Castile for Isabella

by Jean Plaidy

  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.

  Early next day her mother came into that apartment in which Isabella had slept, and in her arms she carried the sleeping Alfonso, and with her were two of her trusted attendants.

  The Queen set Alfonso on the bed beside his sister. Then she clenched her fists together in the well-remembered gesture and raised her arms above her head as though she were invoking the saints.

  Isabella saw her lips move and realised that she was praying. It seemed wrong to be lying in bed while her mother prayed, and Isabella wondered what to do. She half rose, but one of the women shook her head vigorously to warn her to remain where she was.

  Now the Queen was speaking so that Isabella could hear her.

  ‘Here I shall care for them. Here I shall bring them up so that when the time comes they will be ready to meet their destiny. It will come. It will surely come. He will never beget a child. It is God’s punishment for the evil life he has led.’

  Alfonso’s little fingers had curled themselves about Isabella’s. She wanted to cry because she was afraid; but she lay still, watching her mother, her blue eyes never betraying for a second that this lonely place which was now to be her home, and the rising hysteria in her mother, terrified her and filled her with a foreboding which she was too young to understand.

  JOANNA OF PORTUGAL, QUEEN OF CASTILE

  John Pacheco, Marquis of Villena, was on his way to answer a summons from the King.

  He was delighted with the turn of events. From the time he had come to Court – his family had sent him to serve with Alvaro de Luna and he had entered the household of that influential man as one of his pages – he had attracted the notice of the young Henry, heir to the throne, who was now King of Castile.

  Henry had delighted in the friendship of Villena, and John, Henry’s father, had honoured him for his service to the Prince. He had been clever and was in possession of great territories in the districts of Toledo, Valencia and Murcia. And now that his friend Henry was King he foresaw greater glories.

  On his way to the council chamber he met his uncle, Alfonso Carillo, Archbishop of Toledo, and they greeted each other affectionately. They were both aware that together they made a formidable pair.

  ‘Good day to you, Marquis,’ said the Archbishop. ‘I believe we are set for the same destination.’

  ‘Henry requested me to attend him at this hour,’ answered Villena. ‘There is a matter of the greatest importance which he desires to discuss before making his wishes publicly known.’

  The Archbishop nodded. ‘He wants to ask our advice, nephew, before taking a certain step.’

  ‘You know what it is?’

  ‘I can guess. He has long been weary of her.’

  ‘It is time she returned t
o Aragon.’

  ‘I am sure,’ said the Archbishop, ‘that you, my wise nephew, would wish to see an alliance in a certain quarter.’

  ‘Portugal?’

  ‘Exactly. The lady is a sister of Alfonso V, and I have heard nothing but praise of her personal charms. And let us not dismiss these assets as frivolous. We know our Henry. He will welcome a beautiful bride; and it is very necessary that he should welcome her with enthusiasm. That is the best way to ensure a fruitful union.’

  ‘There must be a fruitful union.’

  ‘I agree it is imperative for Castile . . . for Henry . . . and for us.’

  ‘You have no need to tell me. I know our enemies have their eyes on Arevalo.’

  ‘Have you heard news of events there?’

  ‘There is very little to be learned,’ Villena replied. ‘The Dowager is there with her two children. They are living quietly, and my friends there inform me that the lady has been more serene of late. There have been no hysterical scenes at all. She believes herself to be safe, and is biding her time; and, while this is so, she devotes herself to the care of her children. Poor Isabella! Alfonso is too young as yet to suffer from such rigorous treatment. I hear it is prayers . . . prayers all the time. Prayers, I suppose, that the little lady may be good and worthy of any great destiny which may befall her.’

  ‘At least the Dowager can do little mischief there.’

  ‘But, uncle, we must be ever watchful. Henry is ours and we are his. He must please his people or there will be those ready to call for his abdication and the setting up of young Alfonso. There are many in this kingdom who would be pleased to see the crown on Alfonso’s baby brow. A Regency! You know how seekers after power could wish for nothing better than that.’

  ‘I know. I know. And our first task is to rid the King of his present wife and provide him with a new one. When the heir is born a fatal blow will have been struck at the hopes of the Dowager of Arevalo. Then it will matter little what she teaches her Alfonso and Isabella.’

  ‘You have heard of course . . .’ began Villena.

  ‘The rumours . . . indeed yes. The King is said to be impotent, and it is due to him – not Blanche – that the marriage is unfruitful. That may be. But let us jump our hurdles when we reach them, eh? And now . . . here we are.’

  The page announced them, and Henry came forward to meet them, which was characteristic of Henry; and whilst this show of familiarity pleased both men they deplored it as unworthy of the ancient traditions of Castile.

  ‘Marquis! Archbishop!’ cried Henry as they bowed before him. ‘I am glad you are here.’ He waved his hand, signifying to his attendants that he wished to be entirely alone with his two ministers. ‘Now to business,’ he went on. ‘You know why I have asked you here.’

  The Marquis said: ‘Dearest Sire, we can guess. You wish to serve Castile, and to do this you have to take steps which are disagreeable to you. We offer our respectful condolence and assistance.’

  ‘I am sorry for the Queen,’ said Henry, lifting his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘But what can I do for her? Archbishop, do you think it will be possible to obtain a divorce?’

  ‘Anticipating your commands, Highness, I have given great consideration to this matter, and I am sure the Bishop of Segovia will support my plan.’

  ‘My uncle has solved our problem, Highness,’ said Villena, determined that, while the Archbishop received the King’s grateful thanks, he himself should not be forgotten as chief conspirator.

  ‘My dear Archbishop! My dear, dear Villena! I pray you tell me what you have arranged.’

