Daughters of Spain

by Виктория Холт

  Daughters of Spain

  Виктория Холт

  With Spain now united, Ferdinand looks to his daughters to further his ambitions. All too often, his wife Isabella finds herself torn between his brilliant plans and her love for her children.

  During the last years of Isabella’s reign, the sovereigns witness as events strike at the heart of their family. Tragedy follows tragedy – the infanta Isabella a broken-hearted widow; Juana, driven to madness by her husband’s philandering; and the sorrow of parting with young Catalina, destined to become Katharine of Aragon, wife to Henry VIII and Queen of England …

  Jean Plaidy

  Daughters of Spain

  Chapter I

  THE ROYAL FAMILY

  Catalina knelt on a window-seat looking out from the Palace to the purple slopes and the snowy tips of the Sierra de Guadarrama.

  It would soon be Easter and the sky was cobalt, but the plain stretching out before the mountains was of a tawny bleakness.

  Catalina enjoyed studying the view from the nursery window. Out there the scene always seemed a little frightening. Perhaps this was because she, who had seen bitter fighting outside Granada when she was a few years younger, was always afraid that her parents’ rebellious subjects would rise again and cause distress to her beloved mother.

  Here within the granite walls of the Madrid Alcazar there was a feeling of security, which was entirely due to the presence of her mother. Her father was also in residence at this time, so that they were a united family, all gathered together under this one roof.

  What could be more pleasant? And yet even now her brother and sisters were talking of unpleasant matters, such as the marriages which they would have to make at some time.

  ‘Please,’ murmured Catalina to herself, ‘do not do it. We are all together. Let us forget that one day we may not be so happy.’

  It was no use asking them. She was the youngest and only ten years old. They would laugh at her. Only her mother would have understood if she had spoken her thoughts, although she would immediately have reminded her daughter that duty must be faced with fortitude.

  Juana, who was laughing in her wild manner as though she would not in the least mind going away, suddenly noticed her young sister.

  ‘Come here, Catalina,’ she commanded. ‘You must not feel left out. You shall have a husband too.’

  ‘I don’t want a husband.’

  ‘I know. I know.’ Juana mimicked her young sister: ‘I want to stay with my mother all the time. I only want to be the Queen’s dear daughter!’

  ‘Hush!’ said Isabella, who was the eldest and fifteen years older than Catalina. ‘You must curb your tongue, Juana. It is unseemly to talk of marriage before one has been arranged for you.’

  Isabella spoke from knowledge. She had already been married and had lived in Portugal. Lucky Isabella, thought Catalina, for she had not remained long there. Her husband had died and she had come home again. She had done her duty but had not had to go on doing it for long. Catalina wondered why Isabella always seemed so sad. It was as though she regretted being brought back home, as though she still pined for her lost husband. How could any husband ever make up for the companionship of their mother, the delights of being all together and part of one big happy family?

  ‘If I wish to talk of marriage, I will,’ announced Juana. ‘I will, I tell you, I will!’ Juana stood up to her full height, tossing back her tawny hair, her eyes ablaze with that wildness which it was so easy to evoke. Catalina watched her sister in some trepidation. She was a little afraid of Juana’s moods. This was because she had often seen her mother look worried when her eyes rested on Juana.

  Even the mighty Queen Isabella was anxious about her second daughter. And Catalina, whose feelings for her mother were close to idolatry, was conscious of every mood, every fear, and she passionately longed to share them.

  ‘One day,’ said the Princess Isabella, ‘Juana will learn that she has to obey.’

  ‘I may have to obey some people,’ cried Juana, ‘but not you, sister. Not you!’

  Catalina began to pray silently. ‘Not a scene now … please, please, not a scene now when we’re so happy.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Juan who always tried to make peace, ‘Juana will have such an indulgent husband that she will always be able to do as she wishes.’

