Castile for Isabella

by Виктория Холт

  It was an odd state of affairs, since he was hoping to enjoy the King’s favour while he was the lover of the Queen. But Henry was a meek husband; he was a man who, while devoting himself to the lusts of the flesh, liked to see those about him acting in like manner. He was not one to cherish the virtuous; they irritated him, because he was a man with a conscience which he was trying to ignore, and the virtuous stirred that conscience.

  The future was hopeful, thought Beltran de la Cueva. He really did not see why he should not profit doubly from this new relationship with the Queen.

  It was impossible to keep it secret.

  The Queen had invited him to her bedchamber, and it was inevitable that one of her women would discover that these nightly visits were taking place; and one woman would pass on the secret to another, and sooner or later it would become Court gossip.

  He hid his anxiety from the Queen.

  He told her in the quiet of her bedchamber: ‘If the King should discover what has taken place between us, I do not think my life would be worth very much.’

  Joanna held him to her in a gesture of mock terror. It gave an added charm to their love to pretend it was dangerous.

  ‘Then you must not come here again,’ she whispered.

  ‘Do you think the fear of sudden death would keep me away?’

  ‘I know you are brave, my love, so brave that you do not consider the danger to yourself. But I think of it constantly. I forbid you to come here again.’

  ‘It is the only command you could give me which I would not obey.’

  Such conversations were stimulating to them both. He enjoyed seeing himself as the invincible lover; her self-esteem was reinstated. To be so loved by one who was reckoned to be the most attractive man at Court could make her quite indifferent to the love affair between her husband and maid of honour.

  Moreover she had heard that Henry was now dividing his attentions between Alegre and another woman of the Court; and this was gratifying.

  Henry must have heard of her own attachment to Beltran, and he showed not the slightest rancour; in fact he seemed a little pleased. Joanna was delighted with this turn of events. It showed that she had been right when she had decided that, if she allowed Henry to take his mistresses without a reproach from her, he would raise no objection if she occasionally amused herself with a lover.

  A very satisfactory state of affairs, thought the Queen of Castile.

  Beltran de la Cueva was also relieved. Henry had become more friendly than ever with him. A fascinating situation, he reassured himself, when he might expect advancement through the Queen and the King.

  * * *

  Meanwhile the little girl was growing up in the Palace at Arevalo.

  When she looked back she thought pityingly of that Isabella who had lacked her Ferdinand, for Ferdinand had become as real to her as her brother, her mother or anyone within the Palace. Occasionally she heard scraps of news concerning him. He was very handsome; he was the delight of the Court of Aragon; the quarrel between his father and Ferdinand’s half-brother was all on account of Ferdinand. It was a continual regret to the royal House of Aragon that Ferdinand had not been born before Carlos.

  Often when she was in a dilemma she would say to herself: ‘What would Ferdinand do?’

  She talked about him so much to Alfonso that her young brother said: ‘One would think he was really here with us. No one would believe that you had never seen Ferdinand.’

  Those words had their effect on Isabella. It was almost a shock to have it brought home to her that she had never seen Ferdinand. She believed too that she had departed from her usual decorum by talking of him so much. She must remedy that.

  But if she did not talk to him, that did not stop her thinking of him. She could not imagine life without Ferdinand.

  Because of him she determined to be a perfect wife, a perfect Queen, for she believed that one day Ferdinand would be King of Aragon in spite of his brother Carlos. She mastered the art of the needle and was determined not only to become an expert in fine needlework but to be a useful seamstress as well.

  ‘When I am married to Ferdinand,’ she once told Alfonso, ‘I shall make all his shirts. I shall not allow him to wear one that is made by another hand.’

  She was interested in affairs of state.

  She was no longer a child, and perhaps, when she was fifteen or sixteen, she would be married. Ferdinand was a year younger, which could cause some delay, for she would be the one to wait for him to reach a marriageable age.

