He had been frivolous; he had loved splendour; he had filled his Court with poets and dreamers. He was a dreamer himself. He had been touched perhaps by the Moorish influence of his surroundings. He had lived rather like a Caliph of some Arabic legend. He had sat, with his friends around him, reading poetry; he had staged colourful pageants; he had roamed about the brilliant gardens of his Madrid Alcazar with his tamed Nubian lion for companion.
The splendour of the Palace was notorious; so was the extravagance and frivolity of the King. And side by side with royal extravagance was the hardship and poverty of the people. Taxes had been imposed to provide revenue for favourites; there was misery and privation throughout the land. These were the inevitable results of his misrule and, if the country had been split by civil war and his own son Henry had taken sides against him, he blamed himself, because here on his death-bed he saw more clearly where he had failed.
And always beside him had been his beloved Alvaro de Luna, who, having begun life humbly, could not resist the opportunity to flaunt his possessions, to show his power. He had made himself rich by accepting bribes, and wherever he went he was surrounded by lackeys and trappings of such magnificence that the King’s retinue was put in the shade.
Some said that de Luna dabbled in witchcraft, and it was to this cult that he owed his power over the King. That was untrue, John told himself now. He had admired the brilliant, dashing courtier, this illegitimate son of a noble Aragonese family, because he was possessed of the strong character which John himself lacked.
John was the sort of man who seemed willingly to accept the domination of others. He had been as docile as usual when he agreed to his marriage with Isabella of Portugal.
If that marriage had brought him little peace, it had brought disaster to de Luna, for the bride was a woman of strong character in spite of her latent taint. Or was it that he himself was so weak and feared her outbursts of hysteria?
‘Who,’ she had demanded, ‘is King of Castile, you or de Luna?’
He had reasoned with her; he had explained what good friends he and the Constable had always been.
‘Of course he flatters you,’ she had retorted scornfully. ‘He coaxes you as he would a horse he was riding. But he holds the reins; he decides which way you shall go.’
It was when she was pregnant with Isabella that the real wildness had begun to show itself. It was then that he began to suspect the taint might exist in her blood. Then he had been ready to do anything to calm her in order not to have to face the terrifying fear that he might have introduced madness into the royal bloodstream of Castile.
She had fretted and worked for the disgrace of de Luna, and now he felt bitterly ashamed of the part he had played; he tried to shut this out of his thoughts, but he could not do so. Some perversity in his dying self forced him to face the truth as he had never done before.
He remembered the last time he had seen de Luna; he remembered what friendship he had shown the man, so that poor Alvaro had reassured himself, had told himself that he cared nothing for the enmity of the Queen while the King was his friend.
But he did not save his friend; he loved him still, yet he had allowed him to go to his death.
That, he thought, is the kind of man I am. That action was characteristic of John of Castile. He entertained warm feelings for his friends, but he was too indolent, too much of a coward to save one whom he had loved more than any. He had been afraid of angry scenes, of being forced to face that which he dared not; and so the Queen, balanced very delicately between sanity and insanity, had achieved in a few months what his ministers had plotted for thirty years: the downfall of de Luna.
John felt tears in his eyes as he thought of de Luna’s brave walk to the scaffold. He had heard how gallantly his friend had gone to death.
And up to the moment of de Luna’s execution he, the King, who should have been the most powerful man in Castile, had promised himself that he would save his friend, had longed to quash the sentence of death and bring de Luna back to favour; but he had not done so, for he, who had once been dominated by the charm of de Luna, was now the thrall of the latent madness of his wife.
All I wanted was peace, thought the dying King. All? It was more difficult to find than anything else in turbulent Castile.
* * *
In his tapestried apartment of the Palace, Henry, heir to the throne, was waiting to hear the news of his father’s death.
The people, he knew, were eager to acclaim him. When he rode through the streets they shouted his name; they were tired of the disastrous rule of John II and they longed to welcome a new King who could bring a new way of life to Castile.
As for Henry, he was very eager to feel the crown on his head, and he was determined to keep the popularity which was his. He had no doubt that he could do this, for he was fully aware of his charm. He was good-tempered, easy-going, and he had the art of flattering the people, which never failed to delight them. He could condescend to be one of them without apparent condescension; that was the secret of the people’s love for him.
He was determined to dazzle his subjects. He would raise armies and achieve victories; he would go into battle against the Moors, who for centuries had remained in possession of a large part of Spain. The Moors were perennial enemies, and the proud Castilians could always be brought to a wild enthusiasm by talks of campaigns against them. He would give them pageants to delight their eyes, spectacles and entertainments to make them forget their miseries. His reign should be one of continual excitement and colour.
And what did Henry want? He wanted more and more pleasure – that meant new pleasures. They would not be easy to find, for he was a man of great erotic experience.
While he was waiting, his wife, Blanche, came to him. She too was expectant, for would she not be Queen of Castile when the news was brought to them? She would wish to receive the homage, to stand beside Henry and swear with him to serve the people of Castile with every means at her disposal.
