Castile for Isabella

by Jean Plaidy

  ‘She is certain that she is the true heiress, and she is ready to wait.’

  ‘But not to wait too long, it seems. No, Highness, we must remove you from here as soon as possible. And we must not allow this attempt on your life to be ignored.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’ asked Henry wearily.

  ‘We shall send forces to Segovia. They will enter the town stealthily and take possession of vital points. Then they shall make Isabella their prisoner on the ground that she tried to poison you. We could bring her to trial for that.’

  ‘I do not believe Isabella would try to poison me.’

  ‘Then you do not believe the evidence of your senses.’

  ‘Cabrera’s wife has nursed me well.’

  ‘A poisonous woman.’

  ‘A good nurse. She seemed determined to save my life. And, Marquis, do you not think that I should acknowledge Isabella as heir to the throne? She is the one the people want. And with Ferdinand’s help she would bring Castile out of its present troubles.’

  ‘But your will, of which you have made me executor, clearly states that your daughter Joanna is heir to the throne.’

  ‘It’s true. Little Joanna. She is but a child. She will be surrounded by wolves . . . wolves who seek power. I came to the conclusion, when I rode through the streets of the town with Ferdinand and Isabella, that matters would be simplified if I admitted that Joanna was not my daughter and made Ferdinand and Isabella my heirs.’

  ‘I see that some of the poison has been effective,’ said Villena. ‘As soon as you are well enough to travel we must leave this place for Cuellar. There we will make our plans for the capture of Isabella. We shall not be safe until she is under lock and key. And I tremble for your safety while you are in this place.’

  ‘I do not,’ said Henry. ‘I do not believe Isabella would allow any harm to befall me.’

  Villena looked with scorn on the King and, as he did so, he placed his hand to his throat.

  ‘What ails you?’ asked Henry. ‘You look as sick as I do myself.’

  ‘It is nothing. A certain dryness of the throat. A certain discomfort, nothing more.’

  ‘You have not the same colour that you had.’

  ‘I have scarcely slept since I heard the news that Your Highness was here at Segovia in the midst of your enemies.’

  ‘Ah, if I had but known who were my friends and who my enemies I should have had a happier life.’

  Villena looked startled. ‘You talk as though you had come to the end of it. No, Your Highness, you will recover from this attempt on your life. And it shall not be forgotten. Let us make certain of that.’

  ‘Well,’ said Henry, ‘if Isabella was behind a plot to poison me, she deserves imprisonment.’

  In the town of Cuellar, whither Villena had taken the King, plans were made for the capture of Isabella.

  ‘Forces shall enter the town,’ said Villena. ‘Explosives will be thrown at the Alcazar; the inhabitants will be terror-stricken, and then it will be no difficult matter to secure the person of Isabella.’

  Several months had passed since the King’s illness, but he had never fully recovered and was subject to attacks of vomiting.

  As for Villena himself, that great energy which had sustained him seemed to be spent. He still planned; he still had ambitious schemes, but the pain in his throat persisted and he found it impossible to eat certain foods.

  In the Alcazar at Segovia, Beatriz and her husband were aware of the plot to capture Isabella, and they doubled the guards at all vital points; thus when Villena’s troops tried to make a stealthy entry into the town they were discovered and the plan was frustrated.

  Villena received the news almost with indifference.

  And the next day even his spirit broke and he accepted the advice of his servants and stayed in his bed. Within a few days he was suffering great pain, and was unable to swallow food. He knew that he had not long to live.

  He lay back, considering all the ambitions of his life and wondering whether it had been worth while. He had achieved great power; he had been at times the ruler of Castile; and now it was over and he must lie on his bed, the victim of a malignant growth in his throat which would destroy him, as his enemies had not been able to do.

  Isabella remained at large. The people were rallying about her. And he, Villena, who had sworn that she should never come to the throne, was dying helplessly.

  Henry could not accept the fact when the news was brought to him. Villena . . . dead!