  Juan’s beautiful face framed in fair hair was like that of an angel. The Queen’s favourite name for her only son was Angel. Catalina could well understand why. It was not only that Juan looked like an angel, he acted like one. Catalina wondered whether her mother loved Angel better than all the rest of them. Surely she must, for he was not only the heir to the crown but the most beautiful, gentle and kind person it was possible to know. He never sought to remind people of his important position; the servants loved to serve him and considered it a pleasure as well as an honour to be of his household. Now he, a seventeen-year-old boy, who, one would have thought, would have wished to be with companions of his own sex, hunting or at some sport or another, was here in the old nursery with his sisters – perhaps because he knew they liked to have him or, as Catalina did, he appreciated the pleasure of belonging to a family such as theirs.

  Juana was smiling now; the idea of having an indulgent husband on whom she could impose her will pleased her.

  Their sister Isabella watched them all a little sadly. What children they were! she was thinking. It was a pity they were all so much younger than she was. Her mother of course had had little time for childbearing in the early part of her reign. There had been the great war and so many state matters to occupy her; so it was not surprising that Juan, who was the next in the family, was eight years younger than herself.

  Isabella wished they would not talk of marriage. It brought back such bitter memories. She saw herself five years ago, clinging to her mother even as Catalina did now, terrified because she must leave her home and go into Portugal to marry Alonso, heir of the crown of that country. Then the promise of a crown had held no charm for her. She had cried for her mother even as poor little Catalina undoubtedly would when her turn came.

  But she had found her young husband as terrified of marriage as she was herself, and very soon a bond had grown between them which in its turn burgeoned into love – so deep, so bitter-sweet, so short-lived.

  She told herself that she would be haunted for ever by the sight of the bearers carrying his poor broken body in from the forest. She thought of the new heir to the throne, the young Emanuel who had tried so hard to comfort her, who had told her that he loved her and who had invited her to forget her dead husband and marry him, to stay in Portugal, not to return, a sad widow, to her parents’ dominions, but to become the bride of her late husband’s cousin who was now heir to the King of Portugal.

  She had turned shuddering from handsome Emanuel.

  ‘No,’ she had cried. ‘I wish never to marry again. I shall continue to think of Alonso … until I die.’

  That had happened when she was twenty; and ever since she had kept her vow, although her mother sought to persuade her to change her mind; and her father, who was so much less patient, was growing increasingly irritated with her.

  She shuddered at the thought of returning to Portugal as a bride. Memories would be too poignant to be borne.

  She felt tears in her eyes, and looking up she saw the grave glance of little Catalina fixed upon her.

  Poor Catalina, she thought, her turn will come. She will face it with courage – that much I know. But what of the others?

  Thirteen-year-old Maria was working on a piece of embroidery. She was completely unruffled by this talk of marriage. Sometimes Isabella thought she was rather stupid, for whatever happened she showed little excitement or r
esentment, but merely accepted what came. Life would be much less difficult for Maria.

  And Juana? It was wiser not to think of Juana. Juana would never suffer in silence.

  Now the wild creature had leapt to her feet and held out her hand to Juan.

  ‘Come, let us dance, brother,’ she commanded. ‘Maria, take up your lute and play for us.’

  Maria placidly put down her embroidery, took up the lute and played the first plaintive notes of a pavana.

  The brother and sister danced together. They were well matched and there was only a year’s difference in their ages. But what a contrast they made! This thought occurred both to Isabella and Catalina. It was so marked and people often referred to it when they saw Juan and Juana together. Their names were so much alike; they were of the same height; but one would never have guessed that they were brother and sister.

  Even Juana’s hair seemed to grow rebelliously from her forehead; that touch of auburn was like their mother’s yet it was more tawny in Juana’s, so that she looked like a young lioness; her great eyes were always restless; her mood could change in a second. Juana gave the impression of never being tranquil. Even in sleep she had the appearance of restlessness.

