by Jean Plaidy
The sword of state was set before him, the sceptre placed in his hand, and the crown upon his head. And one by one those powerful nobles who had now openly declared their intention to make him King of Castile, came forward to swear allegiance as they kissed his hand.
The words echoed in Alfonso’s brain.
‘Castile for the King, Don Alfonso!’
DON PEDRO GIRON
Isabella was distraught. She was torn between her love for her brother Alfonso and her loyalty towards her half-brother Henry.
She was in her sixteenth year, and the problems which faced her seemed too complex for a girl of her limited experience to solve.
She could trust few people. She knew that she was watched by many, that her smallest gestures were noticed, and that even in her intimate circle she was spied upon.
There was one whom she could trust, but Beatriz herself had been a little absent-minded lately. It was understandable; she had been married to Andres de Cabrera, and it was inevitable that the preoccupation of Beatriz with her new status should somewhat modify the devotion she was ready to give to her mistress.
I must be patient, thought Isabella; and she continued to dream of her own marriage, which surely could not be long delayed.
But this was not the time, when Alfonso had been placed in such a dangerous position, to think of her own selfish hopes.
There was civil strife in Castile, as there must be when two Kings claimed the throne. Sides must be taken, it seemed, by everybody; and although there were many in the kingdom who disapproved of Henry’s rule, the theatrical ceremony outside the walls of Avila seemed to many to be revolutionary conduct in the worst taste. Henry was the King, and Alfonso was an impostor, declared many of the great nobles of Castile. At the same time there were many more who, not having been favourites of the King and Queen, were ready to seek their fortunes under a new monarch who must have a regency to help him govern.
Henry was almost hysterical with grief. He hated bloodshed and was determined to avoid it if possible.
‘A firm hand is needed, Highness,’ his old tutor, the Bishop of Cuenca, warned him.
Henry turned on him with unusual anger. ‘How like a priest,’ he declared, ‘not being called upon to engage in the fight, to be very liberal with the blood of others!’
‘Highness, you owe it to your honour. If you do not stand firm and fight your enemies, you will be the most humiliated and degraded monarch in the history of Spain.’
‘I believe that it is always wiser to settle difficulties by negotiation,’ Henry retorted.
News was brought to him of the unrest throughout the country. In the pulpits and market squares the position was discussed. Was not a subject entitled to examine the conduct of his King? If the land was being drained of all its riches, if a state of anarchy had replaced that of law and order, had not the subject a right to protest?
From Seville and Cordova, from Burgos and Toledo, came the news that the people deplored the conduct of King Henry and were rallying to the support of King Alfonso and a regency.
Henry wept in his despair.
‘Naked came I from my mother’s womb,’ he cried. ‘And naked must I go down to the grave.’
But he deplored war and let it be known that he would be very happy to negotiate a settlement.
There was at least one other who was not very happy about the turn of events, although he had been largely responsible for it. This was the Marquis of Villena.
He had believed that the youthful Alfonso would be his creature, and that he himself would be virtually ruler of Castile.
But this was not so. Don Diego Lopez de Zuñiga, the Counts of Benavente and Plascencia – those noblemen who had played a leading part in the charade which had been acted outside the walls of Avila – were also seeking power.
The Marquis wondered whether it might not be a good idea to seek some secret communication with Henry and thus, by some quick volte-face, score an advantage over his old allies who were fast becoming his new rivals.
He was brooding on this when his brother, Don Pedro Giron, came to him.
Don Pedro was still smarting under the rebuff which had been given him some time before by Isabella’s mother. Grand Master of the Order of Calatrava though he was, he enjoyed the company of many mistresses; but there was not one who could make him forget the slight he had received at the hands of the Dowager Queen, nor could they collectively.
Don Pedro was a vindictive man; he was also a very vain man. The Dowager Queen had rejected his advances, and he often asked himself what he could do to anger her as much as she had angered him.
Poor mad thing, he said to himself. She did not know what was good for her.
