulted. It is the brother of the great Villena who has done it, and he must not be reprimanded! I had thought Villena was of less importance nowadays. I thought there was a new sun beginning to rise, and that we must all fall down and worship it. I thought that since Beltran de la Cueva – that most obliging man – became the friend of the King . . . and the Queen . . . the Marquis of Villena was not the man he had once been.’

  Isabella half closed her eyes with horror. Previously the scenes had been threatening in the private apartments. What would happen if, in the presence of the King, her mother began to shout and laugh!

  She longed to take her mother by the hand, to whisper urgently that they should beg permission to go; and only the rigorous training she had received prevented her from doing so.

  Henry saw her distress and was as eager to put an end to this discussion as she was.

  ‘I think,’ he said gently, ‘that it would be well if you considered returning to Arevalo.’

  His quiet tone had its effect on the Dowager Queen. She was silent for a few seconds, then she cried out: ‘Yes, it would be better if we returned to Arevalo. There I was safe from the lewdness of those whom Your Highness is pleased to honour.’

  ‘You may leave when you wish,’ said Henry. ‘I only ask that my little sister and brother remain at Court.’

  Those words completely subdued the Queen.

  Isabella knew that they had touched her with a terrible fear. One of the worst terrors of her mother’s wild imagination had always been that her children might be separated from her.

  ‘You have leave to retire,’ said Henry.

  The Queen curtsied; Isabella did the same; and they returned in silence to their apartment.

  MURDER AT THE CASTLE OF ORTES

  There were days when the château of Ortes in Béarn seemed like a prison to Blanche, and her apartments there took on the aspect of a condemned cell.

  Within those ancient walls she felt as though assassins hid behind the hangings, that in dark corners they waited for her.

  Sometimes, after she had dismissed her servants, she would lie in bed, tense . . . waiting.

  Was that a creak of a floor-board? A soft footfall in her room?

  Should she close her eyes and wait? How would it come? A pillow pressed over her mouth? A knife thrust into her breast?

  Yet what is my life that I should cling to it? she asked herself. For what can I hope now?

  Perhaps there was always hope. Perhaps she believed that her family would repent; t
hat ambition, which had dominated it for so many years and had robbed its members of their finer feelings, would miraculously depart leaving room only for loving kindness.

  Miracles there might be, but not such miracles as that.

  Here she lived, the prisoner of her sister and her sister’s husband. It was terrible to know that they planned to rid themselves of her, that they were prepared to kill her for the sake of acquiring Navarre. It was a rich province, and many had cast covetous eyes on that maize and wheat-growing, that wine-producing land. But what land was worth the disintegration of a family, and the sordid criminality of its members against each other?

  It would have been better, she often thought, if her mother had never inherited Navarre from Charles III, her father.

  Often she dreamed that Carlos came to her, that he warned her to flee from this grim castle. In the mornings she was never sure whether she had dreamed that she had seen him or whether he had actually been with her. It was said that his ghost walked the streets of Barcelona. Perhaps the ghosts of murdered men did walk the earth, warning those they loved who were in similar danger, perhaps seeking revenge on their murderers. But Carlos had never been one to seek revenge. He had been too gentle. If he had been less so, he could not have failed to lead the people successfully against his father and his stepmother, and would doubtless now be the heir of Aragon in place of little Ferdinand. But it was the gentle ones who were sacrificed.

  Blanche shivered. Her character was not unlike that of Carlos, and it seemed to her that there were warnings all about her that her time must come, as had that of Carlos.

  There were occasions when she felt that she wanted to make the journey into Aragon to reason with her father and her stepmother, or to go to her sister, Eleanor, and her husband, Gaston de Foix, and tell them what was in her mind.

  To her father and stepmother she would say: ‘What has your terrible crime brought to you? You have made Ferdinand heir of Aragon in place of Carlos. But what has happened to Aragon? The people murmur continually against you. They do not forget Carlos. There is continual strife. And one day, when you come near to the end of your days, you will remember the man who died at your command, and you will be filled with such remorse that you would rather have died before you committed such a crime.’

  And to Eleanor and Gaston: ‘You want me removed so that Navarre can pass to you. You desire your son Gaston to be the ruler of Navarre. Oh Eleanor, take warning in time. Remember what happened to Carlos. Do not, for the sake of land, for the sake of wealth, for the sake of ambition – even though this is centred in your son – stain your souls with the murder of your sister.’

  One must not blame young Gaston. One must not blame young Ferdinand. It was for their sakes that their parents were ready to commit crimes, but these boys were not parties to those crimes. Yet what kind of men would they be, they who must eventually know that murder had been committed for their sakes? Would they, as their parents had, make ambition the over-ruling feature of their lives?

  ‘I am a lonely woman,’ she told herself, ‘a frightened woman.’

  Yes, she was frightened. She had lived with fear now for two years; each day on waking she wondered whether this would be her last, each night wondered whether she would see the morning.

  When she had come into Béarn she had been frantic, looking about for means of escape.

  There had seemed to be no one to help her . . . until she remembered Henry, the husband who had repudiated her. It was strange that she should have thought of him; and yet was it so strange? There was about him a gentleness which others lacked. He was a lecher; he had deceitfully led her to believe that he intended to keep her in Castile even while he was planning to rid himself of her; and yet it was to him she had turned in her extremity.