  ‘Never mind,’ she consoled herself, ‘I shall have a little longer to perfect myself.’

  Now and then she heard news of her half-brother’s Court. Henry was a very bad King, she feared, and her mother had been right, no doubt, to insist that herself and her brother should go away and live like hermits. This was the best way to prepare herself for marriage with Ferdinand.

  As she had even as a very small child, she listened and rarely interrupted when she heard the conversation of grownup people; she tried to hide her interest, which was the surest way of making them forget she was present. One day she heard a great deal of whispering. ‘What a scandal!’

  ‘Who ever heard of such behaviour by an Archbishop!’ ‘And the Archbishop of St James at that!’ Eventually she discovered what this misdemeanour of an Archbishop had been. It appeared that he had been so struck by the charms of a young bride that he had attempted abduction and rape as she left the church after her marriage. The comments on this scandal were so illuminating. ‘What can one expect? It is merely a reflection of the manners of the Court. How can the King censure the Archbishop when he behaves equally scandalously? You have heard, of course, that his chief mistress is the Queen’s own maid of honour. They say she keeps an establishment which is as splendid as that of the Queen, and that people such as the Archbishop of Seville seek her favour.’

  ‘It is not as though she is the King’s only mistress. The latest scandal is that one of his ladies wished to become an abbess, if you please! And what does our loving King do? He dismisses the pious and high-born abbess of a convent in Toledo and sets up his paramour in her place. It is small wonder that there are scandals outside the Court when they so blatantly exist inside it.’

  Isabella began to learn from her mother and her teachers how the state of Castile was being governed; she was made aware of the terrible mistakes which were being made by her half-brother.

  ‘My child,’ said her pastor, ‘take a lesson from the actions of the King, and, if ever it should be your fate to assist in the government of a kingdom, make sure that you do not fall into like pitfalls. Taxes are being imposed on the people. For what reason? That the King may sustain his favourites. The merchants, who are one of the means of providing a country with its riches, are being taxed so heavily that they are prevented from giving the country of their best. Worst of all, the coinage has been adulterated. You must try to understand the importance of this. Where we had five mints we now have one hundred and fifty; this means that the value of money has dropped to a sixth of its previous value. My child, try to understand the chaos this can bring about. Why, if matters do not mend, the whole country will be on the verge of insolvency.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Isabella earnestly, ‘is my brother Henry to blame for this?’

  ‘The rulers of a country are often to be blamed when it falls on evil times. It is their duty to efface themselves for the love of their country. The duty of Kings and Queens to their people should come before their pleasure. If ever it should be your destiny to rule...’

  Isabella folded her hands together and said, ‘My country would be my first consideration.’ And she spoke as a novice might speak when contemplating the taking of her vows.

  And always on such occasions she imagined herself ruling with Ferdinand; she began to realise that this prospective bridegroom, who was so real to her in spite of the fact that she had never seen him, was the dominating influence in her life.

  Later came news tha
t Henry had decided to lead a crusade against the Moors. There was nothing which could win the approval of the people so surely as an attempt to conquer the Moors. Spaniards smarted in the knowledge that for centuries the Arabs had remained in Spain, and that large provinces in the south were still under their domination. Since the days of Rodrigo Diaz of Bivar, the famous Castilian leader who had lived in the eleventh century and had been known as the Cid Campeador, Spaniards had looked for another great leader; and whenever one appeared who proposed to lead a campaign which was calculated to drive the Moors from the Iberian Peninsula the cry went up: ‘Here is the Cid reborn and come among us.’

  Thus, when Henry declared his intention of striking against the Moors, his popularity increased.

  He needed money for his campaigns, and who should provide it but his long-suffering people? The riches of the countryside were seized that armies might be equipped for the King’s campaign.

  Henry, however, was a soldier who could make a brave show, marching through the streets at the head of his troops, but was not so successful on the battlefields.

