by Jean Plaidy
‘Great news!’ cried Beatriz. ‘The best news that you could hear. There will be no marriage. Our prayers have been answered; he is dead.’
Isabella sat up in bed and looked from Beatriz to Andres.
‘Dead! Is it possible? But . . . but how?’
‘At Villarubia,’ said Beatriz. ‘He was taken ill four days ago. I told you, did I not, that our prayers would be answered. Dearest Isabella, you see our fears were all for something which cannot happen.’
‘I cannot believe it,’ whispered Isabella. ‘It is miraculous. He was so strong . . . it seems impossible that he could . . . die. And you say he was taken ill. Of what . . . ? And . . . how?’
‘Let us say,’ Beatriz answered, ‘that it was an Act of God. That is the happiest way of looking at this. We prayed for a miracle, Princesa; and our prayers have been granted.’
Isabella rose from her bed and went to her prie-Dieu.
She knelt and gave thanks for her deliverance; and behind her stood Beatriz and Andres.
ALFONSO AT CARDEÑOSA
The Archbishop of Toledo and his nephew the Marquis of Viliena were closeted together, it was said, deep in mourning for Don Pedro.
The chief emotion of these ambitious men was however not sorrow but anger.
‘There are spies among us,’ cried the militant Archbishop. ‘Worse than spies . . . assassins!’
‘It is deplorable,’ agreed Villena sarcastically, ‘that they should have their spies and assassins, and that they should be as effective as our own.’
‘The whole of Castile is laughing at us,’ declared the Archbishop. ‘They are jeering because we presumed to ally our family with the royal one.’
‘And to think that we have been foiled in this!’
‘I would have his servants seized, tortured. I would discover who had formulated this plot against us.’
‘Useless, Uncle. Servants under torture will tell any tale. And do we need to be led to the murderers of my brother? Do we not know that they are – our enemies? The trail would doubtless lead us to the royal Palace. That could be awkward.’
‘Nephew, are you suggesting that we should meekly accept this . . . this murder?’
‘Meekly, no. But we should say to ourselves: Pedro, who could have linked our family with the royal one, has been murdered; therefore that little plan has failed. Well, we will show our enemies that it is dangerous to interfere with our plans. The marriage was accepted by Henry as an alternative to civil war. Very well, he has declined one, let him have the other.’
The Archbishop’s eyes were gleaming. He was ready now to play the part for which he had always longed.
He said: ‘Young Alfonso shall ride into battle by my side.’
‘It is the only way,’ said Villena. ‘We offered them peace and they retaliated by the murder of my brother. Very well, they have chosen. Now they shall have war.’
On the plains of Almedo the rival forces were waiting.
The Archbishop, clad in armour, wore a scarlet cloak on which had been embroidered the white cross of the Church. He looked a magnificent figure, and his squadrons were ready to follow him into battle.
Alfonso, who was not quite fourteen years old at this time, could not help but be thrilled by the enthusiasm of the Archbishop. The boy Alfonso was dressed in glittering mail, and this would be his first taste of battle.
The Archbishop called Alfonso to him while they waited in the grey dawn light.
‘My son,’ he said, ‘my Prince, this could be the most important day of your life. On these plains our enemies are gathered. What happens this day may decide your future, my future and, what is more important, the future of Castile. It may well be that after this day there will be one King of Castile, and that King will be yourself. Castile must become great. There must be an end to the anarchy which is spreading over our land. Remember that, when we go into battle. Come, let us pray for victory.’
Alfonso pressed the palms of his hands together; he lowered his eyes; and with the Archbishop, in that camp on the plains of Almedo, he prayed for victory over his half-brother Henry.
In the opposing camp Henry waited with his men.
‘How long the day seems in coming,’ said the Duke of Albuquerque.
Henry shivered; it seemed to him that the day came all too quickly.
