Castile for Isabella

by Jean Plaidy

‘It is an excellent plan,’ said Henry. ‘If Isabella married him she would be Queen of Portugal.’

  ‘And that would take her finally from the Castilian scene,’ added Villena.

  ‘Then let us send an embassy to Portugal.’

  ‘Highness, I have already forestalled your command. The embassy has left for Portugal.’

  ‘You always do exactly what I would do myself,’ said Henry.

  ‘It is my greatest pleasure, Highness. And I have further news. Many powerful noblemen, including the Mendozas, disagree with the treaty of Toros de Guisando. They declare that the Infanta Joanna has not been proved illegitimate and that she, not Isabella, is the true heir to the throne.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Henry mildly.

  ‘I think,’ went on Villena slyly, ‘that when our Isabella has left for Portugal we shall have no difficulty in proclaiming your little daughter heir to the throne.’

  ‘It is what I would wish,’ said Henry. ‘Then, with Isabella in Portugal and Joanna proclaimed heiress of the throne of Castile, there would be no more strife. We should have peace.’

  Beatriz came hurrying to her mistress’s apartment in the Castle at Ocaña, in which Isabella was resident.

  ‘Highness, Alonso de Coca has returned.’

  ‘Then bring him to me at once,’ said Isabella.

  The chaplain was brought to her presence and Isabella received him with affection.

  ‘It seems long since you went away,’ she told him.

  ‘Highness, it was only the desire to obey your command which kept me, so great was my longing for Castile.’

  Beatriz was chafing with impatience.

  ‘Come, sit down,’ said Isabella, ‘and you shall tell me what you saw in the Courts of France and Aragon.’

  Alonso de Coca then began to tell his mistress of the manners of the French Court, and how the shabby King was so parsimonious that even his own courtiers were ashamed of him.

  Beatriz cried. ‘And what of the Duke of Guienne?’

  Alonso de Coca shook his head. ‘Why, Infanta, he is a feeble man, more like a woman than a man in manner. Moreover, his legs are weak so that he cannot dance, and he seems almost deformed. His eyes are weak also; they water continually, which gives the impression that he is always in tears.’

  ‘I do not think I should care much for such a husband,’ said Isabella looking demurely at Beatriz. ‘And what of your stay at the Court of Aragon? Did you set eyes on Ferdinand?’

  ‘I did, Highness.’

  ‘Well, well,’ said the impatient Beatriz, ‘what of Ferdinand? Do his eyes water? Is he weak on his legs?’

  Alonso de Coca laughed. ‘Ah, my Princesa, ah, my lady, Ferdinand bears no resemblance to the Duke of Guienne. His figure is all that the figure of a young Prince should be. His eyes flash; they do not water. His legs are so strong that he can do more than dance; he can fight beside his father and win the admiration of all by his bravery. He is fair of face and high of spirit. He is that Prince who could be most worthy of a young, beautiful and spirited Princess.’

  Isabella was looking in triumph at Beatriz, who grimaced and murmured: ‘Well, I rejoice. I rejoice with all my heart. It is not as I feared. I say now: “Long life and happiness to Isabella and Ferdinand.”’

  One of the pages came hurrying to the apartment of Beatriz, where she was chatting with Mencia de la Torre.

  The page was white and trembling, and Beatriz was alarmed. She knew that, when anything disturbing happened, the servants always wished her to break the news to Isabella.

  ‘What now?’ she asked.

  ‘My lady, a paper was nailed to the gates last night.’

  ‘What paper was this?’

  ‘Shall I have it brought to you, my lady?’

  ‘With all speed.’

  The page went out, and Beatriz turned to Mencia. ‘What now?’ she murmured. ‘Oh, I fear that our Princess is far from the arms of her Ferdinand.’

  ‘She should send for him,’ said Mencia. ‘He would surely come.’

  ‘You forget that at Toros de Guisando she promised that she would not marry without the consent of the King, as he in turn promised that she should not be forced into marriage against her will. Do you not see that it could quite well be that Isabella will never marry at all, for such conditions, it seems, could produce a deadlock. It is for this reason that she does not communicate with Aragon. Isabella would keep her promise. But I wonder what has happened, and what paper this is.’

