Castile for Isabella

by Jean Plaidy

  But she had no intention of putting too strong a curb upon him. She was not herself averse to a little amorous adventuring; and if Henry strayed now and then from the marriage bed she would not dream of reproaching him, for if she were lenient with him so must he be with her, and she foresaw an exciting life in Castile.

  Here in Lisbon she was, in her opinion, too well guarded.

  Therefore it was with few regrets that she prepared to leave. She could look from the windows of the castle of São Jorge on to the town and say goodbye quite happily. She had little love for the town, with its old cathedral, close to which it was said that St Anthony was born. The saints of Lisbon meant little to her. What cared she if after his martyrdom Saint Vicente’s body was brought to Lisbon along the Tagus in a boat which was guided by two black crows? What did she care if the spirit of St Anthony was supposed to live on and help those who had lost something dear to them to recover it? These were merely legends to her.

  So she turned away from the window and the view of olive and fig trees, of the Alcaçova where the Arab rulers had once lived, of the mossy tiles of the Alfama district and the glistening stream of the Tagus.

  Gladly would she say farewell to all that had been home, for in the new land to which she was going she would be a Queen – Queen of Castile.

  Soon they would depart, travelling eastwards to the border.

  Her eyes were glistening as she took the mirror which was held to her by her maid of honour; she looked over her shoulder at the girl, whose eyes danced as merrily as her own.

  ‘So, Alegre, you too are happy to go to Castile?’

  ‘I am happy, my lady,’ answered the girl.

  ‘You will have to behave with decorum there, you know.’

  Alegre smiled mischievously. She was a bold creature, and Joanna, who herself was bold and fond of gaiety, had chosen her for this reason. Her nickname, Alegre, had been given her some years before by one of the Spanish attendants: the gay one.

  Alegre had had adventures: some she recounted; some she did not.

  Joanna grimaced at the girl. ‘When I am Queen I must become very severe.’

  ‘You will never be that with me, my lady. How could you be severe with one who is as like yourself in her ways as that reflection is like your own face?’

  ‘I may have to change my ways.’

  ‘They say the King, your husband, is very gay . . .’

  ‘That is because he has never had a wife to satisfy him.’

  Alegre smiled secretly. ‘Let us hope that, when he has a wife who satisfies him, he will still be gay.’

  ‘I shall watch you, Alegre, and if you are wicked I shall send you home.’

  Alegre put her head on one side. ‘Well, there are some charming gentlemen at your brother’s Court, my lady.’

  ‘Come,’ said Joanna. ‘It is time we left. They are waiting for us down there.’

  Alegre curtsied and stood aside for Joanna to pass through the apartment.

  Then she followed her down to the courtyard, where the gaily-caparisoned horses and the loads of baggage were ready to begin the journey from Lisbon to Castile.

  Before Joanna began the journey Blanche had set out for Aragon.

  It seemed to her that the nightmare had become a reality, for in her dreams she had feared exactly this.

  It was twelve years since she had left her home to be the bride of Henry; then she had been fearful, even as she was now. But she had left Aragon as the bride of the heir to Castile; her family had approved of the match, and she had seen no reason why her life should end in failure.

  But how different it had been, making that journey as a bride, from returning as a repudiated wife, one who had failed to provide the necessary heir to a throne.

  She thought now of that moment when she had been no longer able to hide the truth from herself, when the Archbishop had stood before her and announced that her marriage was annulled por impotencia respectiva.

  She had wanted to protest bitterly. She had wanted to cry out: ‘What use to throw me aside? It will be the same with any other woman. Henry cannot beget children.’

  They would not have listened to her, and she could have done her cause no good. What was the use of protesting? She could only listen dully and, when she was alone, throw herself upon her bed and stare at the ceiling, recalling the perfidy of Henry who, at the very time when he was planning to be rid of her, had implied that they would always be together.