He took her hand and kissed it. Always affectionate in public, even when they were alone he did not show his indifference; he was never actively unkind, for it was against his nature to be so. Now the look of affection he gave her disguised the distaste which she was beginning to rouse in him.
It was twelve years since Blanche of Aragon became his wife. At first he had been delighted to have a wife, but she was not his kind; she could not share his pleasures as his many mistresses could; and since the union had proved fruitless he had no further use for her.
He needed a child – never more than at this time – and he had recently been considering what action he might take to remedy matters.
He had been a voluptuary from boyhood, when there had always been pages, attendants, and teachers to encourage a very willing pupil; and the exploitation of the senses had appealed to him so much more than book-learning.
His father had been an intellectual man who had filled the Court with literary figures, but Henry had nothing in common with men such as Iñigo Lopez de Mendoza, Marquis of Santillana, the great literary figure, nor for the poet John de Mena.
What had such men done for his father? Henry asked himself. There had been anarchy in the Kingdom and unpopularity for the King – civil war, with a large proportion of the King’s subjects fighting against him. If he had pursued pleasure as indefatigably as his son he could not have been more unpopular.
Henry was determined to go his own way and now, looking at Blanche, he was making up his mind that since she could not please him she must go.
She said in her gentle way: ‘So, Henry, the King is dying.’
‘It is so.’
‘Then very soon...’
‘Yes, I shall be King of Castile. The people can scarcely wait to call me King. If you look out of the window you will see that they are already gathering about the Palace.’
‘It is so sad,’ she said.
‘Sad that I shall soon be King of Castile?’
‘Sad, Henry, that you can
only be so because of the death of your father.’
‘My dear wife, death must come to us all. We must take our bow at the end of the performance and move on, so that the next player may strut across the stage.’
‘I know it, and that is why I am sad.’
He came to her and laid an arm about her shoulders. ‘My poor, sweet Blanche,’ he said, ‘you are too sensitive.’
She caught his hand and kissed it. Temporarily, he deceived even her with his gentle manners. Later she might wonder what was going on in his mind as he caressed her. He was capable of telling her that she was the only woman he really loved at the very moment when he was planning to rid himself of her.
Twelve years of life with Henry had taught her a great deal about him. He was as shallow as he was charming, and she would be a fool to feel complacent merely because he implied that she still held a high place in his affections. She was aware of the life he led. He had had so many mistresses that he could not have been sure how many. He might, even at a moment when he was suggesting that he was a faithful husband, be considering the pursuit and seduction of another.
Lately she had grown fearful. She was meek and gentle by nature, but she was not a fool. She was terrified that he would divorce her because she had failed to bear a child, and that she would be forced to return to her father’s Court of Aragon.
‘Henry,’ she said on impulse, ‘when you are indeed King it will be very necessary that we have a son.’
‘Yes,’ he replied with a rueful smile.
‘We have been so unfortunate. Perhaps...’ She hesitated. She could not say: Perhaps if you spent less time with your mistresses we might be successful. She had begun to wonder whether it was possible for Henry to beget a child. Some said that this could be a result of a life of debauchery. She could only vaguely visualise what went on during those orgies in which her husband indulged. Was it possible that the life he had led had rendered him sterile?
She glanced at him; did she imagine this or had his gaze become a little furtive? Had he really begun to make plans to rid himself of her?
So she was afraid. She realised that she was often afraid. She dared not state frankly what was in her mind.
Instead she said: ‘There is trouble at my father’s Court.’
He nodded and made a little grimace. ‘It would seem that there must be trouble when a King has children by two wives. We have an example here at home.’
‘None could prevent your taking the crown, Henry.’
‘My stepmother will do her utmost, never fear. She is already making plans for her little Alfonso and Isabella. It is a dangerous thing when a King’s wife dies and he takes another... that is, when there are children of both first and second unions.’
‘I think, Henry, that my stepmother is even more ambitious than yours.’
‘She could scarcely be that; but let us say that she has as high hopes for her little Ferdinand as mine has for Alfonso and Isabella.’
‘I have news from home that she dotes on the child, and that she has influenced my father to do the same. Already I hear that he loves the infant Ferdinand more than Carlos, myself and Eleanor combined.’
‘She is a strong woman and your father is her slave. But never fear, Carlos is of an age to guard that which is his – as I am.’
Blanche shivered. ‘Henry, I am so glad I am not there... at my father’s Court.’
‘Do you never feel homesick?’
‘Castile became my home when we were married. I have no other home than this.’
‘My dear,’ he said lightly, ‘it makes me happy that you should feel thus.’
But he was not looking at her. He was not a man who cared to inflict cruelty; indeed he would go to great lengths to avoid anything which was unpleasant. That was why he found it difficult to face her now.