  The page returned and handed it to Beatriz.

  She read it quickly and said to Mencia: ‘This is the work of her enemies. They declare that the proceedings at Toros de Guisando were not valid, that the Princess Joanna has not been proved illegitimate and is therefore heiress to the throne. They do not accept Isabella.’

  Beatriz screwed up the paper in her hands.

  She murmured: ‘I see stormy days ahead for Isabella . . . and Ferdinand.’

  It was an angry Marquis of Villena who rode to Ocaña to visit Isabella.

  He was determined to show her that she must obey the King’s wishes – which were his own – and that she had offended deeply by her refusal of the King of Portugal.

  She had received the Archbishop of Lisbon in her castle at Ocaña and, when he had put forward the proposals of his master, she had told him quite firmly that she had no intention of marrying the King of Portugal. The Archbishop of Lisbon had retired to his lodgings in Ocaña in great pique, declaring that this was a direct insult to his master.

  It was for this reason that Villena came to Isabella.

  She received him with dignity, yet she did not seek to hide the fact that she considered it impertinent of Henry, who at the meeting at Toros de Guisando had agreed that she should not be forced to marry without her consent, to send Villena to her thus.

  ‘Princesa,’ said Villena when he was shown into her presence. His manner was almost curt, which was doubtless his way of telling her that he did not consider her to be heiress to the throne. ‘The King wishes you to know that he deeply deplores your attitude towards Alfonso, King of Portugal’

  ‘I do not understand why he should,’ said Isabella. ‘I have explained with courtesy that I decline his suit. I could do no more nor less than that.’

  ‘You decline his suit! On what grounds?’

  ‘That the marriage would not be one of my choosing.’

  ‘It is the wish of the King that you should marry the King of Portugal.’

  ‘I am sorry that I cannot fall in with the King’s wishes in this respect.’

  ‘It is the King’s command that you marry the King of Portugal.’

  ‘The King cannot so command me and expect me to obey. Has he forgotten our agreement at Toros de Guisando?’

  ‘Your agreement at Toros de Guisando! That, my dear Princesa, is not taken very seriously in Castile.’

  ‘I take it seriously.’

  ‘That will avail you little, if no one else does. The King insists that you marry the King of Portugal.’

  ‘And I refuse.’

  ‘I am sorry, Infanta, but if you do not agree I may be forced to make you my prisoner. The King would have you remain in the royal fortress at Madrid until you obey his command.’

  Isabella’s heart beat fast with alarm. They would make her a prisoner. She knew what could happen to prisoners whom they wanted out of the way. She looked calmly at Villena, but her outward appearance belied the fear within her.

  She said: ‘You must give me a little time to consider this.’

  ‘I will leave you and return tomorrow,’ said Villena. ‘But then you must tell me that you consent to this marriage. If not . . .’ He lifted his shoulders. ‘It would grieve me to make you my prisoner, but I am the King’s servant and I must obey his commands.’

  With that he bowed and left her.

  When he had gone she sent for Beatriz and told her all that had taken place.

  ‘You see,’ she said, ‘they are determined to be rid of me.
And they will be rid of me in one way or another. I have been offered a choice. I may go to Portugal as the bride of Alfonso, or I must go to Madrid as the King’s prisoner. Beatriz, I have a feeling that, if I go to Madrid, one day my servants will come to me and find me as we found Alfonso.’

  ‘That shall not be!’ declared Beatriz hotly.

  ‘And the alternative . . . marriage with Alfonso? I swear I would prefer the Madrid prison.’

  ‘We have delayed too long,’ said Beatriz.

  ‘Yes,’ said Isabella, and her eyes began to sparkle, ‘we have delayed too long.’

  ‘The King,’ went on Beatriz, ‘no longer carries out the vows he made at Toros de Guisando.’

  ‘So why should I?’ demanded Isabella.

  ‘Why indeed! A messenger could be sent into Aragon. It is time you were betrothed. I will go to the Archbishop of Toledo and Ferdinand’s grandfather, Don Frederick Henriquez, and tell them you wish to see them urgently.’