Henry looked at this man who had played such a big part in his life. Beltran seemed as eager for the battle as he was for the revelries of the Court. Henry could not help feeling a great admiration for this man, who had all the bearing of a King and could contemplate going into battle without a trace of fear, although he must know that he would be considered one of the greatest prizes that could fall into the enemy’s hands.
It was small wonder that Joanna had loved him.
Henry wished that there was some means of preventing the battle from taking place. He would be ready to listen to their terms; he would be ready to meet them. It seemed so senseless to fight and make terms afterwards. What could war mean but misery for those who took part in it?
‘Have no fear, Highness,’ said Beltran, ‘we shall put them to flight.’
‘Ah, I wish I could be sure of that.’
While he spoke information was brought to him that a messenger had arrived from the opposing camp.
‘Give him safe conduct and send him in,’ said Henry.
The messenger was brought into the royal presence.
‘It is a message I have from the Archbishop of Toledo for the Duke of Albuquerque, Highness.’
‘Then hand it to me,’ said Beltran.
Henry watched the Duke while he read the message and burst into loud laughter.
‘Wait awhile,’ he said, ‘and I will give you an answer for the Archbishop.’
‘What message is this?’ asked Henry hopefully. Could it be some offer of truce? But why should it be sent to the Duke, not the King? Surely the Archbishop knew that any offer of peace would be more eagerly accepted by the King than anyone else.
Beltran said: ‘It is a warning from the Archbishop, Highness. He tells me that I shall be foolish to venture on to the field this day. He says that no less than forty of his men have sworn to kill me. My chances of surviving the battle, he assures me, are very poor.’
‘My dear Beltran, you must not ride into battle today. There should be no battle. What good will it do any of us? Bloodshed of my subjects . . . that will be the result of this day’s work.’
‘Highness, it is too late for such talk.’
‘It is never too late for peace.’
‘The Archbishop would not accept your peace offer except under the most degrading conditions. Nay, Highness. Today we go to do battle with our enemies. Have I permission to answer this note?’
Henry nodded gloomily, and the Duke smiled as he prepared his answer.
‘What have you written?’ he asked.
Beltran answered: ‘I have given him a description of my attire, so that those who have sworn to kill me shall have no difficulty in seeking me out.’
Henry waited some miles from the battlefield. He had taken the first opportunity to retire when he had heard that the battle was going against his side.
For what good would it be, he reasoned with himself, to endanger the life of the King?
And he covered his face with his hands and wept for the folly of men determined to go to war.
Meanwhile the young Alfonso rode into battle side by side with the warlike Archbishop.
It was long, and the slaughter was great. Nor was it effective in forcing a decision. The courage of the Archbishop of Toledo was only matched by that of the Duke of Albuquerque, and after three hours of carnage such as had rarely been known before in Castile, the forces led by the Archbishop and Alfonso were forced to leave the battlefield in the possession of the King’s men.
But Henry was not eager to take advantage of the fact that his army had not been routed; and Beltran, brave soldier that he was, was no strategist; and thus that which could ha
ve been called a victory was treated as a defeat.
Now Castile was a country divided. Each King ruled in that territory over which he held sway.
And following the advantage they had won on account of the King’s refusal to regard the battle of Almedo as his victory, the Archbishop and the Marquis, with Alfonso as their figurehead, decided to march on Segovia.
Isabella, with Beatriz and Mencia, was eager for every item of news of Alfonso’s progress.
‘What is happening to our country?’ she said one day as she sat with her friends. ‘In every town of Castile men of the same blood are fighting one another.’
‘What can be expected when our country is plunged in civil war!’ Beatriz added.
‘I dream of peace for Castile,’ murmured Isabella. ‘Here we sit stitching at our needlework, but, Beatriz, do you not think that if we were called upon to rule this land we could do it better than those in whose hands its government now rests?’
‘Think!’ cried Beatriz. ‘I am sure of it.’