  How different was Juan with his fair face which resembled that of angels. Now he danced with his sister because she asked him to, and he knew that the thoughts of marriage and the husband she might have, had excited her. The dance would calm her; her physical exertion would help to allay the excitement of her mind.

  If Juan did not want to dance when he was asked to do so, he immediately changed his mind. That was characteristic of Juan. He had a rare quality in not only wishing to please others but in finding that their wishes became his own.

  Catalina went back to the window-seat, and looked out once more at the plain and the mountains and the arrivals and departures.

  She found her sister Isabella standing beside her. Isabella put an arm about her as Catalina turned to smile. She had felt in that moment a need to protect the child from the ills which could befall the daughters of the House of Spain. Memories of Alonso always made her feel like this. Later she would seek out her mother’s confessor and talk to him of her sorrow. She preferred to talk with him because he never gave her easy comfort, but scolded her as he would scourge himself if necessary; and the sight of his pale, emaciated face never failed to comfort her.

  There were times when she longed to go into a convent and spend her life in prayer until death came to unite her with Alonso. If she were not a daughter of Spain that would have been possible.

  ‘Look,’ said Catalina, pointing to a gaunt figure in a Franciscan robe, ‘there is the Queen’s confessor.’

  Isabella looked down at the man who with his companion was about to enter the Alcazar. She could not clearly see the emaciated features and the stern expression of the monk, but she was deeply aware of them.

  ‘I am glad he is here,’ she said.

  ‘Isabella, he … he frightens me a little.’

  Isabella’s face grew sterner.’ You must never be afraid of good men, Catalina; and there is not a better man in Spain than Ximenes de Cisneros.’

  * * *

  In her apartments the Queen sat at her writing-table. Her expression was serene but it was no indication of her thoughts. She was about to perform an unpleasant duty and this was painful to her.

  Here I am, she thought, with my family all about me. Spain is more prosperous than she has been for many a year; we now have a united Kingdom, a Christian Kingdom. In the past three years, since together Ferdinand and I conquered the last Moorish stronghold, the Christian flag has flown over every Spanish town. The explorer Christobal Colon has done good work and Spain has a growing Kingdom beyond the seas. As Queen I rejoice in my country’s prosperity. As a mother I know great happiness because at this moment I have my entire family with me under one roof. All should be well and yet …

  She smiled at the man who was sitting watching her.

  This was Ferdinand, her husband; a year younger than herself he was still a handsome man. If there was a certain craftiness in the eyes, Isabella had always refused to recognise it; if his features were touched with sensuality Isabella was ready to tell herself that he was indeed a man and she would not have him otherwise.

  He was indeed a man – a brave soldier, a wily statesman; a man who loved little on this Earth as he loved gold and treasure. Yet he had affection to spare for his family. The children loved him. Not as they loved their mother of course. But, thought Isabella, it is the mother who bore them who is closer to them than any father could be. That was not the answer. Her children loved her because they were aware of the deeper devotion which came from her; they knew that, when their husbands were chosen, their father would rejoice at the material advantages those marriages would bring; his children’s happiness would rank only as secondary. But their mother, who would also wish grand marriages for them all, would suffer even as they did from the parting.

  They loved their mother devotedly. They alone knew of the tenderness which was so often hidden beneath the serenity, for it was only for them that Queen Isabella would lift the veil with which she hid her true self from the world. Now she was staring at the document which lay on the table before her and she was deeply conscious of Ferdinand’s attention which was riveted on it.

  They must speak of it. She knew that he was going to ask her outright to destroy it.

  She was right. His mouth hardened and for a moment she could almost believe that he hated her. ‘So you intend to make this appointment?’ Isabella was stung by the coldness of the tone. No one could convey more hatred and contempt in his voice than Ferdinand.

  ‘I do, Ferdinand.’

  ‘There are times,’ went on Ferdinand, ‘when I wish you would listen to my advice.’

  ‘And how I wish that I could take it.’