  ‘But what shall I do?’ he said. ‘What shall I do now?’

  He prayed for his friend; he wept for his friend. He had always believed that he would die long before Villena. He had lost his master and his servant, and he was bewildered.

  His secretary Oviedo came to him.

  ‘Highness,’ said Oviedo, ‘there is a very important matter of which I must speak to you.’

  Henry nodded for him to proceed.

  ‘On his death-bed the Marquis of Villena put this paper into my hand. It is your will, of which he was to be executor. I have glanced at it, Highness, and see it to be a document of the utmost importance, since it names the Princess Joanna as your heir.’

  ‘Take it away,’ said Henry. ‘How can I think of such matters when my dear friend has died and I am all alone?’

  ‘Highness, what shall I do with it?’

  ‘I care not what you do with it. I only wish to be left in peace.’

  Oviedo bowed and went away.

  He looked at the will. He knew the explosive power of its contents if they became known; they were capable of plunging Castile into civil war.

  He could not decide what to do with it, so as a temporary measure he put it in a box, which he locked.

  Henry went back to Madrid. He felt not only ill but very weary. He knew that Villena had been self-seeking, a man of immense ambitions, yet without him the King felt lost. He believed that the most unhappy time of his life had been when Villena had sided with his enemies and given his support to young Alfonso. He remembered his delight when Villena had returned to him.

  ‘And now,’ murmured Henry, ‘I am alone. He has gone before me, and I am sick and tired out with all the troubles about me.’

  He was often ill; there was a return of that sickness which had attacked him in Segovia. Indeed he had never fully recovered from it.

  Tears of self-pity often filled Henry’s eyes, and his doctors sought to rouse him from his lethargy. But there was nothing now which could give him the desire to live. His mistresses no longer interested him. There was nothing in life to sustain his flagging spirits.

  It became clear to all in the immediate Court circle that Henry had not long to live. Ambitious noblemen began to court Isabella. The Cardinal Mendoza and the Count Benavente, who had supported first Alfonso and then turned to La Beltraneja, now began to turn again – this time towards Isabella.

  Isabella was the natural successor. Her character had aroused admiration. She was of a nature to make a good Queen, and she had a strong husband in Ferdinand.

  So, among others, Mendoza and Benavente came to Court, there to await the passing of the old sovereign and the nomination of the new.

  On a cold December night in the year 1474, Henry lay on his death-bed.

  Ranged round his bed were the men who had come to see him die, and among them was the Cardinal Mendoza and the Count Benavente. In the background hovered the King’s secretary, Oviedo. He was uneasy, for he had something on his mind.

  Mendoza whispered to Benavente: ‘He cannot last long. That was the death-rattle in his throat.’

  ‘He cannot have more than an hour to live. It is time he received the last rites.’

  ‘One moment. He is trying to say something.’

  The Cardinal and the Count exchanged glances. It might well be that what the King had to say had better not be heard by any but themselves.

  The Cardinal bent over the bed. ‘Your Highness, your servants await your orders.’


  ‘Little Joanna,’ murmured the King. ‘She is but a child. What will become of her?’

  ‘She will be taken care of, Highness. Do not fret on her account.’

  ‘But I do. We were so careless . . . her mother and I. She is my heiress . . . Little Joanna. Who will care for her? My sister Isabella is strong. She can look after herself . . . but little Joanna . . . she is my heiress, I tell you. She is my heiress.’

  The Cardinal said quickly: ‘The King’s mind wanders.’ The Count nodded in agreement.

  ‘I have left a will,’ went on Henry. ‘In it I proclaim her my heir.’

  ‘A will!’ The Cardinal was startled, for this was an alarming piece of information. He and the Count were only waiting for the end of Henry that they might go and pay their homage to the new Queen Isabella. A will could complicate matters considerably.

  ‘It is with Villena . . .’ murmured the King. ‘I gave it to Viilena.’

  ‘There is no doubt that the King’s mind wanders,’ whispered the Count.

