‘I will, Ferdinand.’
‘There is a large enough force on the frontier to withstand an attack from Portugal should it come.’
‘Have no fear.’
‘You are a wise woman, Isabella. I regret I must leave my family. But the time is passing.’
‘You must say goodbye to the children,’ Isabella reminded him. She called to her daughter. ‘Isabella, my dear. Come. Your father has to leave us now.’
The eight-year-old Infanta Isabella came running at her mother’s call. She was a pretty though delicate child, and in her abundant hair was that hint of red which she had inherited from her Plantagenet ancestors. Even at eight she lacked the serenity of her mother.
She knelt before Ferdinand and Isabella, but Ferdinand swing her up in his arms and, holding her tightly against him, kissed her.
‘Well, daughter,’ he said, ‘are you going to miss me?’
‘So much, dear Father,’ she answered.
‘I shall soon be with you again.’
‘Please come back soon, Father.’
Isabella looked at them fondly.
‘You will not,’ said the Infanta, ‘look for a husband for me, Father.’
‘That had not been my intention.’
‘Because,’ said young Isabella, playing with the ornament on his doublet, ‘I shall never wish to leave you and the Queen to go to France and be the daughter of the French King.’
‘You shall not leave us for many years,’ Ferdinand promised.
And Isabella threw her arms about her father’s neck and hugged him tightly.
The Queen, watching them, found herself praying silently. ‘Preserve them both. Bring them happiness . . . the greatest happiness in life. If there are afflictions to be borne I will bear them. But let these two know perfect happiness.’
They seemed to her like two children. Ferdinand, who was so often like a spoilt boy, for all his valour in battle, for all his dignity; and dear Isabella, whose desire at this time was never to leave the heart of her family.
Isabella thrust away her emotion and said: ‘You should not forget your son, Ferdinand. He will wish to take his leave of you.’
‘He is too young to know our father,’ said young Isabella, pouting slightly, not wishing to share her parents’ attention with the baby who, she considered, usually had an unfair portion of it.
‘Yet your father will wish to take his leave of him,’ said the Queen.
So they went to the royal nursery. The nurses curtsied as they approached and stood back from the cradle, where little Juan crowed and smiled as though to show off his prowess to the spectators.
Ferdinand lifted him in his arms and kissed the small forehead, young Juan showing a mild protest; but he was a healthy, happy baby. A quiet baby, thought Isabella exultantly.
And so the farewells were said and Ferdinand left his wife and children to ride into Aragon.
* * *
He was shocked to see how his father had aged. John of Aragon was almost eighty-three years old, but, although he looked ill, his mental powers had not diminished in the least; moreover, his agility belied his years.
Ferdinand had no need to complain of any lack of respect shown to him in Aragon. Here his father insisted on treating him not only like a king, but a greater king than he was himself.
‘Ferdinand, King of Castile!’ cried John as he embraced his son. ‘It does my heart good to see you. Oh, no . . . no. I shall walk on your left. Castile should take precedence over Aragon.’
‘Father,’ said Ferdinand, deeply moved, ‘you are my father and always should take precedence.’
‘Not in public any more, my son. And I pray you do not kiss my hand. It is I who shall kiss yours on all public occasions. Oh, it does me good to see you thus. King of Castile, eh?’
‘Consort to the Queen, Father.’
‘That little matter? It is of no account. King of Castile you are, and as such worthy of the utmost respect.’
It was a delight to John to be alone with his son. He would hear all the news. So he was grandfather to two children now. That delighted him. And Ferdinand had a son. Juan! They had thought to delight him to the utmost by giving him that name. ‘May it be long before he comes to the throne of Castile,’ cried John emotionally.
He wanted news of Isabella. ‘She still refuses to allow you equal rights then? She is a strong woman.’
‘To understand Isabella one must be with her constantly,’ mused Ferdinand. ‘And even then perhaps one does not know her really well. She has the strongest character in Castile and the mildest manners.’
‘She is highly respected throughout all Spain, and France too, I believe. It is of France that I wish to speak to you, my son. I have been in communication with Louis, and he is prepared to relinquish his friendship with Portugal, to give no more support to the cause of La Beltraneja and to make an alliance with you and Isabella, that there shall be perpetual peace between France and Castile.’
‘If this could be effected, Father, it would lift great anxieties from our minds.’
‘If it should be effected! Do you not know your old father? It shall be effected.’
* * *
Ferdinand felt happy to be in Aragon.
‘There is something in one’s native air,’ he said to his attendants, ‘that lifts the spirits. How I miss my family! I long to see the Queen and my children. But nevertheless I could not be entirely unhappy while I am in Aragon.’
There were certain delights in Saragossa, but Ferdinand must enjoy them in secret.
He left his father’s palace and rode out at dusk. His destination was a house in the city, where he was received by a dignified lady who gave way to expressions of pleasure when she saw who her visitor was.
‘I have business,’ said Ferdinand, ‘with the Archbishop of Saragossa. I pray you take me to him.’
The lady bowed her head and led the way up a staircase. Ferdinand noted the expensive furnishings of the house and said: ‘It delights me that my lord Archbishop lives in a manner fitting to his rank.’