It did soothe his vanity a little to remind himself that her madness was responsible for her rejection of him. It did please him a little to think of her living in retirement at Arevalo, sometimes, so he had heard, unaware of who she was and what was going on in the world.
He would like to get even with the girl too, that sedate little creature who had been hiding somewhere when he had made the proposals to her mother.
It was true that his brother, the great Marquis, sometimes talked to him of his plans.
‘All is not going well, brother?’ he asked on this occasion.
The Marquis frowned. ‘There are too many powerful men seeking more power. I found Henry easier to deal with.’
‘I have heard, brother, that Henry would give a great deal to have your friendship. He would be happy if you turned from Alfonso and his adherents back to him. Poor Henry, I have heard that he is ready to do a great deal for you if you would be his friend once more.’
‘Henry is a weak fool,’ said the Marquis.
‘Alfonso is but a boy.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Marquis, it is a pity that you cannot bind yourself more closely to Henry. Now, if you were not married already you might ask for the hand of Isabella in marriage. Such a connection would please the King, I am sure, and I do believe he would be ready to promise you anything to ensure your return.’
The Marquis was silent for a while. He continued to study his brother through half-closed eyes.
The Queen and the Duke of Albuquerque were with the King. One on either side of him they explained to Henry what he must do.
‘For,’ said the Queen, ‘you wish to end this strife. If you do not, there may be defeat for you. Alfonso is becoming more beloved of the people every day; which, my dear husband, is more than can be said for you.’
‘I know, I know,’ wailed Henry. ‘I am a most unhappy man, the most unhappy King that Spain has ever known.’
‘There must be an end to this strife, Highness,’ said the Duke.
‘It can be brought about,’ the Queen added.
‘Explain to me how. I would be ready to reward richly anyone who could put an end to our troubles.’
The Queen smiled at her lover over the bowed head of her husband.
‘Henry,’ she said, ‘there are two men who made the revolt, who lead the revolt. If they could be weaned from the traitors and brought to our side, the revolt would collapse. Alfonso would find himself without his supporters. Then our troubles would be over.’
‘You refer of course to the Marquis of Villena and the Archbishop,’ sighed Henry. ‘Once they were my friends . . . my very good friends. But enemies came between us.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Joanna impatiently. ‘They must be brought back. They can be brought back.’
‘How so?’
‘By making a bond, between our family and theirs, which is so strong that nothing can untie or break it.’
‘I repeat, how so?’
‘Highness,’ said Beltran almost nervously, ‘you may not like what we are about to suggest.’
‘The King will like whatever is going to end his troubles,’ said the Queen scornfully.
‘I pray you acquaint me with what you have in your minds,’ pleaded Henry.
‘It is thi
s,’ said the Queen. ‘The Archbishop and the Marquis are uncle and nephew. Therefore of one family. Let us unite the royal family of Castile with theirs . . . then both Archbishop and Marquis will be your most faithful adherents for ever.’
‘I do not understand.’
‘Marriage,’ hissed the Queen. ‘Marriage is the answer.’
‘But what marriage . . . with whom?’
‘We have Isabella.’
‘My sister! And whom could she marry? Villena is married, and the Archbishop is a man of the Church.’
‘Villena has a brother.’
‘You mean Don Pedro?’
‘Why not?’
‘Don Pedro to marry a Princess of Castile!’
‘The times are dangerous.’
‘Her mother would go completely mad.’
‘Let her. She is half way there already.’
‘And . . . the man . . . is a Grand Master of the Order of Calatrava, and sworn to celibacy.’
‘Bah! A dispensation from Rome would soon settle that.’
‘I could not agree to it. Isabella . . . that innocent child and that lecherous . . .’
‘You do well to talk of his lechery!’ The Queen laughed on a high note of scorn. ‘Isabella is grown up. She must know of the existence of lechers. After all, has she not been at Court for some time?’
‘Isabella . . . marry that man!’
