Castile for Isabella

by Jean Plaidy

  One of the women stepped forward. She said: ‘I would like to say, sir, that I fear my mistress is the victim of an evil assassin. She was well when she sat down to her meal. She suffered immediately afterwards. If you please, I think some investigation should be made.’

  The messenger lifted his heavy-lidded eyes to stare at the woman. There was something so cold, so menacing in his look, that she began to tremble.

  ‘Who is this?’ he demanded.

  ‘Sir, she served Queen Blanche and was much beloved by her.’

  ‘It would account for her derangement perhaps.’ The cold implacable tone held a warning which was clear to everyone. ‘Poor lady,’ went on the messenger, ‘if she is the victim of hallucinations we must see that she has proper attention.’

  Then another of the women spoke. She said: ‘Sir, she is hysterical. She knows not what she says. She had a great affection for Queen Blanche.’

  ‘Nevertheless, she shall be cared for . . . unless she recovers her balance. Now do not forget the orders of the Comte and Comtesse. This distressing news is to be a secret until orders are given to the contrary. If any should disobey these orders it will be necessary to punish them. Take care of the late Queen’s poor friend. Make the wishes of the Comte and Comtesse known to her.’

  It was as though a shudder ran through all those listening.

  They understood. A murder had been committed in their midst. Their gentle mistress, who had harmed no one and done much good to so many, had been eliminated; and they were being warned that painful death would be their reward if they raised their voices against her murderers.

  ALFONSO OF PORTUGAL – A SUITOR

  FOR ISABELLA

  Queen Joanna let her fingers play in the dark glistening hair of her lover. He bent over her couch and, as they kissed, she knew that his thoughts were not so much with her as with the brilliant materialisation of his dreams of fortune.

  ‘Dear Beltran,’ she asked, ‘you are contented?’

  ‘I think, my love, that life goes well for us.’ ‘What a long way you have come, my Beltran, since I looked from my window and beckoned you to my bedchamber. Well, one way to glory is through the bedchambers of Kings. Also through the Queen’s, you have discovered.’

  He kissed her with passion. ‘To combine desire with ambition, love with power! How singularly fortunate I have been!’

  ‘And I. You owe your good fortune to me, Beltran. I owe mine to my own good sense. So you see I may congratulate myself even more than you do yourself.’

  ‘We are fortunate . . . in each other.’

  ‘And in the King, my husband. Poor Henry! He grows more shaggy with the years. I often think he is like a dear old dog, growing a little obese, a little blind, a little deaf – figuratively, of course – but remaining so good-tempered, never growling even when he is neglected or insulted, and always ready to give a friendly bark, or wag his tail at the least attention.’

  ‘He realises his good fortune in possessing such a Queen. You are incomparable.’

  She laughed. ‘Indeed I begin to think I am. Who else could have produced the heiress of Castile?’

  ‘Our dearest little Joanna – how enchanting she is!’

  ‘So enchanting that we must make sure no one snatches the crown from her head. They will try, my love. They grow insolent. Someone referred to her as La Beltraneja yesterday in my hearing.’

  ‘And you were angry?’

  ‘I gave evidence of my righteous anger, but inwardly I was just a little pleased, a little proud.’

  ‘We must curb that pride and pleasure, dearest. We must plan for her sake.’

  ‘That is what I intend to do. I visualise the day when we shall see her mount the throne. I do not feel that Henry will live to a great age. He is too indulgent in those pleasures which, while giving him such amusement, rob him of his health and strength.’

  Beltran was thoughtful. ‘I often wonder,’ he mused, ‘what his inner thoughts are when he hears our darling’s nickname.’

  ‘He does not hear. Did you not know that Henry has the most obliging ears in Castile? They are only rivalled by his eyes, which are equally eager to serve him. When he does not want to listen, he is deaf; when he does not wish to see, he is blind.’

  ‘If only we could contrive some magic to render the ears and eyes of those about him equally accommodating!’

  Joanna gave a mock shudder. ‘I do not like the all-important Marquis. He has too many ideas swirling about in that haughty head of his.’

  Beltran nodded slowly. ‘I have seen his eyes resting with alarming speculation on the young Alfonso. Also on his sister.’