  ‘It is with Villena,’ muttered Henry. ‘He will look after her. He will save the throne for Joanna.’

  One of the attendants came to the two men who stood by the bed, and asked if he should call the King’s Confessor.

  ‘The King’s mind wanders,’ the Cardinal told him. ‘He believes the Marquis of Villena to be here in the Palace.’

  The King’s eyes had closed and his head had fallen a little to one side. His breathing was stertorous. Suddenly he opened his eyes and looked at the men about the bed. He obviously did not recognise them. Then he said, and the words came thickly through his furred lips: ‘Villena, where are you, my friend? Villena, come nearer.’

  ‘He is near the end,’ said the Cardinal. ‘Yes, call the King’s Confessor.’

  As the Count and Cardinal left the chamber of death Oviedo hurried after them.

  ‘My lords, may I have a word with you?’

  They paused to listen to the secretary.

  ‘The King has left in my keeping a document which greatly troubles me,’ said Oviedo. ‘It was in Villena’s possession, until he was dying. He then gave it to me to return to the King, but the King told me to lock it away; and this I have done.’

  ‘What document is this?’

  ‘It is the King’s last will, my lords.’

  ‘You should show it to us without delay.’

  Oviedo led them into a chamber in which he stored his secret documents. He unlocked the box, produced the will and handed it to the Cardinal.

  Had the Cardinal been alone he might have destroyed it; at the moment Benavente was his friend; but men changed sides quickly in Castile at this time, and he dared not destroy such a document while there were witnesses to see him do so.

  Benavente read his thoughts, for they were his also.

  Then the Cardinal said: ‘Tell no one of this document. Take it to the curate of Santa Cruz in Madrid and tell him to lock it away in a safe place.’

  Oviedo bowed and retired.

  The Count and Cardinal were silent for a few seconds; then the Cardinal said: ‘Come! Let us to Segovia, there to pay homage to the Queen of Castile.’

  ISABELLA AND FERDINAND

  On the thirteenth day of December, in that year 1474, a procession consisting of the highest of the nobility and clergy of Castile made its way to the Alcazar of Segovia.

  There, under a canopy of rich brocade, homage was paid to Isabella, Queen of Castile.

  They had come to escort her to the city’s square where a platform had been set up.

  Isabella, in her royal robes, mounted her jennet and was led there by the magistrates of the city, while one of her officers walked before her carrying the sword of state.

  When she reached the platform she dismounted and ascended the structure, there to take her place on the throne which had been set up for her.

  When she looked out on that great assembly she was deeply moved. This, she felt, was one of the truly great moments in her life, and it was for this that she had been born.

  She had two regrets – one disappointing, one very bitter. The first was that Ferdinand was not here to share this triumph with her because he had, only a few weeks before Henry’s death, received an urgent call from his father and had joined him in Aragon; the other was that her mother could not be aware of what was happening to her daughter this day.

  And as Isabella sat there on that throne, Queen of Castile by the desire of the people of Segovia, it was her mother’s voice which she heard ringing in her ears: ‘Never forget, you could be Queen of Castile.’

  She had never forgotten.

  She heard the bells peal out; she saw the flags fluttering in the breeze; she heard the guns boom forth. All these were saying: Here is the new Queen of Castile.

  There were many to kneel before her, to kiss her hand and swear their loyalty; and she in her turn told them, in that sweet, musical, rather high-pitched young and almost innocent voice, that she would do all in her power to serve them, her subjects, to bring back law and order to Castile, and to be a worthy Queen.

  The voices of the crowd rang out: ‘Castile! Castile for Isabella! Castile for the King Don Ferdinand and his Queen Doña Isabella, Queen Proprietor of the Kingdoms of Castile and Leon!’

  She felt warmed by their mention of Ferdinand; she would be able to tell him how they had called his name. That would please him.

  Then she descended from the platform and placed herself at the head of the procession, when it made its way to the Cathedral.

  Isabella listened to the chanting of Te Deum; and earnestly she prayed for Divine guidance, that she might never falter in her duties towards her kingdoms and her people.