‘Henry, you are as usual foolish. Here is an opportunity to right our troubles. Isabella must marry to save Castile from bloodshed and war. She must marry to save the throne for its rightful King.’
Henry covered his face with his hands. Hideous pictures kept forming in his mind. Isabella, sedate and somewhat prim Isabella, whose upbringing had been so sternly pious . . . at the mercy of that coarse man, that notorious lecher!
‘No,’ murmured Henry. ‘No. I’ll not agree.’
But the Queen smiled at her lover, and both knew that Henry could always be persuaded.
Isabella stood before her brother. The Queen was present and her eyes glittered – perhaps with malice.
‘My dearest sister,’ said Henry, ‘you are no longer a child and it is time you married.’
‘Yes, Highness.’
Isabella waited expectantly while Joanna watched her with amusement. The girl had heard fine stories of handsome Ferdinand, the young heir to Aragon. Ferdinand was a little hero and a handsome one at that. And Isabella believed that she was to have the pretty boy.
This, thought Joanna, will teach her to reject my brother, the King of Portugal! When she has had a taste of married life with Don Pedro she will wish she had not been so haughty, nor so foolish, as to reject the crown my brother offered her. Perhaps now she would wish to change her mind.
‘I have decided,’ said Henry, ‘that you shall marry Don Pedro Giron, who is eager to become your husband. It is a match of which I . . . and the Queen . . . approve; and as you are of a marriageable age, we see no reason why there should be any delay.’
Isabella had grown pale. Joanna was amused to see that the sedate dignity, for which she was now noted, had deserted her.
‘I – I do not think I can have heard you correctly, Highness. You said that I was to marry . . .’
Henry’s eyes were softened with pity. Not this innocent young girl to that coarse creature! He would not allow it.
But he said: ‘To Don Pedro Giron.’
Don Pedro Giron! She remembered that scene in her mother’s apartments: Don Pedro making obscene suggestions, her mother’s indignation and horror – and her own. This was a nightmare surely. She could not really be in her half-brother’s apartments. She must be dreaming.
There was a cold sweat on her forehead; her heart was beating uncertainly. Her voice was playing tricks and would not shout the protests which her brain dictated.
The Queen spoke then. ‘It is a good match and, my dear Isabella, you have rejected so many. We cannot allow you to reject another. Why, my dear, if you do that you will end with no husband at all.’
‘That would be preferable to . . . to . . .’ stammered Isabella.
‘Come, you were not meant to die a virgin.’ The Queen spoke gaily.
‘But . . . Don Pedro . . .’ began Isabella. ‘I think your Highnesses have forgotten that I am betrothed to Ferdinand, the heir of Aragon.’
‘The heir of Aragon!’ laughed the Queen. ‘There will be little left for the heir of Aragon if the unhappy state of that country continues.’
‘And, Isabella,’ said Henry, ‘we, here in Castile, are not too happy, not too secure. The Marquis of Villena and the Archbishop of Toledo will be our friends when you are affianced to the brother of one and the nephew of the other. You see, my dear, Princesses must always serve their countries.’
‘I do not think any happy purpose could be served by such a . . . such a cruel and preposterous union.’
‘You are too young, Isabella, to understand.’
‘I am not too young to know that I would prefer death to marriage with that man.’
‘I think,’ said the Queen, ‘that you forget the respect due to the King and myself. We give you leave to retire. But before you go, let me say this: Suitors have been suggested to you and you have refused them. You should know that the King and I will allow no more refusals. You will prepare yourself for marriage, for in a few short weeks you are to be the bride of Don Pedro Giron.’
Isabella curtsied and retired.
She still felt as though she were in a dream. That was her only comfort. This terrible suggestion could not be of this world.
It was too humiliating, too degrading, too heart-breaking to contemplate.
In her own apartment Isabella sat staring before her.
Beatriz, who drew authority from the fact that she was not only Isabella’s maid of honour but her friend, dismissed everyone except Mencia de la Torre whom, next to herself, Isabella loved better than anyone in her circle.