  ‘Oh, those children! And especially Isabella. I fear the years at Arevalo, under the queer and pious guardianship of mad Mamma, have done great harm to the child’s character.’

  ‘One can almost hear her murmuring: “I will be a saint among women.”’

  ‘If that were all, Beltran, I would forgive her. I fancy the murmuring is: “I will be a saint among . . . Queens.”’

  ‘Alfonso is of course the main danger.’

  ‘Yes, but I would like to see those two removed from Court. The Dowager has gone. Oh, what a blessing not to have to see her! Long may she remain in Arevalo.’

  ‘I heard that she has lapsed into a deep melancholy and is resigned to leaving her son and daughter at Court.’

  ‘Let her stay there.’

  ‘You would like to banish Alfonso and Isabella to Arevalo with her.’

  ‘Farther away than that. I have a plan . . . for Isabella.’

  ‘My clever Queen . . .’ murmured Beltran; and laughing, Joanna put her lips to his.

  ‘Later,’ she said softly, ‘I will explain.’

  Beatriz de Bobadilla regarded her mistress with a certain dismay. Isabella was sitting, quietly stitching at her embroidery, as though she were unaware of all the dangers which surrounded her.

  There was about Isabella, Beatriz decided, an almost unnatural calm. Isabella believed in her destiny. She was certain that one day Ferdinand of Aragon would come to claim her; and that Ferdinand would conform exactly with that idealised picture which Isabella had made of him.

  What a lot she has to learn of life! thought Beatriz.

  Beatriz felt as though she were an experienced woman compared with Isabella. It was more than those four years’ seniority which made her feel this. Isabella was an idealist; Beatriz was a practical woman.

  Let us hope, thought Beatriz, that she will not be too greatly disappointed.

  Isabella said: ‘I wish there were news of Ferdinand. I am growing old now. Surely our marriage cannot long be delayed?’

  ‘You may be sure,’ Beatriz soothed, ‘that soon there will be plans for your marriage.’

  But, wondered Beatriz, bending over her work, will it be to Ferdinand?

  ‘I hope all is well in Aragon,’ said Isabella.

  ‘There is great trouble there since the rebellion in Catalonia.’

  ‘But Carlos is dead now. Why cannot the people settle down and be happy?’

  ‘They cannot forget how Carlos died.’

  Isabella shivered. ‘Ferdinand had no hand in that.’

  ‘He is too young,’ agreed Beatriz. ‘And now Blanche is dead. Carlos . . . Blanche . . . . There is only Eleanor alive of King John’s family by his first wife, and she will not stand in the way of Ferdinand’s inheritance.’

  ‘He is his father’s heir by right now,’ murmured Isabella.

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘But what?’ demanded Isabella sharply.

  ‘How will Ferdinand feel . . . how would anyone feel . . . knowing that it had been necessary for one’s brother to die before one could inherit the throne?’

  ‘Carlos died of a fever . . .’ began Isabella. Then she stopped. ‘Did he, Beatriz? Did he?’

  ‘It would have been a most convenient fever,’ said Beatriz.

  ‘I wish I could see Ferdinand . . . talk to Ferdinand . . .’ Isabella hel
d her needle poised above her work. ‘Why should it not be that God has chosen Ferdinand to rule Aragon, and it is for this reason that his brother died?’

  ‘How can we know?’ said Beatriz. ‘I hope Ferdinand is not made unhappy by his brother’s death.’

  ‘How would one feel if a brother were removed so that one inherited the throne? How should I feel if Alfonso were taken like that?’ Isabella shivered. ‘Beatriz,’ she went on solemnly, ‘I should have no wish to inherit the throne of Castile unless it were mine by right. I would wish no harm to Alfonso of course, nor to Henry . . . in order that I might reach the throne.’

  ‘I know full well that you would not, for you are good. Yet what if the well-being of Castile depended on the removal of a bad king?’

  ‘You mean . . . Henry?’

  ‘We should not even speak of such things,’ said Beatriz. ‘What if we were overheard?’

  Isabella said: ‘No, we must not speak of them. But tell me this first. You do not know of any plan to remove . . . Henry?’