‘My lord is happy to enjoy the benefits of his rank,’ was the answer.
She opened a door on to a room where a boy of about seven years old was taking a fencing lesson.
He did not look up as the two stood in the doorway, but his tutor turned.
‘On guard!’ cried the boy.
‘Pray continue,’ said Ferdinand; and he smiled to watch the boy’s skill with the sword.
The tutor, no doubt thinking that the lesson should be brought to an end, with a flick of his wrist sent the boy’s sword spinning out of his hand.
‘How dare you! How dare you!’ cried the boy. ‘One day I will run you through for that.’
‘Alonso, Alonso,’ said the lady. She turned to Ferdinand. ‘He has such high spirits. He excels at most sports and cannot bear not to shine.’ She signed to the tutor to leave them, and when they were alone she said: ‘Alonso, your father has come.’
The boy stood for a few seconds, staring at Ferdinand; then he came forward, knelt, took Ferdinand’s hand and kissed it.
‘So my lord Archbishop is glad to see his father?’
‘The Archbishop has great pleasure in welcoming the King.’
Ferdinand’s lips twitched at the corners. This boy, with his flashing dark eyes and bold manners, was very dear to him. For his sake he had risked unpleasant scandal by bestowing on him, when he was only six years old, the Archbishopric of Saragossa, with all its attendant revenues, so the child was one of the richest people in Aragon.
‘He would wish,’ went on the boy, ‘that he was more often given the opportunity of doing so.’
Ferdinand smiled at the boy’s mother, who was clearly delighted with her son’s precocity.
‘It is a matter of deep regret to the King also,’ said Ferdinand. ‘But let us endure it, for the time being. There may come a day when we shall be more frequently in each other’s company.’
The boy’s eyes sparkled. His dignity desert
ed him and he was an eager child begging for a treat. He had seized Ferdinand’s arm and was shaking it. ‘When, Father, when?’ he demanded.
‘One day. Have no fear of that.’ Ferdinand pictured this boy at the Court of Castile. Isabella would have to know. Well, she must accept the fact that kings such as Ferdinand must be expected to have an illegitimate son here and there. He would insist on Isabella’s accepting this fact. Here, under the admiring gaze of his mistress and his son, he did not doubt that he would be capable of dealing with Isabella.
‘I shall come to Court.’
‘Certainly you shall come to Court. By the saints, what a dashing courtier you will make, eh?’
‘I shall be brave,’ said the boy. ‘And I shall be very important. All men will tremble at my approach.’
‘Will you be as fierce as all that?’
‘I shall be the King’s son,’ said Alonso simply.
Ferdinand replied solemnly: ‘You have learned much, Alonso – to strut like a courtier, to fence a little. But there is one thing you have not learned, and that is humility.’
‘Humility? You mean you would have me humble?’
‘It is a lesson we all have to learn at some time or other, whether we be archbishops or king’s sons. You lost your temper when your tutor showed more skill with the sword than you. Come, let me take his place.’
The Viscountess of Eboli stood aside, watching her son and lover fencing together.
Again and again Ferdinand sent the boy’s sword spinning out of his hand. Alonso was disconsolate, yet Ferdinand noticed with pleasure that the boy returned again and again to the play, always with the hope that this time it would not happen.
At last Ferdinand said: ‘That is enough.’ He threw aside his sword and put a hand on the boy’s arm. ‘You will be a great swordsman one day, my son,’ he said, ‘providing you learn your lesson. I want you to excel in all things which you attempt. But I would have you understand that while you must have complete confidence in your ability to succeed, you must always be prepared to learn from those who have greater experience. That is the true humility, Alonso – and the only sort worth having.’
‘Yes, Father,’ said the boy, a little subdued.
‘Now you shall tell me what you have been doing during my absence. There is little time left to us. My visit, as usual, must be brief.’
The boy’s face puckered in distress, and Ferdinand put his arm about him impulsively and embraced him.
‘Perhaps, my son,’ he said fervently, ‘it will not always be so.’
* * *
Alfonso of Portugal had arrived in his own country. Like most of his ventures, his arrival was ill-timed. As he set foot on the shores of his native land two items of news were brought to him, both of them disturbing.
His son John had been crowned King of Portugal five days before; and Pope Sixtus IV had been induced by Isabella and Ferdinand, and the conduct of Alfonso himself, to withdraw the dispensation which he had previously given to make the marriage between Alfonso and Joanna possible.
‘What an unhappy man I am,’ mourned Alfonso. ‘You see, my friends, the hand of God is turned against me. I promised myself that I would return to my country, that I would marry the Princess Joanna, that I would rule more wisely than I have in the past. You see, I am not to marry nor to rule. What is left to me? Oh, why did I allow myself to be dissuaded from living the monastic life! What is left to me . . . but that!’
He travelled to Lisbon, and he felt that, as he passed through the towns, people watched him furtively. They did not know how to receive him. He was a king and yet not a king. He had brought poverty to Portugal with his wild enterprises; he had brought more than poverty – humiliation.
His son John received him with affection.
‘You are the King of Portugal now,’ said Alfonso, kissing his hand. ‘You take precedence of your father. I was wrong to have come back to Court. I think I shall soon be leaving it.”