  She was to return to her family, who would have no use for her. Her father had changed since his second marriage; he was completely under the spell of her stepmother. All they cared for was the advancement of little Ferdinand.

  And what would happen to her . . . she who would have no friend in the world but her brother Carlos? And what was happening to Carlos now? He was at odds with his father, and that was due to the jealousy of his stepmother.

  What will become of me at my father’s Court? she asked herself as she made the long and tedious journey to the home of her childhood; and it seemed to her then that the nightmares she had suffered had been no dreams; when she had been tortured by them she had been given a glimpse of the future.

  Life in the Palace of Arevalo had been going smoothly.

  We are happier here, thought young Isabella, than we were in Madrid. Everybody here seems serene and not afraid any more.

  It was true. There had been none of those frightening interludes when the Queen lost control of her feelings. There was even laughter in the Palace.

  Lessons were regular, of course, but Isabella was quite happy to receive lessons. She knew she had to learn if she were to be ready for her great destiny. Life ran to a set of rules. She rose early and retired early. There were many prayers during the day, and Isabella had heard some of the women complaining that to live at Arevalo was to live in a nunnery.

  Isabella was contented with her nunnery. As long as they could live like this and her mother was quietly happy and not frightened, Isabella could be happy.

  Alfonso was developing a personality of his own. He was no longer a gurgling, kicking baby. It was a great pleasure to watch him take his first steps, Isabella holding out her arms to catch him should he stumble. Sometimes they played these games with one of the women; sometimes with the Dowager Queen herself, who occasionally would pick up the little boy and hug him tightly. Then the ever alert Isabella would watch her mother for the tell-tale twitching of the mouth. But Alfonso would utter lusty protests at being held too tightly, and often an emotional scene was avoided in this way.

  Isabella missed her father; she missed her brother Henry; but she could be happy like this if only she could keep her mother quiet and contented.

  One day she said: ‘Let us stay like this . . . always . . .’

  But the Dowager Queen’s lips had tightened and begun to twitch, so that Isabella realised her mistake.

  ‘You have a great destiny,’ began the Dowager Queen. ‘Why, this baby here . . .’

  That was when she picked up Alfonso and held him so tightly that he protested, and so, fortunately, his protests diverted the Queen from what she was about to say.

  This was a lesson. It showed how easily one could stumble into pitfalls. Isabella was aghast on realising that she, whose great desire was to avoid hysterical scenes, had almost, by a thoughtless remark, precipitated one of them.

  She must never cease to be watchful and must not be deceived by the apparent peace of Arevalo.

  There came a terrifying day when their mother visited the two children in the nursery.

  Isabella knew at once that something unfortunate had occurred, and her heart began to hammer in an uncomfortable way. Alfonso was, of course, unaware that anything was wrong.

  He threw himself at his mother and was picked up in her arms. The Queen stood holding him strained against her, and when Alfonso began to wriggle she did not release him.

  ‘Highness . . .’ he cried, and because he was proud to be able to say the word he repeated it. �
��Highness . . . Highness . . .’

  It seemed to Isabella that Alfonso was shouting. That was because everything was so quiet in the apartment.

  ‘My son,’ said the Queen, ‘one day you will be King of Castile. There is no doubt of it.’

  ‘Highness . . . you hurt me . . .’ whimpered Alfonso.

  Isabella wanted to run to her mother and explain that she was holding Alfonso too tightly, and to remind her how much happier they were when they did not talk about the future King or Queen of Castile.

  To Isabella it seemed that the Queen stood there a long time, staring into the future, but it could not have been more than a few seconds, or Alfonso’s whimper would have become a loud protest.

  Meanwhile the Queen said nothing; she stared before her, looking angry and determined, as Isabella remembered so well to have seen her in the past.

  Then the little girl could bear it no longer; perhaps because it was so long since she had had to restrain herself, or because she was so very eager to preserve the peace of Arevalo.

