Castile for Isabella

by Виктория Холт

  The Queen was in her apartment, and her ladies were preparing her for bed.

  She noticed that Alegre was not among them.

  The sly jade! she thought. But at least she has the decency not to present herself before me tonight.

  She asked one of the others where the girl was.

  ‘Highness, she had a headache, and asked us, if you should notice her absence, to crave your pardon for not attending. She felt so giddy she could scarce keep on her feet.’

  ‘She is excused,’ said the Queen. ‘She should be warned though to take greater care on these occasions.’

  ‘I shall give her your warning, Highness.’

  ‘Tell her that if she becomes careless of her... health, it might be necessary to send her back to Lisbon. Perhaps her native air would be beneficial to her.’

  ‘That will alarm her, Highness. She is in love with Castile.’

  ‘I thought I had noticed it,’ said the Queen.

  She was ready now for her bed. They would lead her to it and, when she was settled, leave her. Shortly afterwards the King, having been similarly prepared by his attendants, would come to her as he had every night since their marriage.

  But before her ladies had left her, the King’s messenger arrived.

  His Highness was a little indisposed and would not be visiting the Queen that night. He sent her his devoted affection and his wishes that she would pass a good night.

  ‘Pray tell His Highness,’ she said, ‘that I am deeply concerned that he should be indisposed. I shall come along and see that he has all he needs. Although I am his Queen, I am also his wife, and I believe it is a wife’s duty to nurse her husband through any sickness.’

  The messenger said hastily that His Highness was only slightly indisposed, and had been given a sleeping draught by his physician. If this were to be efficacious he should not be disturbed until morning.

  ‘How glad I am that I told you of my intentions,’ declared Joanna. ‘I should have been most unhappy if I had disturbed him.’

  The King’s messenger was ushered out of the Queen’s bedchamber, and her ladies, more silently than usual, completed the ceremony of putting her to bed and left her.

  She lay for some time contemplating this new state of affairs.

  She was very angry. It was so humiliating to be neglected for her maid of honour; and she was sure that this was what was happening.

  What should she do about it? Confront Henry with her discovery? Make sure that it did not occur again?

  But could she do this? She had begun to understand her husband. He was weak; he was indolent; he wanted to preserve the peace at all costs. At all costs? At almost all costs. He was as single-minded as a lion or any other wild animal when in pursuit of his lust. How far would he allow her to interfere when it was a matter of separating him from a new mistress?

  She had heard the story of her predecessor. Up to the last poor Blanche had thought she was safe, but Henry had not scrupled to send her away. Blanche had had twelve years’ experience of this man and she, Joanna, was a newcomer to Castile. Perhaps she would be unwise to unleash her anger. Perhaps she should wait and see how best she could revenge herself on her unfaithful husband and disloyal maid of honour.

  She was, however, determined to discover whether they were together this night.

  She rose from her bed, put on a wrap and went into that apartment next to her own where her women attendants slept.

  ‘Highness!’ Several of them had sat up in their beds, alarm in their voices.

  She said: ‘Do not be alarmed. One of you, please bring me a goblet of wine. I am thirsty.’

  ‘Yes, Highness.’

  Someone had gone in search of the wine, and Joanna returned to her room. She had made her discovery; the bed which should have been occupied by Alegre was empty.

  The wine was brought to her, and she gazed absently at the flickering candlelight playing on the tapestried walls, while she drank a little and began to plot some form of retaliation.

  She was very angry to think that she, Joanna of Portugal, had been passed over for one of her servants.

  ‘She shall be sent back to Lisbon,’ she muttered. ‘No matter what he says. I shall insist. Perhaps Villena and the Archbishop will be with me in this. After all, do they not wish that I shall soon be with child?’

  And then she heard the soft notes of a lute playing beneath her window, and as she listened the lute-player broke into a love song which she had heard at the ball on this very night.

  The words were those of a lover, sighing for his mistress, declaring that he would prefer death to repudiation by her.

  She took the candle and went to the window.

  Below was the young man who had spoken to her so passionately at the ball. For a few moments they gazed at each other in silence; then he began to sing again in a deep voice, vibrating and passionate.

  The Queen went back to her bed.

  What was happening in some apartment of this Palace between her husband and her maid of honour was now of small importance to her. Her thoughts were full of Beltran de la Cueva.

  CHAPTER III

  THE BETROTHAL OF ISABELLA

  Isabella was aroused from her sleep. She sat up in bed telling herself that surely it was not morning yet, for it was too dark.

  ‘Wake up, Isabella.’

  That was her mother’s voice and it sent shivers of apprehension through her. And there was her mother, holding a candle in its sconce, her hair flowing about her shoulders, her eyes enormous in her pale wild face.

  Isabella began to tremble. ‘Highness...’ she began. ‘Is it morning?’

  ‘No, no. You have been asleep only an hour or so. There is wonderful news – so wonderful that I could not find it in my heart not to wake you that you might hear of it.’

  ‘News... for me, Highness?’

  ‘Why, what a sleepy child you are. You should be dancing for joy. This wonderful news has just arrived, from Aragon. You are to have a husband, Isabella. It is a great match.’