John answered: ‘Father, if it were possible to retrace our steps, would you have kept the crown for yourself?’
Alfonso looked sadly at his son. ‘There is no place at Court for a king who has abdicated. He only makes trouble for his successor.’
‘Then what will you do, Father?’
‘I think the monastery is the only answer.’
‘You would not long be happy in a monastery. The novelty would soon disappear, and you have been used to such an active life. How could you endure it?’
‘I should learn to live a new life.’
‘Father, you regret abandoning the crown to me, do you not?’
‘My son, I wish you all success.’
‘There comes a day when a son should take the crown from his father, and that is when his father is in his tomb.’
‘What do you mean, John?’
‘I mean, Father, that as you gave your crown to me, I now abdicate and give it back to you. My time to wear it has not yet come. I trust it will not come for many years.’
Alfonso smiled at John with tears in his eyes.
John felt relieved. He had been alarmed when his father had bestowed the crown upon him. He considered what often happened when there were two kings with only one crown between them. His father had abdicated, but there would almost certainly arise a faction which desired to put him back on the throne, whether he wished it or not.
John was happier waiting to inherit the crown on his father’s death than wearing it while he was still alive.
So Alfonso forgot his humiliating adventure in France and accepted the crown at the hands of John.
As for the people of Portugal, they had grown accustomed to the eccentricities of their King, and after a while they ceased to talk of the two abdications.
* * *
Alfonso sent for the Princess Joanna.
She was growing into a charming young woman, and it distressed him that Sixtus had withdrawn the dispensation.
‘My dear,’ he said, taking her hand and making her sit beside him, ‘how very unsettled life is for you.’
‘I am learning to be happy here, Highness,’ Joanna told him.
‘I am glad. But I cannot be happy while our marriage is delayed.’
‘Highness, we accept what is.’
‘Nay, my dear, we will not accept it. We will marry. I am determined on that.’
Joanna drew back in alarm. ‘We could not,’ she said, ‘without the dispensation.’
‘The dispensation!’ cried Alfonso. ‘Sixtus declares that he withdrew it because we did not give him the true facts. We know how much truth there is in that! He withdrew it because Isabella and Ferdinand insisted that he should; and they are supreme in Castile . . . at the moment.’
‘Yes,’ said Joanna, ‘the people accept Isabella as their Queen. They want no other.’
‘They are successful at the moment,’ said Alfonso. ‘But remember I say at the moment. This does not mean that they will always be so.’
‘We have tried,’ said Joanna, ‘and we have failed.’
‘My dear, your future husband never accepts failure. I have a plan.’
‘Not . . . not to go into Castile again?’ stammered Joanna.
‘We have failed once. But he wins who is successful in the last battle. That is the important one, my dear.’
‘You could not thrust the people of Portugal into war again.’
The dreamlike expression was creeping over Alfonso’s face.
‘We must fight,’ he said, ‘we must fight for the right.’
* * *
Ferdinand had returned from Aragon, and Isabella had prepared a banquet to welcome him.
She had wished it to be an elaborate feast. Not that Ferdinand was given to excessive eating or drinking any more than she was; not that he would care to see so much money spent, any more than she would; but he would appreciate the fact that his return was of such importance to herself and Castile.
Isabella carefully watched the expenditure of the treasury, but she w
as the first to admit that there were occasions when it was wise to spend; and this was one of them.
Ferdinand looked well, but she noticed a change in him. He was experiencing mingling anxiety and excitement. She felt she understood. His father’s health must be giving him that cause for anxiety, while it gave him equal cause for excitement.
Ferdinand was fond of his father; he would never cease to be grateful to him; but at the same time King John’s death would make Ferdinand King of Aragon; and, once that title was bestowed upon him, he would feel that he could stand in equality beside Isabella.
Isabella knew that all Ferdinand’s emotions must be mingled with his love of possessions, so that even the death of a beloved parent could not be entirely deplored if it brought him a crown.
When she had received him and they were at last alone she said to him: ‘And your father, Ferdinand? How fares your father?’
‘He is pleased with what we have done here in Castile; but he is ailing, I fear. He forgets that he is nearly eighty-three. And I think we forget it too.’
‘He has caused you to worry, Ferdinand.’
‘I cannot help feeling that his end is near.’
‘Yet it is largely due to him that this treaty of St Jean de Luz, between ourselves and the French, has been made.’
‘His mind will be active till the end, Isabella. But I fear I may never see him again.’
‘Come, Ferdinand, I will call our daughter. She will turn your thoughts from this melancholy subject.’
But even as Isabella called for her daughter she knew that the subject was not an entirely melancholy one; and the thought disturbed her.
* * *
It was early in the following year when the news came from Aragon.
The fierce winds of January, sweeping across the plain from the Guadarramas, penetrated the Palace, and in spite of huge fires it was difficult to keep it warm.
As soon as the messenger entered his presence, Ferdinand knew the nature of the news he had brought. It was evident, in the man’s attitude as he presented the message, that he was not merely in the presence of the heir to the throne but in that of the monarch himself.
Spain for the Sovereigns Page 9