  Again and again his troops were routed; he returned from the wars, with his dazzling cavalcade making a brave show; but there were no conquests, and the Moors remained as strongly entrenched as ever.

  He declared that he was chary of risking the lives of his soldiers, for in his opinion the life of one Christian was worth more than those of a thousand Mussulmans.

  This was a sentiment which he hoped would find favour with the people; but they grumbled, particularly those in whose districts the fighting had taken place.

  It would seem, said these people, that the King makes war on us, not on the Infidel.

  And each day in the schoolroom at Arevalo Isabella would hear of the exploits of Henry, and must learn her lessons from them.

  ‘Never go to war,’ she was told, ‘unless you have a well-founded hope of victory. Fine uniforms do not necessarily make good soldiers. Before you go to war make sure that your cause is just and that it is wholeheartedly yours.’ ‘Never,’ said their preceptor, instructing Isabella and Alfonso, ‘had a prospective ruler a better opportunity of profiting from the folly of a predecessor.’

  The children were told why, on every count, Henry was a bad King. They were not told of his voluptuous adventures, but these were hinted at, and mistresses and ministers were spoken of under one category as Favourites.

  He was extravagant almost to the point of absurdity. His policy was to give bribes to his enemies in the hope of turning them into friends, and to his friends that they might remain friendly.

  Mistaken policies, both of them, Isabella and Alfonso were warned. Friends should be kept by mutual loyalty, and enemies met by the mailed fist and not by placatory gold.

  ‘Learn your lessons well, children. There may come a time when you will need them.’

  ‘And we must learn our lessons, Alfonso,’ said Isabella. ‘For it may well be that one day the people will have had enough of Henry; and if he has no son they will call upon you to take the throne of Castile. As for myself, one day I shall help Ferdinand to rule Aragon. We must certainly learn our lessons well.’

  So, gravely, they listened to what was told to them; and it seemed to them both that the years at Arevalo were the waiting years.

  * * *

  Isabella sat thoughtfully over her needlework.

  At any moment, she thought, there may be change. At any moment the people may decide that they will have no more of Henry; then they will march to Arevalo and take away Alfonso to make him King.

  She had heard that the debasing of the coinage had caused chaos among certain sections of the community; and the result was that robbery had increased.

  Some of the noblest families in Castile, declaring themselves to be on the verge of bankruptcy, lost all sense of decency and took to robbery on the roads. Travelling was less safe than it had been for centuries; and castles, which had once been the homes of noble families, were now little less than robbers’ dens. Some of these nobles even attempted to put right their reverses by selling Christian men and women, whom they seized during raids on villages, as slaves to the Moors.

  Such conduct was quite deplorable, and it was clear that anarchy reigned in Castile.

  Much reform was needed; but all the King seemed to care about was his fancy-dress parades and the pleasure of his Favourites.

  Isabella prayed for the well-being of her country. ‘Ah,’ she told herself, ‘how different we shall be – Ferdinand and I – when we rule together!’

  One day her mother came to her in a mood of great excitement, and Isabella was reminded of the night when she had been called from her bed to give thanks because the King of Aragon had asked that she might be given in marriage to his son Ferdinand.

  ‘Isabella daughter, here is wonderful news. The Prince of Viana is asking for your hand in marriage. This is a brilliant offer. Not only is Carlos heir to Aragon, but Navarre is his also. My dear Isabella, why do you stare at me so blankly? You should rejoice.’

  Isabella had grown pale; she lifted her head and held herself at her full height, for once losing her sense of decorum. ‘You have forgotten, Highness,’ she said. ‘I am already betrothed to Ferdinand.’

  The Dowager Queen laughed. ‘That... oh, we will forget it. Ferdinand of Aragon? A very good match, but he is only a younger brother. Carlos, the heir of Aragon, the ruler of Navarre, is asking for your hand. I do not see why the marriage should be long delayed.’