  ‘A husband, Highness?’

  ‘Come. Do not lie there. Get up. Where is your wrap?’ The Dowager Queen laughed on a shrill note. ‘I was determined to bring you this news myself. I would let no one else break it to you. Here, child. Put this about you. There! Now come here. This is a solemn moment. Your hand has been asked in marriage.’

  ‘Who has asked it, Highness?’

  ‘King John of Aragon asks it on behalf of his son Ferdinand.’

  ‘Ferdinand,’ repeated Isabella.

  ‘Yes, Ferdinand. Of course he is not the King’s elder son, but I have heard – and I know this to be the truth – that the King of Aragon loves the fingernails of Ferdinand more than the whole bodies of his three children by his first marriage.’

  ‘Highness, has he such different fingernails from other people then?’

  ‘Oh, Isabella, Isabella, you are a baby still. Now Ferdinand is a little younger than you are... a year, all but a month. So he is only a little boy as yet, but he will be as delighted to form an alliance with Castile as you are with Aragon. And I, my child, am contented. You have no father now, and your enemies at Madrid will do their utmost to keep you from your rights. But the King of Aragon offers you his son. As soon as you are old enough the marriage shall take place. In the meantime you may consider yourself betrothed. Now, we must pray. We must thank God for this great good fortune and at the same time we will ask the saints to guard you well, to bring you to a great destiny. Come.’

  Together they knelt on the prie-Dieu in Isabella’s apartment.

  To the child it seemed fantastic to be up so late; the flickering candle-light seemed ghostly, her mother’s voice sounded wild as she instructed rather than prayed to God and his saints about what they must do for Isabella. Her knees hurt; they were always a little sore from so much kneeling; and she felt as though she were not fully awake and that this was some sort of dream.

  ‘Ferdinand,’ she murmured to herself, trying
to visualise him; but she could only think of those fingernails so beloved of his father.

  Ferdinand! They would meet each other; they would talk together; make plans; they would live together, as her mother and the King had lived together, in a palace or a castle, probably in Aragon.

  She had never thought of living anywhere other than in Madrid or Arevalo; she had never thought of having other companions than her mother and Alfonso, and perhaps Henry if they ever returned to Madrid. But this would be different.

  Ferdinand. She repeated the name again and again. It held a magic quality. He was to be her husband, and already he had the power to make her mother happy.

  The Queen had risen from her knees.

  ‘You will go back to your bed now,’ she said. ‘We have given thanks for this great blessing.’ She kissed her daughter’s forehead, and her smile was quiet and contented.

  Isabella offered silent thanks to Ferdinand for making her mother so happy.

  But the Queen’s mood changed with that suddenness which still startled Isabella. ‘Those who have thought you of little account will have to change their minds, now that the King of Aragon has selected you as the bride of his best-loved son.’

  And there in her voice was all the anger and hate she felt for her enemies.

  ‘Everything will be well though now, Highness,’ soothed Isabella. ‘Ferdinand will arrange that.’

  The Queen smiled suddenly; she pushed the little girl towards the bed.

  ‘There,’ she said, ‘go to bed and sleep peacefully.’

  Isabella took off her wrap and climbed into the bed. The Queen watched her and stooped over her to arrange the bedclothes. Then she kissed Isabella and went out, taking the candle with her.

  Ferdinand, thought Isabella. Dear Ferdinand of the precious fingernails, the mention of whose name could bring such happiness to her mother.

  * * *

  Joanna noticed that Alegre did not appear on those occasions when it was her duty to wait on the Queen. She sent one of her women to the absent maid of honour with a command to present herself at once. When Alegre arrived, Joanna made sure that no others should be present at their interview.

  Alegre surveyed the Queen with very slightly disguised insolence.

  ‘Since you have come to Castile,’ said Joanna, ‘you appear to take your duties very lightly.’

  ‘To what duties does your Highness refer?’ The tone reflected the insolence of her manner.

  ‘To what duties should I refer but those which brought you to Castile? I have not seen you in attendance for more than a week.’

  ‘Highness, I had received other commands.’

  ‘I am your mistress. It is from me only that you should take orders.’

  Alegre cast down her eyes and managed to look both brazen and demure at the same time.

  ‘Well, what do you say?’ persisted the Queen. ‘Are you going to behave in a fitting manner or will you force me to send you back to Lisbon?’

  ‘Highness, I do not think it would be the wish of all at Court that I should return to Lisbon. I hear, from a reliable source, that my presence is very welcome here.’

  Joanna stood up abruptly; she went to Alegre and slapped her on both sides of her face. Startled, Alegre put her hands to her cheeks.

  ‘You should behave in a manner fitting to a maid of honour,’ said Joanna angrily.

  ‘I will endeavour to emulate Your Highness, who behaves in the manner of a Queen.’

  ‘You are insolent!’ cried Joanna.

  ‘Highness, is it insolent to accept the inevitable?’

  ‘So it is inevitable that you should behave like a slut at my Court?’

  ‘It is inevitable that I obey the commands of the King.’

  ‘So he commanded you? So you did not put yourself in the way of being commanded?’

  ‘What could I do, Highness? I could not efface myself.’

