by Jean Plaidy
‘Oh Ferdinand . . . Ferdinand . . .’ she cried; and the tears started to her eyes.
But he had bowed abruptly and left her.
It was the first quarrel, but she realised how easily there might have been others.
He had believed until this moment that he would have no difficulty in relegating her to second place.
She wanted to go and find him, to tell him that all that she possessed was his. She wanted to say: What do I care for power, if in gaining it I lose your love?
But she remembered his face as he had stood there. Ferdinand, a little vain, a little greedy. Handsome, virile Ferdinand who lacked the modesty, the dedicated desire to serve which were Isabella’s.
There would only be one ruler of Castile from this moment until the end of her days; and that must be Isabella.
So she waited, fighting back her tears, trying to soothe her anguish.
It is not pleasure that is important; it is not happiness, she reminded herself. It is doing one’s duty in that state of life to which God has called one.
The Court knew of the quarrel between Isabella and Ferdinand.
The Archbishop of Toledo smiled slyly and shrewdly. Here was a situation after his own heart. The Admiral had put these ideas into the head of that young bantam, and the Archbishop was going to vanquish the Admiral; and if it meant Ferdinand’s retirement to Aragon in a sulk, that could not be helped.
The Archbishop was delighted at the prospect of dousing the arrogance of master Ferdinand.
‘There is no law in Castile,’ he told the council, ‘to prevent a woman from inheriting the crown. Therefore there can be no question of Isabella’s becoming merely the consort of King Ferdinand. It is Ferdinand who is the consort of Queen Isabella.’
Ferdinand was furious.
‘I shall not stay here to be so insulted,’ he declared. ‘I shall return to Aragon.’
The news spread through the Palace, and reached Isabella.
‘Ferdinand is preparing to return to Aragon . . . for ever.’
Ferdinand was somewhat alarmed by the storm he had raised.
He was piqued and humiliated, but his father would call him a fool if he returned to Aragon. And a fool he would be.
He was hot-tempered and impulsive. He should never have declared his intention of returning. Now he would either have to go or make his position even more humiliating by remaining.
Already the news was spreading beyond the Palace. A rift between Isabella and Ferdinand, because Ferdinand wishes to take precedence and Isabella refuses to allow it!
He felt bewildered, for the first time realising that he was after all only a very young man.
Outside the Palace little groups of people had gathered. They were waiting for the news that the marriage, which had seemed so ideal, was broken and that Ferdinand was to go back to Aragon.
He had seen them from the windows. He had seen the sneers on their faces. They would boo him out of Castile, for they were all firmly behind Isabella.
But what could he do?
His servants were waiting for orders.
‘I shall return to Aragon,’ he had cried before them all. ‘I cannot wait to shake the dust of Castile from my shoes!’
And now . . . they were waiting.
Someone was coming into the room; he did not turn from the window.
‘Ferdinand,’ said a voice, soft and very loving.
Then he turned and saw Isabella. She had waved all his servants out of the room and they were alone.
He looked at her sullenly for a few seconds, and her heart beat faster with her love for him, because he looked at that moment like a spoilt child, like their own little Isabella.
‘Why, Ferdinand,’ she said, ‘we should not be bad friends.’
He could not meet her eye. ‘It seems to be your wish,’ he mumbled.
She came to him and took his hand. ‘No, it is far from my wish. I was so happy, and now I am no longer so.’
She knelt at his feet and was looking up at him.
For a few seconds he believed she had come to beg his pardon, to offer him all he asked, if he would stay with her. Then he realised that until this moment he had not known Isabella. He had known a gentle woman, a woman who longed to please him, who loved with mingling tenderness and passion; and because he had been too much aware of Ferdinand to be aware of Isabella, he had thought he understood her.
She took his hand and kissed it. ‘Ferdinand,’ she said, ‘why should there be this trouble between us? We are quarrelling over power as children quarrel over sweetmeats. One day you will be King of Aragon, and it may be that you will sometimes ask me to help you with some problem in the governing of your country. I know I shall do the same as regards mine. Why, if you had your will in this matter and the Salic law was introduced into Castile, our little Isabella would no longer be heir to Castile and Leon. Think of that, Ferdinand. Come, my husband, do not, I beg you, I implore you, carry out your threat to leave me. For I need you. How can I rule these kingdoms without you? I shall need you a hundred times a day in our life together. Ferdinand, it is I, Isabella, who ask you . . . stay.’
He looked at her then. There were tears shining in her eyes, and she knelt to him; but even as she knelt she remained Queen of Castile.
She was offering him a way out of his predicament. How could he return to Aragon except ignobly? She was saying: ‘How can I live happily without you, Ferdinand, I who need you so?’
He said: ‘Perhaps I have been hasty. It is not easy for a man . . .’
‘No, it is not easy,’ she said eagerly, and she thought of him, Ferdinand, the beloved of his mother and father – and of herself. It was not easy for him to be merely the Queen’s consort when he believed he should be King. ‘But you are King of Sicily now and one day, Ferdinand, you will be King of Aragon. And Aragon and Castile will be as one. Ferdinand, we must not allow the great happiness we have brought to each other to be spoilt. Think of the great happiness we shall bring to Castile and Aragon.’
‘I believe you are right,’ he said.
Then she smiled, and her smile was radiant.
‘And since you say that you need me so much . . .’
‘Ferdinand, I do, I do!’ she cried.
Then she was on her feet and in his arms; and they clung together for a few moments.
She released herself and said: ‘You see, Ferdinand, we are so young and there is so much to do, and our lives lie before us . . .’
‘It is true, Isabella,’ he said, and touched her cheek, looking at her as though he saw her afresh and that he had discovered something hitherto unknown to him.
‘I want everyone to know that all is well,’ she said, ‘that everyone can be as happy as we are.’
She drew him to the window and the people below saw them standing there.
Isabella put her hand in that of Ferdinand. He raised it to his lips and kissed it.
There was immediate understanding.
‘Castile!’ cried the people. ‘Castile for Isabella . . . and Ferdinand!’
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