‘If Castile could be ruled by you, Infanta, with Beatriz as your first minister,’ declared Mencia, ‘then I verily believe all our troubles would quickly be brought to an end.’
‘I shudder,’ said Isabella, ‘to think of my brother. It is long since I saw him. Do you remember the day the Archbishop called and told him he would be put under his care? I wonder . . . has all that has happened to him changed Alfonso?’
‘It is hard to conjecture,’ Beatriz murmured. ‘In these last months he has become King.’
‘There can only be one King of Castile,’ Isabella reminded her, ‘And that is my half-brother Henry. Oh, how I wish that there was not this strife. Alfonso should be heir to the throne, because there is no doubt that the Queen’s daughter is not the King’s, but he should never have been proclaimed King. And to ride into battle against Henry . . . ! Oh, how I wish he had not done that.’
‘It was no fault of his,’ said Mencia.
‘No,’ Beatriz agreed. ‘He is but a boy. He is only fourteen. How can he be blamed because they have caught him up in their fight for power!’
‘Poor Alfonso. I tremble for him,’ murmured Isabella.
‘All will be well,’ Beatriz soothed her. ‘Dearest Princesa, remember how on other occasions we have despaired, and how all has come right.’
‘Yes,’ said Isabella. ‘I was saved from a terrible fate. But is it not alarming to consider how a man . . . or a woman . . . can be alive and well one day and dead the next?’
‘It has always been so,’ said the practical Beatriz. And she added significantly: ‘And sometimes it has proved a blessing.’
‘Listen!’ cried Mencia. ‘I hear shouts from below. What can it be?’
‘Go and see,’ said Beatriz.
Mencia got up to go, but before she had reached the door one of the men-at-arms rushed into the room.
‘Princesa, ladies, the rebels are marching on the castle.’
There was little resistance, for how could Isabella demand that resistance be shown against those at whose head rode her own brother.
As they stormed into the castle, she heard Alfonso’s voice; it had changed since she had last heard it and grown deep, authoritative.
‘Have a care. Remember, my sister, the Princess Isabella, is in the castle.’
And then the door was flung open and there stood Alfonso – her little brother, seeming little no longer – not a boy but a soldier, a King, even though she would maintain he had no right to wear the crown.
‘Isabella!’ he cried; and he was young again. His face seemed to pucker childishly, and it was as though he were begging for her approval as he used to when he took his first tottering steps about the nursery.
‘Brother . . . little brother!’ Isabella was in his arms and for some seconds they clung together.
Then she took his face in her hands. ‘You are well, Alfonso, you are well?’
‘Indeed yes. And you, dearest sister?’
‘Yes . . . and so glad to see you once more, brother. Oh, Alfonso . . . Alfonso!’
‘Isabella, we are together now. Let us stay together. I have rescued you from Henry. Henceforth it shall be you and I . . . brother and sister . . . together.’
‘Yes,’ she cried. ‘Yes . . .’ And she lost her calm and was laughing in his arms.
And so she stayed with him, and on several occasions travelled with him through that territory which now considered him its King.
But she was perturbed. Her love of justice would not allow her to blind herself to the fact that he had usurped the throne, however unwillingly.
During those troublous months news came to Isabella of the disturbances which were rife throughout Castile. Old quarrels between certain noble families were renewed; nowhere was it safe for men or women to journey unescorted. Even men of the highest nobility took advantage of the situation to rob and pillage, and the Hermandad found itself almost useless against this tide of anarchy.
Alfonso’s headquarters were at Avila, which had remained loyal to him since the occasion of that strange ‘coronation’ outside its walls. On the Archbishop and Villena, to whom he owed his position, he bestowed the honours and favours they demanded.
Isabella remonstrated with him.
‘While Henry lives you cannot be King of Castile, Alfonso,’ she told him, ‘for Henry is our father’s eldest son and the only true King of Castile.’
Alfonso had changed since those days when he had been afraid because he knew himself to be the tool of ambitious men. Alfonso had tasted the pleasures of kingship, and he was by no means prepared to relinquish them.