‘What can have happened?’ whispered Mencia.
Beatriz shook her head. ‘Something has shocked her deeply.’
‘I have never seen her like this before.’
‘She has never been like this before.’ Beatriz knelt and took Isabella’s hand. ‘Dearest mistress,’ she implored, ‘would it not be easier if you talked to those who are ready to share your sorrows?’
Isabella’s lips trembled, but still she did not speak.
Mencia also knelt; she buried her face in Isabella’s skirts, for she could not bear to see that look of despair on the face of her beloved mistress.
Beatriz rose and poured out a little wine. She held this to Isabella’s lips. ‘Please, dearest. It will revive you. It will bring back your power of speech. Let us share your trouble. Who knows, there may be something we can do to banish it.’
Isabella allowed the wine to moisten her lips; and as Beatriz put an arm about her, she turned and buried her face against her friend’s breast.
‘Death,’ she muttered, ‘would I believe, be preferable.’
Beatriz knew that what she had feared had now happened. The match with Ferdinand must have been broken off and a new suitor proposed.
‘There must be some way of preventing this,’ said Beatriz.
Mencia raised her face and said passionately: ‘We will do anything . . . anything . . . to help, will we not, Beatriz?’
‘Anything,’ Beatriz agreed.
Then Isabella spoke: ‘There is nothing you can do. This time they meant it. I saw it in the Queen’s face. This time there will be no escaping it. Moreover, it is the wish of Villena, and that will decide it.’
‘It is a match for you?’
‘Yes,’ said Isabella. ‘The most degrading match I could make. I think it has been chosen for me by the Queen as a deliberate revenge for having refused her brother and won the approval and sanction of the Cortes to do so. But this time . . .’
‘Highness,’ whispered Mencia, ‘who?’
Isabella shuddered. ‘You will scarcely be able to
believe it when I tell you. I cannot bear to say his name. I hate him. I despise him. I would rather be dead.’ She looked desperately from one to the other. ‘You see, I was trying to avoid saying his name, for even to speak of him fills me with such dread and disgust that I truly believe I shall die before the marriage ceremony can take place. But you will hear . . . if I do not tell you. The whole Court may be talking of it now. It is the brother of the Marquis of Villena – Don Pedro Giron.’
Neither of her women could speak. Beatriz had turned pale with horror; Mencia rocked on her heels, forgetful of everything but this overwhelmingly distasteful news. The thought of her mistress, in the coarse hands of the man whose reputation was one of the most unsavoury in Castile, made Mencia put her hands over her face to prevent herself betraying the full force of her horror.
‘I know what you are thinking,’ said Isabella. ‘Oh, Beatriz . . . Mencia . . . what shall I do? What can I do?’
‘There must be some way out of this,’ Beatriz tried to soothe.
‘They are determined. The Marquis naturally will do everything in his power to bring about the marriage. The Archbishop of Toledo will do the same. After all, this . . . this monster is his nephew. You see, my dear friends, they have taken Alfonso; they have forced him to call himself King of Castile while the King still lives. How do we know what that will cost him? And for myself I am to be the victim of the Queen’s revenge, of Villena’s and the Archbishop’s ambition, and . . . the lust of this man.’
Beatriz stood up; her face was hard and she, who Isabella had always known was possessed of a strong character, had never before looked so determined.
‘There must be a way,’ she said, ‘and we will find it.’ Then suddenly her expression lightened. ‘But how can this marriage take place?’ she demanded. ‘This man is a Grand Master of a religious Order and sworn to celibacy. Marriage is not for him.’
Mencia clasped her hands together and looked eagerly at Isabella. ‘It’s true, Highness, it’s true,’ she cried.
‘But of course it’s true,’ insisted Beatriz. ‘He cannot marry. So that’s an end to it. Depend upon it, this is merely a spiteful gesture of the Queen’s. Nothing will come of it. And when you consider, how could it? It is too fantastic . . . too preposterous.’