  She went to her mother and curtsied very low. Then she said: ‘Highness, I think Alfonso is hungry.’

  ‘Hungry, Highness,’ wailed Alfonso. ‘Highness hurts Alfonso.’

  The Queen continued to stare ahead, ignoring their appeal.

  ‘He has married again,’ she resumed. ‘He thinks he will beget a child. But he never will. How could he? It is impossible. It is the just reward for the life he has led.’

  It was the old theme which Isabella had heard many times before; it was a reminder of the past; it warned her that the peace of Arevalo could be shattered in a moment.

  ‘Alfonso hungry,’ wailed the boy.

  ‘My son,’ the Queen repeated, ‘one day you shall be King of Castile. One day . . .’

  ‘Don’t want to be King,’ cried Alfonso. ‘Highness squeezing him.’

  ‘Highness,’ whispered Isabella earnestly, ‘shall we show you how far Alfonso can walk by himself?’

  ‘Let them try!’ cried the Queen. ‘They will see. Let them try! The whole of Castile will be laughing at them.’

  Then, to Isabella’s relief, she set Alfonso on his feet. He looked at his arms and whimpered.

  Isabella took his hand and whispered: ‘Walk, Alfonso. Show Highness.’

  Alfonso nodded gleefully.

  But the Queen had begun to laugh.

  Alfonso looked at his mother and crowed with pleasure. He did not understand that there were more kinds of laughter than one. Alfonso only knew about laughing for amusement or happiness, but Isabella knew this was the frightening laughter. After the long peace it had returned.

  One of the women had heard and came into the apartment. She looked at the two children, standing there watching their mother. Then she retired and very soon a physician came into the room.

  Now the Queen was laughing so much that she could not stop. The tears were running down her cheeks. Alfonso was laughing too; he turned to Isabella to make sure that she was joining in the fun.

  ‘Highness,’ said the physician, ‘if you will come to your bedchamber I will give you a potion which will enable you to rest.’

  But the Queen went on laughing; her arms had begun to wave about wildly. Another physician had now joined them.

  With him was a woman, and Isabella heard his quiet order. ‘Take the children away . . . immediately.’

  But before they went, Isabella saw her mother on the couch, and the two doctors holding her there, while they murmured soothing words about rest and potions.

  There was no escape, thought Isabella, even at Arevalo. She was glad Alfonso was so young that, as soon as he no longer saw his mother, he forgot the scene they had just witnessed; she was glad that he was too young to understand what it might mean.

  Henry was happy in those first weeks of his marriage. He had arranged ceremonies and pageants of such extravagance as had rarely been seen before in Castile. So far he had not displeased his subjects, and when he rode among them at the head of some glittering cavalcade, towering above most of his retinue, his crown on his red hair, they cheered him vociferously. He knew how to dispense smiles and greetings so that they fell on all, rich and poor alike.

  ‘There is a King,’ said the people of Castile, ‘the like of whom we have not seen for many a year.’

  Some had witnessed the departure of Blanche and had pitied her. She looked so forlorn, poor lady.

  But, it was agreed, the King had his duties to Castile. Queen Blanche was sterile, and however virtuous queens may be, virtue is no substitute for fertility.

  ‘Poor Henry!’ they sighed. ‘How sad he must be to have to divorce her. Yet he considers his duty to Castile before his own inclination.’

  As for Henry he had scarcely thought of Blanche since she had left. He had been delighted to dismiss her from his thoughts, and when he saw his new wife his spirits had soared.

  He, who was a connoisseur of women, recognised something beyond her beauty . . . a deep sensuality which might match his own, or at least come near to it.

  During those first weeks of marriage he scarcely left her. In public she delighted his subjects; in private she was equally satisfactory to him.

  There could not have been a woman more unlike poor Blanche. How glad he was that he had had the courage to rid himself of her.

  Behind the sparkling eyes of the new Queen there was a certain purpose, but that was not evident as yet. Joanna was content at first merely to play the wife who was eager to please her husband.