  She had written to him then; she had reminded him that he was not only her former husband but her cousin. Did he ever remember their happiness when she had first come to Castile? Now they were parted and she was a lonely woman, forced to exile far from her home.

  Now, recalling that letter, she wept a little. She had been happy during those first days of her marriage. She had not known Henry then; she had been too young, too inexperienced to believe that any man, so gentle, so determined to please her as her husband had seemed, could be so shallow and insincere, not really feeling the deep emotion to which he had falsely given expression.

  How could she have guessed in those days that tragedy was waiting for her in the years ahead? How could she have visualised those barren years, the inevitable conclusion of which had been banishment to this gloomy castle where death lurked, waiting to spring upon her at an unguarded moment?

  ‘For two years I have been here,’ she murmured. ‘Two years . . . waiting . . . sensing evil . . . knowing that I have been brought here to end my days.’

  In that last frantic letter to Henry she had renounced her claim to Navarre in favour of the husband who had repudiated her, for it had seemed to her then that if she removed the cause of envy she might be allowed to live.

  Was that letter a plea to Henry? Was she telling him that she was handing him Navarre because she was in Béarn, a lonely frightened prisoner? Did she still believe that Henry was a noble knight who would come and rescue the lady in distress, even though he had ceased to love her?

  ‘I was always a foolish woman,’ mused Blanche sadly.

  Henry in Castile was living his gay and voluptuous life, there surrounded by his mistresses and his wife who shared his tastes, it seemed. How foolish to imagine that he would have a thought to spare for the dangers of a woman who had ceased to concern him once he was satisfactorily – from his point of view – divorced from her and had sent her away. There was no help from Henry. She might as well never have offered him Navarre. He was too indolent to take it.

  So Navarre remained – her inheritance, the coveted land, on account of which death stalked the castle of Ortes, waiting until the moment was propitious to strike.

  With the coming of night her fears increased.

  Her women helped her to bed. They slept in her apartment, as she felt happier with them there.

  They could not be unaware of the sense of fear which pervaded the place; she noticed how they would start at a footfall, leap to their feet when they heard voices or footsteps at the door.

  A messenger arrived at Ortes with a letter from the Comtesse de Foix to her sister Blanche. It was an affectionate letter, containing news of a marriage the Comtesse was trying to arrange for her sister. Because of that unfortunate incident in Castile, Blanche must not imagine that her family would allow her to lead the life of a hermit.

  I do not care if I live the life of a hermit, thought Blanche. All I care is that I live.

  In one of the kitchens the messenger from the Comtesse de Foix was drinking a glass of wine.

  The servant who had brought it to him lingered as he refreshed himself, and there came a moment when they were quite alone. Then the messenger ceased to smile pleasantly as he sipped his wine.

  He frowned in annoyance and said to the servant: ‘Why is there this delay? If it continues you will have some explaining to do.’

  ‘Sir, it is not easy.’

  ‘I cannot comprehend the difficulties; nor can others.’

  ‘Sir, I have attempted . . . once or twice.’

  ‘Then you are a bungler. We do not suffer bunglers. Can you guess what your fate may well be? Put out your tongue. Good! I see it is pink, and that I believe is a sign of health. I’ll swear it’s plausible too. I’ll swear it has played its part in luring the maidens to your bed, eh? Ah, I know. You have paid too much attention to them and neglected your duty. Let me tell you this: that tongue could be cut out, and you’d be a sorry fellow without it. And that, my friend, is but one of the misfortunes which could befall you.’

  ‘Sir, I need time.’

  ‘You have wasted time. I give you another chance. It must happen within twenty-four hours after I leave. I shall stay at the inn nearby, an
d if the news is not brought to me within twenty-four hours . . .’

  ‘You . . . you shall not be disappointed, sir.’

  ‘That is well. Now fill my glass. And . . . remember.’

  The messenger had left and Blanche felt easier in her mind as she watched him ride away.

  She always believed that her sister or her father would send their creatures to do their work.

  She called to her women to bring her embroidery. They would work awhile, she said.

  There was comfort in the stitching; she could believe she was back in the past – in her home in Aragon when her mother had been alive, before sinister schemes had rent their household – when she had been a member of a happy family; or in the early days of marriage in Castile.

  And thus, during those hours which followed the departure of the messenger, her fears were less acute.

  She took her dinner with her ladies, as was her custom, and it was shortly after the meal that she complained of pains and dizziness.

  Her women helped her to bed and, as the pain grew more violent, Blanche understood.

  So this was it. It was not a knife in the dark, nor murderous hands about her throat. Foolish again to have suspected that it would be, when this was the safe way . . . the way Carlos had gone. They would say: She died of a colic, of a fever. And those who doubted that she had died a natural death would either not bother to question the verdict or not dare to.

  ‘Let it be quick,’ she prayed. ‘Oh Carlos . . . I am coming to you now.’

  A message was taken to the inn, and when it was handed to its recipient he read it calmly and gave no sign that he was surprised or shocked by its contents.

  He said to his groom: ‘We shall return to the castle.’ And they left at once, riding full speed towards Ortes.

  When he arrived there, he summoned the servants together and addressed them.

  ‘I am speaking in the name of the Comte and Comtesse de Foix,’ he told them. ‘You are to go about your business as though nothing has happened. Your mistress will be quietly interred, but news of her death is not to go beyond these walls.’