  Ferdinand made an impatient gesture. ‘It is simple enough. You take the document and tear it in two. That could be an end to the matter.’

  He had leaned forward and would have taken it, but Isabella’s plump white hand was immediately spread across it, protecting it.

  Ferdinand’s mouth was set in a stubborn line which made him look childish.

  ‘I am sorry, Ferdinand,’ said Isabella.

  ‘So once again you remind me that you are Queen of Castile. You will have your way. And so … you will give this … this upstart the highest post in Spain, when you might …’

  ‘Give it to one who deserves it far less,’ said the Queen gently; ‘your son … who is not my son.’

  ‘Isabella, you talk like some country wife. Alfonso is my son. I have never denied that fact. He was born when you and I were separated … as we were so often during those early days. I was young … hot blooded … and I found a mistress as young men will. You must understand.’

  ‘I have understood and forgiven, Ferdinand. But that does not mean that I can give your bastard the Archbishopric of Toledo.’

  ‘So you’re giving it to this half-starved monk … this simple man … this low …’

  ‘He is of good family, Ferdinand. It is true he is not royal. But at least he is the legitimate son of his father.’

  Ferdinand brought his fist down on the table. ‘I am weary of these reproaches. It has nothing to do with Alfonso’s birth. Confess it. You wish to show me … as you have so often … that you are Queen of Castile and Castile is of greater importance to Spain than is Aragon; therefore you stand supreme.’

  ‘Oh Ferdinand, that has never been my wish. Castile … Aragon … what are they compared with Spain? Spain is now united. You are its King; I its Queen.’

  ‘But the Queen will bestow the Archbishopric of Toledo where she wishes.’

  Isabella looked at him sadly.

  ‘Is that not so?’ he shouted.

  ‘Yes,’ said Isabella, ‘that is so.’

  ‘And this is your final decision on the matter?’

  ‘It is my final decision.’

&
nbsp; ‘Then I crave Your Highness’s permission to retire.’ Ferdinand’s voice was heavy with sarcasm.

  ‘Ferdinand, you know …’ But he would not wait. He was bowing now and strutting from the room.

  Isabella remained at her table. This scene was reminiscent of so many which had occurred during their married life. There was this continual jostling for the superior position on Ferdinand’s part; as for herself, she longed to be the perfect wife and mother. It would have been so easy to have said: Have it your own way, Ferdinand. Give the Archbishopric where you will.

  But that gay young son of his was not suited to this high post. There was only one man in Spain whom she believed to be worthy of it, and always she must think first of Spain. This was why she was now determined that the Franciscan Ximenes should be Primate of Spain, no matter how the appointment displeased Ferdinand.

  She rose from the table and went to the door of the apartment.

  ‘Highness!’ Several of the attendants who had been waiting outside sprang to attention.

  ‘Go and discover whether Fray Francisco Ximenes de Cisneros is in the Palace. If he is, tell him that it is my wish that he present himself to me without delay.’

  * * *

  Fray Francisco Ximenes de Cisneros was praying silently as he approached the Palace. Beneath the rough serge of his habit the hair shirt irritated his skin. He took a fierce delight in this. He had eaten nothing but a few herbs and berries during his journey to Madrid from Ocaña, but he was accustomed to long abstinence from food.

  His nephew, Francisco Ruiz, whom he loved as dearly as he could love anyone, and who was closer to him than his own brothers, glanced anxiously at him.

  ‘What,’ he asked, ‘do you think is the meaning of the Queen’s summons?’

  ‘My dear Francisco, as I shall shortly know, let us not waste our breath in conjecture.’

  But Francisco Ruiz was excited. It had so happened that the great Cardinal Mendoza, who had occupied the highest post in Spain – that of the Archbishop of Toledo – had recently died and the office was vacant. Was it possible that such an honour was about to be bestowed on his uncle? Ximenes might declare himself uninterested in great honours, but there were some honours which would tempt the most devout of men.