‘But, Isabella,’ he pointed out, ‘a King rules by the will of his people. If he fails to please his people then he has no right to the crown.’
‘There are many in Castile who are still pleased to call Henry King,’ Isabella answered.
‘Dear Isabella,’ replied her brother, ‘you are so good and so just. Henry has not been kind to you; he has tried to force you to a distasteful marriage – yet you would seem to support him.’
‘But it is not a question of kindness, brother. It is a matter of what is right. And Henry is King of Castile. It is you who are the impostor.’
Alfonso smiled at her. ‘We must agree to differ,’ he said. ‘I am glad that, although you consider me an impostor, you still love me.’
‘You are my brother. Nothing can alter that. But one day I hope there will be a settlement and that you will be proclaimed heir to the throne. That is what I wish.’
‘The nobles would never agree.’
‘It is because they are seeking power rather than what is just and right, and they still use us, Alfonso, as puppets in their schemes. In supporting you they support that which they believe to be best for themselves, and those who support Henry do so for selfish reasons. It is only through what is just that good can come.’
‘Well, Isabella, although you would appear to be on the side of my enemies . . .’
‘Never that! I am always for you, Alfonso. But your cause must be the just one, and you are now justly heir to the throne, but not the King.’
‘I would say, Isabella, that I would never force you to make a marriage which was distasteful to you. I would put nothing in the way of your match with Ferdinand of Aragon.’
‘Dear Alfonso, you wish me to be happy, as I wish you to be. For the moment let us rejoice in the fact that we are together.’
‘Shortly I leave for Avila, Isabella, and you must come with us.’
‘I would wish to do so,’ said Isabella.
‘It is wonderful to have you with me. I like to ask your advice. And you know, Isabella, I take it often. It is merely this one great matter on which we disagree. Sister, let me tell you this: I do not wish to be unjust. If I were a little older I would tell these nobles that I would lay no claim to the crown until my half-brother dies or it is agreed by all that he should relinquish it. I would. Indeed, I would, Isabella. But you see, I am not old enough and I m
ust obey these men. Isabella, what would become of me if I refused to do so?’
‘Who shall say?’
‘For you see, Isabella, I should be neither the friend of these men nor of my brother Henry. I should be in that waste land between them – the friend of neither, the enemy of both.’
It was at such times that Isabella saw the frightened boy looking out from the eyes of Alfonso, the usurping King of Castile.
Isabella remained in Avila while Alfonso and his men went on to the little village of Cardeñosa, some two leagues away; for she had felt the need to linger awhile at the Convent of Santa Clara, where the nuns received her with Beatriz and Mencia.
Isabella had wanted to shut herself away, to meditate and pray. She did not ask that her marriage with Ferdinand might become a fact, because when she visualised leaving Castile for Aragon she reminded herself that that would mean leaving her brother.
‘He needs me at this time,’ she told Beatriz. ‘Oh, when he is with his men, when he is conducting affairs of state, none would believe that he is little more than a child. But I know he is often a bewildered boy. I believe that, if it could be arranged that this wretched state of conflict could come to an end, none would be happier than Alfonso.’
‘There is some magic in a crown,’ mused Beatriz, ‘which makes those who feel it on their heads very reluctant to cast it aside.’
‘Yet Alfonso, in his heart, knows that he has no right to wear it yet.’
‘You know it, Princesa, and I verily believe that were it placed on your head before you felt it to be yours by right you would not accept it. But you are a woman in a million, dearest mistress. Have I not told you that you are good . . . as few are good?’
‘You do not know me, Beatriz. Did I not rejoice at the deaths of Carlos and of Don Pedro? How can anyone be good who rejoices at the misfortune of others?’
‘Bah!’ said Beatriz, forgetting the deference due to a Princess. ‘You would have been inhuman not to rejoice on those occasions.’