  Attended by the maids of honour whom she had brought with her from Lisbon, she was always the centre of attraction, Full of energy, she planned balls and pageants of her own to compete with those which the King gave in her honour, so that it appeared that the wedding celebrations would go on for a very long time.

  Always to the fore among those who surrounded the new Queen was Alegre. Her dancing, her spontaneous laughter, her joy in being alive, were already beginning to attract attention.

  Joanna watched her with some amusement.

  ‘Have you found a Castilian lover yet?’ she asked.

  ‘I think so, Highness.’

  ‘Pray tell me his name.’

  ‘It would scarcely be fair to him, Highness, for he does not yet know of the delights in store for him.’

  ‘Am I to presume that this man has not yet become your lover?’

  ‘That is so,’ answered Alegre demurely.

  ‘Then he must be a laggard, for if you have decided, why should he hold back?’

  ‘Who shall say?’ murmured Alegre. Then she laughed and went on: ‘It is a great pleasure to all of us who serve Your Highness to note how devoted the King is to you. I have heard that he has had hundreds of mistresses, yet when he is with you he is like a young man in love for the first time.’

  ‘My dear Alegre, I am not like you. I would not tolerate laggards in love.’

  Alegre put her head on one side and went on: ‘His Highness is so enamoured of you that he seems to have forgotten those two cronies of his, Villena and the Archbishop . . . almost.’

  ‘Those two!’ said the Queen. ‘They are for ever at his elbow.’

  ‘Whispering advice,’ added Alegre. ‘I wonder if they have advised him how to treat you. It would not surprise me. I fancy the King does little without their approval. I believe he has become accustomed to listening to his two dear friends.’

  Joanna was silent, but she later remembered that conversation. She was faintly irritated by those two friends and advisers of the King. He thought too highly of them and she considered he was ridiculously subservient to them.

  That night, when she and the King lay together in their bed, she mentioned them.

  ‘I fancy those two are possessed of certain conceits.’

  ‘Let us not concern ourselves with them,’ the King answered.

  ‘But, Henry, I would not see you humbled by any of your subjects.’

  ‘I . . . humbled by Villena and Carillo! My dear Joanna, that is
not possible.’

  ‘They sometimes behave as though they are the masters. I consider that humiliating for you.’

  ‘Oh . . . you have been listening to their enemies.’

  ‘I have drawn my own conclusions.’

  He made a gesture which indicated that there were more interesting occupations than discussing his ministers. But Joanna was adamant. She believed those two were watching her too intently, that they expected her to listen to their advice, or even instructions, simply because they had played some part in bringing her to Castile. She was not going to tolerate that; and now, while Henry was so infatuated with her, was the time to force him to curb their power.

  So she ignored his gestures and sat up in bed, clasping her knees, while she told him that it was absurd for a King to give too much power to one or two men in his kingdom.

  Henry yawned. For the first time he was afraid she was going to be one of those tiresome, meddling women, and that would be disappointing, as in many ways she was proving to be satisfactory.

  It was the next day when, making his way to his wife’s apartment, he encountered Alegre.

  They were alone in one of the ante-rooms and Alegre dropped a demure curtsy at his approach. She remained with her head bowed, but as he was about to pass on she lifted her eyes to his face, and there was a look in them which made him halt.

  He said: ‘You are happy here in Castile?’

  ‘So happy, Highness. But never so happy as at this moment when I have the undivided attention of the King.’

  ‘My dear,’ said Henry with that characteristic and easy familiarity, ‘it takes little to make you happy.’

  She took his hand and kissed it, and as she did so she again raised her eyes to his. They were full of provocative suggestion which it was impossible for a man of Henry’s temperament to ignore.

  ‘I have often noticed you in the Queen’s company,’ he said, ‘and it has given me great pleasure to see you here with us.’

  She continued to smile at him.