  ‘That is right,’ said Isabella. ‘I will send an embassy into Aragon.’

  ‘This is no time,’ Beatriz declared, ‘for feminine modesty. This is a marriage of great importance to the state. Ferdinand’s father has asked for your hand, has he not?’

  ‘Yes, he has, and I shall send my embassy to tell him that I am now ready for marriage.’

  ‘It is time Ferdinand came to Castile. But, Isabella, Villena is here, and he is a determined man. It may well be that, before we have news from Ferdinand, he will have carried out his threat and you will be in that Madrid prison.’ Beatriz shuddered. ‘They will have to take me with you. I will taste everything before it touches your lips.’

  ‘Much good would that do!’ cried Isabella. ‘If they were attempting to poison me, they would poison you. What should I do without you? No. We will not fall into their hands. We will stay out of their Madrid prison. And I think I know how.’

  ‘Then pray tell me, Highness, for I am in dreadful suspense.’

  ‘Villena would have to take me out of Ocaña, and the people of Ocaña love me . . . not the King. If we let it be known that I am threatened, they would rally to me and make it impossible for Villena to take me away.’

  ‘That is the answer,’ Beatriz agreed. ‘You may leave this to me. I shall see that it is known throughout the town that Villena is here to force you into a marriage which is distasteful to you, and that you have sworn to take as husband none other than handsome Ferdinand of Aragon.’

  The streets of Ocaña were crowded. People stood outside the castle and cheered themselves hoarse.

  ‘Isabella for Castile!’ they cried. ‘Ferdinand for Isabella!’

  The children formed into bands; they made banners which they carried high. On some of these they had drawn grotesque figures to represent the middle-aged King of Portugal, and on others the young and handsome Ferdinand.

  Sly songs were sung, extolling the beauty and bravery of Ferdinand, and jeering at the decrepit and lustful old man of Portugal.

  And the purposes of these processions and their songs were: ‘We support Isabella, heiress to the crowns of Castile and Leon. And where Isabella wishes to marry, there shall she marry; and we will rise in a body against any who seek to deter her.’

  The Marquis of Villena, watching the processions from a window of his lodgings, ground his teeth in anger.

  She had foiled him . . . as yet, for how could he convey her through those rebellious crowds – his prisoner? They would tear him to pieces rather than allow him to do so.

  The Archbishop of Toledo and Don Frederick Henriquez were with Isabella.

  The Archbishop had declared himself to be completely in favour of the Aragonese match.

  For, as he explained, this would be the means of uniting Castile and Aragon, and unity was needed throughout Spain. Isabella’s dream of an all-Catholic Spain had become the Archbishop’s dream. He brought all his fire and fanaticism and laid them at her feet.

  ‘The embassy,’ he said, ‘must be despatched into Aragon with all speed. Depend upon it, our enemies are growing restive. They will do all in their power to further the Portuguese match; and that, Highness, would be disastrous, as would any marriage which necessitated your leaving Castile.’

  ‘I am in entire agreement with you,’ said Isabella.

  ‘Then,’ cried Don Frederick Henriquez, ‘why do we hesitate? Let the embassy set out at once, and I’ll warrant that, in a very short time, my grandson will be riding into Castile to claim his bride.’

  Thus it was that when Villena and the Portuguese envoys rode disconsolately out of Ocaña, Isabella’s embassy was riding with all speed to Aragon – and Ferdinand.

  FERDINAND IN CASTILE

  A great sorrow had descended on the King of Aragon. His beloved wife was dying and he could not help but be aware of this.

  Nor was Joan Henriquez ignorant of the fact. She had for several years fought against the internal disease which she knew to be a fatal one, and only her rare and intrepid spirit had kept her alive so long.

  But there came a time when she could not ignore the warnings that she had but a few hours to live.

  The King sat at her bedside, her hand in his. Ferdinand sat with them, and it was when the Queen’s eyes fell on her son that mingling emotions moved across her face.

  There he was, her Ferdinand, this handsome boy of sixteen, with his fair hair and strong features, in her eyes as beautiful as a god. For him she had become the woman she was, and even on her death-bed she could regret nothing.