She was trembling in spite of her endeavours to appear calm. What would happen to her if she were sent back to her father’s Court, she wondered. She would be disgraced, humiliated – a repudiated wife. Carlos would be kind to her, for Carlos was the kindest of men. Eleanor would not be there, for her marriage with Gaston de Foix had taken her to France. Her father would not be her friend, for his affection was all for the brilliant and attractive Joan Henriquez who had given him young Ferdinand.
Carlos had inherited the Kingdom of Navarre from his mother; and, should Carlos die without heirs, Navarre would fall to Blanche herself as her mother, who had been the widow of Martin, King of Sicily, and daughter of Charles III of Navarre, had left Navarre to her children, excluding her husband from its possession.
She had, however, stated in her will that Carlos should, in governing the Kingdom, seek the good will and approbation of his father.
On his inheritance Carlos, since his father had not wished to give up the title of King of Navarre, had allowed him to keep it, but insisted that it was his own right to rule Navarre, which he did as its Governor.
So at this time Blanche was the heir of Carlos; and if he should die without issue, the right to govern Navarre would be hers, as also would be the crown.
She was foolish perhaps to let these fancies upset her; but she had a premonition that some terrible evil would befall her if she were ever forced to return to Aragon.
Here she felt safe. Henry was her unfaithful husband; she had failed to give him children, which was the whole purpose of marriages such as theirs; yet Henry was kind to her. Indolent, lecherous, shallow, he might be, but he would never use physical violence against her. And how could she know what would befall her if she returned to her father’s Court?
Now he was smiling at her almost tenderly.
Surely, she thought, he could not smile at me like that unless he had some affection for me. Perhaps, like myself, he remembers the days when we were first married; that must be why he smiles at me so kindly.
But Henry, although he continued to smile, was scarcely aware of her. He was thinking of the new wife he would have when he had rid himself of poor, useless Blanche; she would naturally be young, this new wife, someone whom he could mould to his own sensual pleasure.
Once my father is dead, he told himself, I shall have my freedom.
He took Blanche’s hand and led her to the window. They looked out and saw that he had been right when he had said the people were beginning to gather down there. They were waiting impatiently. They longed to hear that the old King was dead and that a new era had begun.
* * *
The King asked his physician, Cibdareal, to come closer.
‘My friend,’ he whispered, ‘it cannot be much longer.’
‘Preserve your strength, Highness,’ begged the physician.
‘Of what use? That I may live a few minutes more? Ah, Cibdareal, I should have lived a happier life, I should be a happier man now if I had been born the son of a mechanic, instead of the son of the King of Castile. Send for the Queen. Send for my son Henry.’
They were brought to his bedside and he looked at them quizzically.
The Queen’s eyes were wild. She does not regret the passing of her husband, thought the King; she regrets only the passing of power. ‘Holy Mother,’ he prayed, ‘keep her sane. Then she will be a good mother to our little ones. She will look after their rights. Let not the cares, which will now be hers, drive her the way her ancestors have gone... before her children are of age to care for themselves.’
And Henry? Henry was looking at him with the utmost compassion, but Henry’s fingers he knew were itching to seize the power which would shortly be his.
‘Henry, my son,’ said John, ‘we have not always been the best of friends. I regret that.’
‘I too regret, Father.’
‘But let us not brood on an unhappy past. I think of the future. I leave two young children, Henry.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Never forget that they are your brother and sister.’
‘I will not forget.’
‘Look after them well. I have made provision for them,
but they will need your protection.’
‘They shall have it, Father.’
‘You have given me your sacred promise and I can now go to my rest content. Respect my children’s mother.’
‘I will’
The King said that he was tired, and his son and second wife moved away from the bed while the priests came forward.
Within half an hour the news was spreading through the Palace:
‘King John II is dead. Henry IV is now King of Castile.’
* * *
The Queen was ready to leave the Palace.
Her women were clustered about her; one carried the baby in her arms; another grasped the hand of Isabella.
Muffled in her black cloak the little girl waited – listening, watching.
The Queen was in a mood of suppressed excitement, which caused Isabella great anxiety.
She listened to her mother’s shrill voice. ‘Everything must appear to be normal. No one must guess that we are going away. I have my children to protect.’
‘Yes, Highness,’ was the answer.
But Isabella had heard the women talking: ‘Why should we go as though we are fugitives? Why should we run from the new King? Is she mad... already? King Henry knows we are leaving. He makes no effort to detain us. It is of no consequence to him whether we stay here or go away. But we must go as though the armies of Castile are in pursuit of us.’
‘Hush... hush... . She will hear.’ And then, the whispers: ‘The little Isabella is all ears. Do not be deceived because she stands so quietly.’
So he would not hurt us, thought Isabella. Of course dear Henry would never hurt us. But why does my mother think he would?
She was lifted in the arms of a groom and set upon a horse. The journey had begun.
So the Queen and her children left Madrid for the lonely castle of Arevalo.
Isabella remembered little of the journey; the movement of the horse and the warm arms of the groom lulled her to sleep, and when she awoke it was to find herself in her new home.
Castile for Isabella Page 2