by Jean Plaidy
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.’
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 sure, 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.
This was not the truth. Carlos was a man of great charm and integrity. He was good-natured, gentle, honourable, and in the eyes of many people a perfect Prince. He was intellectual and artistic; he loved music; he could paint and was a poet; he was something of a philosopher and historian, and would have preferred to live quietly and study; it was the great tragedy of his life that he found himself drawn, against his will, into a bloody conflict with his own father.
The trouble had begun when Joan had asked that she might share the government of Navarre with Carlos, who had inherited this territory on the death of his mother, the daughter of Charles III of Navarre.
Joan’s intention was to oust Carlos from Navarre that she might preserve it for her darling Ferdinand, who was only a baby as yet but for whom her ambitions had begun to grow from the day of his birth. Joan’s manner was arrogant, and her policy was to create disturbance, so that the people would become dissatisfied with the rule of Carlos.
Joan was considerably helped in her desire to cause trouble by two ancient Navarrese families who for centuries had maintained a feud – concerning the origin of which neither was absolutely sure – which gave them the excuse to make forays into each other’s territory from time to time.
These families were the Beaumonts and the Agramonts. They saw, in the conflict between the Prince and his stepmother, an excuse to make trouble. The Beaumonts therefore allied themselves with Carlos, which meant that automatically the Agramonts gave their support to the Queen; as a result war had broken out and the Agramonts, being the stronger party, took Carlos prisoner.
Carlos was confined for some months, the prisoner of his father and stepmother; but eventually he escaped and sought refuge with his uncle, Alfonso V of Naples. Unfortunately for Carlos, shortly after his arrival there, Alfonso died and it was necessary for Carlos to attempt reconciliation with his father.
Joan was eager to keep the King’s heir in disgrace, and Carlos lingered in Sicily, where he became very popular, but when news of his popularity was brought to the Court of Aragon, Joan was disturbed. She saw a possibility of the Sicilians setting up Carlos as their ruler; and of course Joan had long ago decided that Sicily, together with Navarre and Aragon, should become the domain of her darling little Ferdinand.
It was necessary, she said, to recall Carlos to Aragon. So Joan and the King met Carlos at Igualada, and the meeting appeared to be such an affectionate one that all those who witnessed it rejoiced, for Carlos was popular wherever he went, and it was the desire of the majority that the family quarrel should cease and Carlos be declared without any doubt his father’s heir.
This was exactly what Joan intended to prevent, as in her opinion there was but one person who should be declared his father’s heir; and the people must be brought to accept this. She prevailed upon her husband to summon the Cortes and, there before it, declare his unwillingness to name Carlos his successor.
Carlos, bewildered and unhappy, listened to his advisers, who assured him that his best place, since his royal house of Aragon was against him, was to ally himself with that of Castile.
This could be done through marriage with the half-sister of Henry of Castile, little Isabella, who was now being carefully guarded at the Palace of Arevalo.
She was as yet a child, being some nine years old; and in addition she had be
en destined for Ferdinand. But the King of Castile and the child’s mother would be far more likely to smile on a match with the elder son of John of Aragon than the younger. Moreover, nothing could be calculated to flout the authority of his stepmother so completely as to snatch the bride she had intended for Ferdinand.
This was the plot, reports of which had reached Joan Henriquez; and it was on this account that she raged against Carlos, to her husband, and determined to bring about his destruction.
‘That poor child,’ she cried. ‘She is nine years old and Carlos is forty! It will be at least another three years before she is of an age to consummate the marriage. By that time he will be forty-three. Ferdinand is now eight years old. What a charming pair they would make! I hear she is a handsome girl; and Ferdinand . . . our dearest Ferdinand . . . surely, John, you must agree that there is not a more perfect child in Aragon, in Castile, in Spain, in the whole world!’
John smiled at her fondly. He loved her more deeply in those moments when her habitual calm deserted her and she showed the excessive nature of her love for Ferdinand. Then she became like another woman, no longer the Joan Henriquez who had such a firm grasp of state matters; then she was the predatory mother. Surely, thought John, there cannot be another child in Aragon who is loved as fiercely and deeply as our Ferdinand.
He laid his hand on her shoulder. ‘Dearest,’ he said, ‘we will find some means of preventing this calamity. Isabella shall be for Ferdinand.’
‘But, husband, what if Henry of Castile decides to accept Carlos’ offer? What if he says Carlos is the rightful heir of Aragon?’
‘It is for me to decide who shall succeed me,’ said John.
‘There would be trouble if you should choose any other than the eldest son. Ferdinand is young yet, but when he grows up, what a warrior he will be!’
‘Alas, my dear, he is not grown up yet; and if Carlos married and there were children of the marriage. . . .’
Joan’s eyes flashed with purpose. ‘But Carlos is not yet married. It will be some years before he can marry, if he waits for Isabella. She could not possibly bear a child for another four years at least. A great deal can happen in four years.’
The King looked into her face, and it seemed as though deep emotions within him were ignited by the passion he read in her eyes.
Ferdinand was the fruit of their union. For Ferdinand she was ready to give all that she possessed – her honour, her life itself.
There was exultation in her voice when she said: ‘I believe that I have been blessed with second sight, John. I believe a great destiny awaits our son. I believe that he will be the saviour of our country and that in years to come his name will be mentioned with that of the Cid Campeador. Husband, I believe that we should deserve eternal damnation if we did not do all within our power to lead him to his destiny.’
John grasped his wife’s hand. ‘I swear to you, my dearest wife,’ he said, ‘that nothing . . . nothing shall bar Ferdinand’s way to greatness.’
In her retreat at Olit, Blanche lived her quiet life.
She had two desires; one was that she might be allowed to pass her time in peace at this quiet refuge, the other that her brother Carlos might triumph over his stepmother and win his way back into their father’s good graces.