  She, the strong woman, was responsible for the existing state of affairs in Aragon. She had taken her place by the side of her son and husband in the fight to quell rebellion. She was wise enough to know that they were fortunate because Aragon was still theirs. She had risked a great deal for Ferdinand.

  The Catalans would never forget what they called the murder of Carlos. They had refused to admit any member of the Aragonese Cortes into Barcelona; they had elected, in place of John of Aragon, Rene le Bon of Anjou to rule over them, in spite of the fact that he was an ageing man and could not fight, as he would have to, to hold what they had bestowed upon him.

  But he had a son, John, Duke of Calabria and Lorraine, a bold adventurer who, with the secret help of sly Louis XI, came to do battle against the King of Aragon. King John of Aragon was no longer young. To help him there was his energetic wife and his brave son Ferdinand; but there were times when John felt that the ghost of his murdered son, Carlos, stood between him and final victory.

  For some years John’s eyesight had been failing him, and he lived in daily terror of going completely blind.

  Now, beside his wife’s bed, he could say to himself: ‘She will be taken from me, even as my eyesight. But the loss of her will mean more than the loss of my sight.’

  Was ever a man so broken? And he believed he knew why good fortune had forsaken him. The ghost of Carlos knew the answer too.

  And so he sat by his wife’s bed. He could not see her clearly, yet he remembered every detail of that well-loved face. He could not see the handsome boy kneeling there, yet the memory of that eager young face would never leave him.

  ‘John,’ said Joan, and her fingers tightened on his, ‘it cannot be long now.’

  For answer he pressed her hand. He knew it was useless to deny the truth.

  ‘I shall go,’ went on Joan, ‘with many sins on my conscience.’

  John kissed her hand. ‘You are the bravest and best woman who has ever lived in Aragon . . . or anywhere else.’

  ‘The most ambitious wife and mother,’ murmured Joan. ‘I lived for you two. All I did was for you. I remember that now. Perhaps because of that I may in some measure be forgiven.’

  ‘There will be no need of forgiveness.’

  ‘John . . . I sense a presence here. It is not you. It is not Ferdinand. It is another.’

  ‘There is no one here but ourselves, Mother,’ Ferdinand reassured her.

  ‘Is there not? Then my mind wanders. I thought I saw Ca
rlos at the foot of my bed.’

  ‘It could not be, my dearest,’ whispered John, ‘for he is long since dead.’

  ‘Dead . . . but perhaps not resting in his tomb.’

  Ferdinand raised his eyes and looked at his dying mother, at his aged and blind father. He thought: The end of the old life is near. She is going, and he will not live long after her.

  It was as though Joan sensed his thoughts, as though she saw her beloved Ferdinand still but a boy. He was sixteen. It was not old enough to wage a war against Lorraine, against sly Louis. John must not die. If she had committed crimes – which she would commit again for Ferdinand – they must not have been committed in vain.

  ‘John,’ she said, ‘are you there, John?’

  ‘Yes, my dearest.’

  ‘Your eyes, John. Your eyes . . . You cannot see, can you?’

  ‘Each day they grow more dim.’

  ‘There is a Hebrew doctor in Lerida. I have heard he can perform miracles. He has, it is said, restored sight to blind men. He must do that for you, John.’

  ‘My eyes are too far gone for that, my love. Do not think of me. Are you comfortable? Is there anything we can do to make you happier?’

  ‘You must allow this man to perform the operation, John. It is necessary. Ferdinand . . .’

  ‘I am here, my mother.’

  ‘Ah, Ferdinand, my son, my own son. I was speaking to your father. I would not forget that, though you be brave as a lion, you are young yet. You must be there, John, until he is a little older. You must not be blind. You must see this Jew. Promise me.’

  ‘I promise, my dearest.’

  She seemed contented now. She lay back on her pillows.

  ‘Ferdinand,’ she whispered, ‘you will be King of Aragon. It is what I always intended for you, my darling.’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘You will be a great King, Ferdinand. You will always remember what obstacles were in the way of your greatness and how I and your father removed them . . . one by one.’

  ‘I will remember, Mother.’