  On one of the few occasions in her young life Isabella lost control. She knelt and, seizing her mother’s skirts, looked up at her imploringly. ‘But, Highness,’ she cried, ‘I have been promised to Ferdinand.’

  ‘The promise was not binding, my child. This is a more suitable match. You must allow your elders to know what is good for you.’

  ‘Highness, the King of Aragon will be angry. Does he not love the fingernails of Ferdinand better than the whole body of his elder son?’

  That made the Dowager Queen smile. ‘Carlos has quarrelled with his father, but the people of Aragon love Carlos, and he is the one whom they will make their King. The territories of Navarre are also his. Why, there could not be a better match.’

  Isabella stood rigid and for the first time showed distinct signs of a stubborn nature.

  ‘It is a point of honour that I marry Ferdinand.’ Her mother laughed, not wildly nor excitedly, merely with faintly amused tolerance; but now Isabella was past caring about the state of her mother’s emotions.

  The Dowager Queen said once more: ‘Leave these matters to your elders, Isabella. Now you should go on your knees and give thanks to God and his saints for the great good fortune which is to be yours.’

  Wild protests rose to Isabella’s lips, but the discipline of years prevailed, and she said nothing.

  She allowed herself to be led to her prie-Dieu and, while her mother prayed for the speedy union of her daughter and the Prince of Viana, heir to the throne of Aragon, she could only murmur: ‘Ferdinand! Oh Ferdinand! It must be Ferdinand. Holy Mother of God, do not desert me now. Let anything happen to me or the Prince of Viana or the whole world, but give me Ferdinand.’

  CHAPTER IV

  SCANDAL AT THE COURT OF CASTILE

  In the Palace at Saragossa Joan Henriquez, Queen of Aragon, was discussing the effrontery of Carlos with her husband, John.

  ‘This,’ declared Joan, ‘is meant to insult you, to show you how little this son of yours cares for your authority. He knows it is a favourite project of ours that Ferdinand shall mate with Isabella. So what does he do but offer himself!’

  ‘It shall not come to pass,’ said the King. ‘Do not distress yourself, my dear. Isabella is for Ferdinand, and we shall find some means of outwitting Carlos... as we have in the past.’

  He smiled fondly at his wife. She was much younger than he was, and from the date of their marriage he had become so enamoured of her that his great desire was to give her all she wished. She was, he was su
re, unique. Handsome, bold, shrewd – where was there another woman in the world to compare with her? His first wife, Blanche of Navarre, had been the widow of Martin of Sicily when he had married her. She had been a good woman, possessed of a far from insignificant dowry, and he had been well pleased with the match. She had given him three children: Carlos, Blanche and Eleanor, and he had been delighted at the time; now, having married the incomparable Joan Henriquez and having had issue by her in the also incomparable Ferdinand, he could wish – because Joan wished this – that he had no other children, so that Ferdinand would be heir to everything he possessed.

  It was small wonder, he assured himself, that he should dote on Ferdinand. What of his other children? He was in continual conflict with Carlos; Blanche had been repudiated by her husband, Henry of Castile, and was now living in retirement on her estates at Olit, where, so Joan insisted, she gave assistance to her brother Carlos in his disagreements with his father; and there was Eleanor, Comtesse de Foix, who had left home many years before when she married Gaston de Foix, and was a domineering woman of great ambitions.

  As for Joan, she doted on Ferdinand with all the force of a strong nature, and was resentful of any favours which fell to the lot of the other children.

  In the first days of their union she had been gentle and loving, but from that day – it was the 10th March in the year 1452, some eight years ago – when her Ferdinand had been born in the little town of Sos, she had changed. She had become as a tigress fighting for her cub: and John, being so devoted to her, had become involved in this battle for the rights of the adored son of his second wife against the family of his first.

  It was a sad state of affairs in any family when there was discord between its members; in a royal family this could be disastrous.

  John of Aragon, however, could only see through the eyes of the wife on whom he doted, and therefore to him his son Carlos was a scoundrel.