  ‘I think that Villena might make such plans.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I think he and his uncle might wish to put Alfonso in Henry’s place as ruler of Castile, that they might rule Alfonso.’

  ‘That would be highly dangerous.’

  ‘But perhaps I am wrong. This is idle gossip.’

  ‘I trust you are wrong. Beatriz. Now that my mother has gone back to Arevalo I often think how much more peaceful life has become. But perhaps I delude myself. My mother could not hide her desires, her excitement. Perhaps others desire and plan in secret. Perhaps there is as much danger in the silences of some as in the hysteria of my mother.’

  ‘Have you heard from her since she reached Arevalo?’

  ‘Not from her but from one of her friends. She often forgets that we are not there with her. When she remembers she is very melancholy. I hear that she lapses into moods of depression, when she expresses her fears that neither Alfonso nor I will ever wear the crown of Castile. Oh, Beatriz, I often think how happy I might have been if we were not a royal family. If I were your sister, shall I say, and Alfonso your brother, how happy we might have been. But from the time I was able to speak I was continually told: “You could be Queen of Castile.” It made none of us happy. It seems to me that there has always been a reaching out for something beyond us . . . for something that would be highly dangerous should we possess it. Oh, you should be happy, Beatriz. You do not know how happy.’

  ‘Life is a battle for all of us,’ murmured Beatriz. ‘And you shall be happy, Isabella. I hope I shall always be there to see and perhaps, in my small way, contribute to that happiness.’

  ‘When I marry Ferdinand and go to Aragon, you must accompany me there, Beatriz.’

  Beatriz smiled a little sadly. She did not believe that she would be allowed to follow Isabella to Aragon; she herself would have to marry; her husband would be Andres de Cabrera, an officer of the King’s household, and her duty would be to stay with him, not to go with Isabella – if Isabella ever went to Aragon.

  She smiled fondly at her mistress. For Isabella had no doubt. Isabella saw her future with Ferdinand as clearly as she saw the piece of needlework now in her hand.

  Beatriz gazed out of the window and said: ‘There is your brother. He has returned from a ride.’

  Isabella dropped her work and went to the window. Alfonso looked up, saw them and waved.

  Isabella beckoned, and Alfonso leaped from his horse, left it with a groom and came into the Palace.

  ‘How he grows,’ said Beatriz. ‘One would not believe he is only eleven.’

  ‘He has changed a great deal since he came to Court. I think we both have. He has changed too since our mother went away.’

  They were both more light-hearted now, Beatriz thought. Poor Isabella, how she must have suffered through that mother of hers! It had made her serious beyond her years. Alfonso came into the room. He was flushed and looked very healthy from his ride.

  ‘You called me,’ he said, embracing Isabella and turning to bow to Beatriz. ‘Did you want to talk to me?’

  ‘I always want to talk to you,’ said Isabella. ‘But there is nothing in particular.’

  Alfonso looked relieved. ‘I was afraid something had gone amiss.’

  ‘You were expecting something?’ she asked anxiously.

  Alfonso looked at Beatriz.

  ‘You must not mind Beatriz,’ said Isabella. ‘She and I discuss everything together. She is as our sister.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Alfonso. ‘And you ask if I am expecting something. I would say I am always expecting something. There is always something either happening or threatening to happen here. Surely all Courts are not like this one, are they?’

  ‘In what way?’ asked Beatriz.

  ‘I do not think there could be another King like Henry in the world. Nor a Queen like Joanna . . . and a situation such as that relating to the baby.’

  ‘Such situations may have occurred before,’ mused Isabella.

  ‘There is going to be trouble. I know it,’ said Alfonso.

  ‘Someone has been talking to you.’

  ‘It was the Archbishop.’

  ‘You mean the Archbishop of Toledo?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Alfonso. ‘He has been very gracious to me of late . . . too gracious.’

  Beatriz and Isabella exchanged glances of apprehension.

  ‘He shows me a respect which I have not received before,’ went on Alfonso. ‘I do not think the Archbishop is very pleased with our brother.’

  ‘It is not for an Archbishop to be displeased with a King,’ Isabella reminded him.