  The Archbishop said: ‘A divorce could be granted por impotencia respectiva.’

  ‘Could this be so?’

  ‘The marriage has been unfruitful, Highness.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘There need be no slur on the royal virility, Highness. We might say that some malign influence brought about this unhappy state of affairs.’

  ‘Malign influence?’

  ‘It could be construed as witchcraft. We will not go too deeply into that, but we feel sure that all would agree, in the circumstances, that Your Highness should repudiate your present wife and take another.’

  ‘And Segovia is prepared to declare the marriage null and void!’

  ‘He will do that,’ said the Archbishop. ‘I myself will confirm it.’

  Henry laughed. ‘There could surely not be a better reason.’

  He repeated. ‘Por impotencia respectiva . . .’ And then: ‘Some malign influence.’

  ‘Let us not worry further on that point,’ said Villena. ‘I have here a picture of a delectable female.’

  Henry’s eyes became glazed as he looked at the picture of a pretty young girl, which Villena handed him; his lips curved into a lascivious smile. ‘But . . . she is enchanting!’

  ‘Enchanting and eligible, Highness, being none other than Joanna, Princess of Portugal, sister of Alfonso V, the reigning monarch.’

  ‘I can scarcely wait,’ said Henry, ‘for her arrival in Castile.’

  ‘Then, Sire, we have your permission to go ahead with these arrangements?’

  ‘My dear friends, you have not only my permission; you have my most urgent command.’

  The Marquis and the Archbishop were smiling contentedly as they left the royal apartments.

  The Queen begged an audience with the King. One of her women had brought the news to her that the Marquis and the Archbishop had been closeted with the King, and that their discussion must have been very secret, as the apartments had been cleared before it began.

  Henry received her with warmth. The fact that he would soon be rid of her made him almost fond of her.

  ‘Why, Blanche my dear,’ he said, ‘you look distressed.’

  ‘I have had strange dreams, Henry. They frightened me.’

  ‘My dear, it is folly to be afraid of dreams in daylight.’

  ‘They persist, Henry. It is almost as though I have a premonition of evil.’

  He led her to a chair and made her sit down, while he leaned over her and laid a gentle and caressing hand on her shoulder.

  ‘You must banish these premonitions, Blanche. What harm could come to the Queen of Castile?’

  ‘There is a feeling within me, Henry, that I may not long be the Queen of Castile.’

  ‘You think there is a plot afoot to murder me? Ah, my dear, you have been brooding about the Dowager of Arevalo. You imagine that her friends will dispatch me so that her little Alfonso shall have my crown. Have no fear. She could not harm me, if she would.’

  ‘I was not thinking of her, Henry.’

  ‘Then what is there to fear?’

  ‘We have no children.’

  ‘We must endeavour to remedy that.’

  ‘Henry, you mean this?’

  ‘You fret too much. You are over-anxious. Perhaps that is why you fail.’

  She wanted to say: ‘But am I the one who fails, Henry? Are you sure of that?’ But she did not. That would anger him, and if he were angry he might blame her; and who could say what might grow out of such blame?

  ‘We must have a child,’ she said desperately.

  ‘Calm yourself, Blanche. All will be well with you. You have allowed your dreams to upset you.’

  ‘I dream of going back to Aragon. Why should I dream that, Henry? Is not Castile my home!’

  ‘Castile is your home.’

  ‘I dream of being there . . . in the apartment I used to occupy. I dream that they are there . . . my family . . . my father, Eleanor, my stepmother holding little Ferdinand – and they approach my bed. I think they are going to do me some harm. Carlos is somewhere in the Palace and I cannot reach him.’

  ‘Dreams, my dear Blanche, what are dreams?’

  ‘I am foolish to give them a thought, but I wish they did not come. The Marquis and the Archbishop were with you, Henry. I hope they had good news for you.’

  ‘Very good news, my dear.’

  She looked at him
eagerly; but he would not meet her gaze; and because she knew him so well, that fact terrified her.

  ‘You have a great opinion of those two,’ she said.

  ‘They are astute – and my friends. I know that.’

  ‘I suppose you would put their suggestions to a Council . . . before you accept them.’

  ‘You should not worry your head with state affairs, my dear.’

  ‘So it was state affairs that they discussed with you.’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘Henry, I know I have been an unsatisfactory wife to you because of my inability to bear children, but I love you and I have been very happy in Castile.’

  Henry took her hands and drew her to her feet. He put his lips to her forehead and then, putting an arm about her shoulders, he led her to the door.

  It was her dismissal.

  It was kindly; it was courteous. He could not treat me thus, she assured herself, if he were planning to rid himself of me. But as she went back to her own apartments she felt very unsure.

  When she had gone, Henry frowned. He thought: One of them will have to break the news to her. The Archbishop is the more suitable. Once she knows, I shall never see her again.

  He was sorry for her, but he would not allow himself to be saddened.

  She would return to her father’s Court of Aragon. She had her family to comfort her.

  He picked up the picture of Joanna of Portugal. So young! Innocent? He was not sure. At least there was a promise of sensuality in that laughing mouth.

  ‘How long?’ he murmured. ‘How long before Blanche goes back to Aragon, and Joanna is here in her place?’

  The procession was ready to set out from Lisbon, but the Princess Joanna felt no pangs at leaving her home; she was eager to reach Castile, where she believed she was going to enjoy her new life.

  Etiquette at the Court of Castile would be solemn, after the manner of the Castilians, but she had heard that her future husband entertained lavishly and that he lived in the midst of splendour. He was a man devoted to feminine society and, if he had many mistresses, Joanna assured herself that that was due to the fact that Blanche of Aragon was so dull and unattractive.