  Ferdinand came with all speed from Aragon, and joyously Isabella received him.

  Was it her fancy, or did he hold his head a little higher? Was he a little more proud, a little more masterful than before?

  In the midst of his passion he whispered to her: ‘First you are my wife, Isabella. Do not forget that. Only second, Queen of Castile.’

  She did not contradict him, for he did not expect an answer. He had spoken as though he made a statement of fact. It was not true. If she had never known it before, it had become clear to her after the ceremony in the square and the Cathedral.

  But she loved him tenderly and with passion. She was a wife and a mother, but the crown was her spouse, and the people of Castile – the suffering and the ignorant – they were her children.

  She would not tell him now. But in time he must come to understand. He would, for he too had his duty. He was younger than she was, and for all his experience he was perhaps not so wise, though not for all the world would she tell him so.

  He will understand, she assured herself, but he is younger than I – not only in years – and perhaps I am more serious by nature. It will take a little time before he understands as I do.

  His grandfather, the Admiral Henriquez, was delighted at the turn of events.

  He placed himself at the service of his grandson.

  The day after Ferdinand’s return he presented himself and embraced the young husband with tears in his eyes.

  ‘This is the proudest moment of my life. You will be King of Aragon. You are already King of Castile.’

  Ferdinand looked a little sulky. ‘One hears much talk of the Queen of Castile, little of its King.’

  ‘That is a matter which should be set right,’ went on the Admiral. ‘Isabella has inherited Castile, but that is because the Salic law does not exist in Castile as it does in Aragon. If it were accepted here, you, as the nearest male claimant to the throne, through your grandfather Ferdinand, would be King of Castile – and Isabella merely your consort.’

  ‘That is so,’ agreed Ferdinand, ‘and it is what I would wish. But everywhere we go it is Isabella . . . Isabella . . . and they never forget to remind me that she is the reina proprietaria. It is almost as though they accept me on sufferance.’

  ‘It shall be changed,’ said
the Admiral. ‘Isabella will do all that you ask of her.’

  Ferdinand smiled smugly. He was remembering her passionate reception of him, and he believed it to be true.

  ‘It shall be done. She adores me. She can deny me nothing.’

  Isabella listened in dismay.

  He was laughing, his arm about her, his lips against her hair. ‘So, my love, this shall be done. The King and his beloved consort, eh? It is better so. You, who are so reasonable, will see this.’

  Isabella felt dismay smite her, but her voice was firm, though sad, when she replied: ‘No, Ferdinand, I do not see it.’

  He released her, and his frown was ugly.

  ‘But surely, Isabella . . .’

  She wanted to cry out: Do not use that cold tone when you speak to me. But she said nothing. Instead she saw again the people in the square . . . the people who had suffered during the evil reign of her half-brother. And still she said nothing.

  He went on: ‘So you hold me in such little esteem!’

  ‘I hold you in the greatest esteem,’ she told him. ‘Are you not my husband and the father of my child?’

  Ferdinand laughed bitterly. ‘Brought here as a stallion! Is that what I mean to you? Let him do what he has been brought for – after that he is of little account.’

  ‘But how can you say this, Ferdinand? Do I not ask your advice? Do I not listen? Do we not rule these kingdoms together?’

  Ferdinand stood up to his full height. For the first time she noticed the lights of cupidity in his eyes, the arrogance of his mouth; yet these faults in him did not make her love him less, although they confirmed her belief that she herself must rule Castile and Leon.

  ‘I am your husband,’ he said. ‘It is you who should listen to my advice.’

  ‘In some matters, yes,’ she answered gently. ‘But have you forgotten that I am the Queen of Castile?’

  ‘Forget it! How can I! You will not allow me to do that, I can see that I demean myself by staying here. I can see that I am of no account whatsoever. Madam, Highness, I no longer wish to remain. Is it necessary for me to ask permission of the Queen of Castile to retire?’