  ‘Oh, but it could be for this Archbishop and this King,’ Alfonso corrected her.

  Isabella said: ‘I have heard that Henry has agreed to a match between the little Princess and Villena’s son. Thus he could make sure of keeping Villena his friend.’

  ‘The people would never agree to that,’ said Beatriz.

  ‘And,’ put in Alfonso, ‘there is going to be an enquiry into the legitimacy of the little Princess. If it is found that she cannot be the King’s daughter, then . . . they will proclaim me heir to the throne.’ He looked bewildered. ‘Oh, Isabella,’ he went on, ‘how I wish that we need not be bothered. How tiresome it is! It is as it was when our mother was with us. Do you remember – at the slightest provocation we would be told that we must take care, we must do this, we must not do that, because it was possible that we should one day inherit the crown? How tired I am of the crown! I wish I could ride and swim and do what other boys do. I wish I did not have to be regarded always as a person to be watched. I do not want the Archbishop to make a fuss of me, to tell me he is my very good friend and will always be at hand to protect me. I will choose my own friends, and they will not be Archbishops.’

  ‘There is someone at the door,’ said Beatriz.

  She went towards it and opened it swiftly.

  A man was standing there.

  He said: ‘I have a message for the Infanta Isabella.’ And Beatriz stood aside for him to enter.

  As he came towards her Isabella thought: How long has he been standing outside the door? What has he heard? What had they said?

  Alfonso was right. There was no peace for them. Their actions were watched; everything they did was spied upon. It was one of the penalties for being a possible candidate for the throne.

  ‘You would speak with me?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, Infanta. I bring a message from your noble brother, the King. He wishes you to come with all speed to his presence.’

  Isabella inclined her head. ‘You may return to him,’ she said, ‘and tell him that I am coming immediately.’

  As Isabella entered her brother’s apartments she knew that this was an important occasion.

  Henry was seated, and beside him was the Queen. Standing behind the King’s chair was Beltran de la Cueva, Count of Ledesma; and the Marquis of Villena, with his uncle the Archbishop of Toledo,
was also present.

  Isabella knelt before the King and kissed his hand.

  ‘Why, Isabella,’ said Henry kindly, ‘it gives me pleasure to see you. Does she not grow apace!’ He turned to Queen Joanna, who flashed on Isabella a smile of great friendliness which seemed very false to the young girl.

  ‘She is going to be tall, as you are, my dear,’ said the Queen.

  ‘How old are you, sister?’ asked the King.

  ‘Thirteen, Highness.’

  ‘A young woman, no less. Time to put away childish things, and think of . . . marriage, eh?’

  They were all watching her, Isabella knew, and she was angry because she was aware of the faint flush which had risen to her cheeks. Did she show the joy which she was feeling?

  At last she and Ferdinand were to be united. Perhaps in a few days they would be meeting. She was a little apprehensive. Would he be as pleased with her as, she was certain, she was going to be with him?

  How one’s thoughts ran on. They went beyond one’s control.

  ‘We keep your welfare very close to our hearts – the Queen, myself, my friends and ministers. And, sister, we have decided on a match for you, one which will delight you by its magnificence.’

  She bowed her head and waited, hoping that she would be able to curb her joy and not show unseemly delight in the fact that at last she was to be the bride of Ferdinand.

  ‘The Queen’s brother, King Alfonso V of Portugal, asks your hand in marriage. I and my advisers are delighted by this offer and we have decided that it can only bring happiness and advantage to all concerned.’

  Isabella did not believe that she heard correctly. She was conscious of a rush of blood to her ears; she could hear and feel the mighty pounding of her heart. For a few seconds she believed she would faint.

  ‘Well, sister, I see that you are overcome by the magnificence of this offer. You are a personable young woman now, you know. And you deserve a good match. It is my great pleasure to provide it for you.’

  Isabella lifted her eyes and looked at the King. He was smiling, but not at her. He knew of her obsession with the idea of the Aragonese marriage. He remembered hearing how upset she was when she heard that a match had been arranged for her with the Prince of Viana. It was for this reason that he had told her in a formal manner of the proposed marriage with Portugal.