  ‘You shall be sent back to Lisbon.’

  ‘I do not think so, Highness.’

  ‘I shall demand that you are sent back.’

  ‘It would be humiliating for Your Highness to demand that which would not be granted.’

  ‘You should not think that you know a great deal concerning Court matters merely because for a few nights you have shared the King’s bed.’

  ‘One learns something,’ said Alegre lightly, ‘for even we do not make love all the time.’

  ‘You are dismissed.’

  ‘From your presence, Highness, or from the Court?’

  ‘Go from my presence. I warn you, I shall have you sent back to Lisbon.’

  Alegre curtsied and left. Joanna was very angry; she cursed her own folly in bringing Alegre with her; she should have guessed the creature would make trouble of some sort; but how could she have foreseen that she would have the temerity to usurp her own place in the royal bed?

  * * *

  She was thoughtful while her maids were dressing her. She felt she could not trust herself to speak to them, lest she betray her feelings.

  It would be so undignified to let anyone know how humiliated she felt, particularly as her common sense told her that if she did not want trouble with the King she would have to accept the situation.

  Her seemingly indolent husband, while he remained indifferent to the affairs of the kingdom, would commit any folly to please his mistress of the moment. She would never forget the sad story of Blanche of Aragon, and she knew she would be foolish to let herself believe that, because he appeared to have an affection for herself, he would hesitate to send her back to Lisbon if she displeased him.

  After all, she was no more successful than Blanche had been in achieving the desired state of pregnancy. She was alarmed too by the whispers she had heard. Was it really true that Henry was unable to beget children? If so, what would be the fate of Joanna of Portugal? Would it be similar to that of Blanche of Aragon?

  She listened to the chatter of her women, which was clearly intended to soothe her.

  ‘They say he was magnificent.’

  ‘I consider him to be the handsomest man at Court.’

  Joanna said lightly: ‘And who is this magnificent and handsome personage?’

  ‘Beltran de la Cueva, Highness.’

  Joanna felt her spirits lifted, but studying her face in the mirror she saw with satisfaction that she gave no sign of this.

  ‘What has he done?’

  ‘Well, Highness, he defended a passage of arms in the presence of the King himself. He was victorious; and rarely, so we hear, has a man shown such valour. He declared that he would uphold the superior charms of his mistress against all others at this time or any time, and that he would challenge any who denied his words.’

  ‘And who is this incomparable woman? Did he say?’

  ‘He did not. It is said that his honour forbade him to. The King was pleased. He said that Beltran de la Cueva’s gallantry had so impressed him that he would build a monastery which should be dedicated to St Jerome to celebrate the occasion.’

  ‘What a strange thing to do! To dedicate a monastery to St Jerome because a courtier flaunts the charms of his mistress?’

  ‘Your Highness should have seen this knight. He was as one dedicated. And the King was so impressed by his devotion to the unknown lady.’

  ‘And have you any notion who this unknown lady is?’

  The women looked at each other.

  ‘Well?’ prompted Joanna.

  ‘Highness, all know that this knight is devoted only to one who could not return his love, being so highly placed. There could only be one lady at Court to answer that description.’

  ‘You mean... the Queen of Castile?’

  ‘Yourself, Highness. It is thought that the King was so pleased by this man’s devotion to yourself that he made this gesture.’

  ‘I am grateful,’ said Joanna lightly, ‘both to Beltran de la Cueva and to the King.’

  Joanna felt that in some measure her dignity had been restored, and she was conscious
of infinite gratitude towards Beltran de la Cueva.

  * * *

  Joanna had retired; she did not sleep. She knew that very soon the man who was clearly asking to become her lover would be standing below her window.

  It would be so easy. She need only give one little sign.

  Was it dangerous? It would be impossible to keep such an affair entirely secret. It seemed that there were few actions of Kings and Queens which could be safe from the light of publicity. Yet he had made that magnificent gesture for her.

  Moreover she had a notion that the King would not object to her taking a lover. Henry wanted to go his own promiscuous way, and she believed that what had irritated him in his first wife was her virtue. To a man such as Henry the virtue of one whom he was deceiving could be an irritation. What if the rumours were true and Henry was sterile? Would she be blamed as Blanche had been? Henry would be more likely to keep her as his wife if she remained charming and tolerant in spite of his scandalous way of life.

  There was another point; she had always been aware of her own sexual needs. The second Queen of Henry of Castile was quite different from the first.

  She felt reckless as she went slowly but deliberately towards the window.

  The night was dark and warm, soft with the scent of flowers. He was standing there as she had known he would be, and the sight of him excited her. None could say she would demean herself by taking such a lover. He was surely not only the handsomest but the bravest man at Court.

  She lifted a hand and beckoned.

  She could almost feel the waves of exultation which flowed from him.

  * * *

  Beltran de la Cueva was well pleased with himself, but he was too clever not to understand that this new path on which he was embarking was full of dangers.

  The Queen had attracted him strongly since the time he had first seen her, and it had been one of his ambitions to make her his mistress; but he knew that his advancement would have to come from the King. He was pondering now how he could continue in the King’s good graces while at the same time he enjoyed his intimacy with the Queen.