Occasionally she heard news of Castile. Henry had had no more good fortune with his new wife than he had had with Blanche. There was still no sign of an heir for Castile, and it was seven years since he had married the Princess of Portugal. She knew that Castile was almost in a state of anarchy; that there were armed bands of robbers on the roads and that rape and violence of all sorts were accepted in a light-hearted fashion, which could only mean that the country was bordering on chaos. She had heard rumours of the King’s scandalous way of life, and that his Queen was by no means a virtuous woman. Stories of her liaison with Beltran de la Cueva were circulated. Blanche feared that affairs in Castile were as chaotic and uncertain as they were in Aragon.
But Castile was no longer any great concern of hers. Henry had repudiated her, and she would ignore Henry.
Aragon was a different matter.
Who was there left in her life to love but her brother Carlos? Dear Carlos! He was too good, too gentle and kindly to understand the towering ambition, the jealousy and frustration of a woman such as Joan Henriquez. And there could be no doubt that their father was completely under the influence of Joan.
She longed to help Carlos, to advise him. Strange as it might seem, she felt she was in a position to do so; she believed that, from her lonely vantage point, she could see what was happening more clearly than her brother could, and she was sure that now was the time for him to be on his guard.
Every time a messenger approached her palace she was afraid that he might be bringing bad news of Carlos. She experienced that premonition of evil which she had known during that period when Henry was preparing to discard her.
When her father had gone to Lerida to hold the Cortes of Catalonia – soon after Carlos had asked for the hand of Isabella of Castile – he had asked Carlos to meet him there.
She had warned Carlos, and she knew his faithful adherents had done the same. ‘Do not go to Lerida, dear Carlos,’ she had implored. ‘This is a trap.’
But Carlos had reasoned: ‘If I will not negotiate with my father, how can I ever hope for peace?’
And so he had gone to Lerida where his father had immediately ordered his arrest and incarceration, accused, falsely, of plotting against the King.
But the people of Catalonia adored their Prince and demanded to know why the King had imprisoned him; they murmured against the unnatural behaviour of a father towards his son, and they accused the Queen of vindictiveness and the scheming design to have the rightful heir disinherited in favour of her own son.
Deputations arrived from Barcelona, and as a result it was necessary for John to leave Catalonia for the safer territory of Aragon without delay, and in a manner which was far from dignified. And the result: rebellion in Catalonia.
Back in Saragossa, John had gathered together an army, but meanwhile the revolt had spread, and Henry of Castile, who now looked upon Carlos as his sister’s prospective husband, invaded Navarre on the side of Carlos against the King of Aragon. Carlos up to this time had been held prisoner, but in view of the state of the country John saw that his only course was to release his son.
The people blamed Joan for what had happened and, in order to win back their love for his beloved wife, John declared that he had released Carlos because she had begged him to do so.
Carlos, the kindest of men, bore no grudge against his stepmother, and allowed her to accompany him through Catalonia on his way to Barcelona, where John had hoped his presence would restore order; and the fact that his stepmother accompanied him led the people to believe that Carlos had returned to the heart of the family.
Blanche shook her head over these events. Now was the time for Carlos to beware as never before.
What would Joan be thinking during that ride to Barcelona, when she saw the people coming out in their thousands to cheer their Prince and having only sullen looks for his stepmother?
But Carlos seemed unable to learn from previous experience. Perhaps he was weary of strife; perhaps he wished to leave the arena and return to his books and painting, perhaps he so hated strife that he deliberately deluded himself.
He refused to listen to warnings. He preferred to believe that his father and his stepmother were genuine in their assertions that they desired his friendship. But the Queen was warned that she would be unwise to enter Barcelona, where a special welcome was being prepared for Carlos.
And now the Catalans all stood behind their Prince. Blanche had heard of the great welcome they had given him when he entered Barcelona.
‘It is Catalonia today,’ it was said; ‘tomorrow it will be Aragon. Carlos is the rightful heir to the throne and wherever he goes is loved. “We will have Carlos,” the people cry. “And the King of Aragon mus
t either accept him as his heir or we will see that there is a new King of Aragon. King Carlos!” And King John? He has deeply offended the people of Catalonia. They will never allow him to enter their province unless he craves and obtains the permission of his people.’
Triumph for Carlos, thought Blanche. Oh, but Carlos, my brother, this is your most dangerous moment!
And so she waited, with that fearful premonition of evil.
She was even at the window watching when the messenger arrived.
‘Bring him to me immediately,’ she told her attendants. ‘I know he brings news of the Prince, my brother.’
She was right: and she saw by the messenger’s expression the nature of the news.
‘Highness,’ said the messenger, ‘I crave your pardon. I am the bearer of bad news.’
‘Please tell me without delay.’
‘The Prince of Viana has fallen ill of a malignant fever. Some say he contracted this during his stay in prison.’
She said: ‘You must tell me everything . . . quickly.’
‘The Prince is dead, Highness.’
Blanche turned away and went silently to her apartment; she locked her door and lay on her bed, without speaking, without weeping.
Her grief as yet was too overwhelming, too deep for outward expression.
Later she asked herself what this would mean. Little Ferdinand was now the heir of Aragon. His rival had been satisfactorily removed. Removed? It was an unpleasant word. But Blanche believed it to be the correct one to use in this case.
It was a terrifying thought. If her suspicion were true, could her father have been cognisant of a plot to murder his own son? It seemed incredible. Yet he was the blind slave of his wife, and she had coaxed him to worship, with her, the beloved Ferdinand.
‘My only true friend!’ she murmured; and she thought of her brother, who, had he been allowed to reach the throne, would have been a good ruler of Aragon – just, kindly, generous, learned.