Текст книги "Spain for the Sovereigns "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 19 страниц)
Ferdinand was silent; he dismissed his advisers, but his thoughts were not idle.
Gordo was with his family when the message arrived from the Prince.
He read it and cried: ‘Our haughty little Prince has changed his tune. He implores me to visit him at the Palace. He wishes to talk with me on an urgent matter. He has something to say to me which he wishes to say to no other.’
Gordo threw back his head and laughed aloud.
‘So he has come to heel, our little Ferdinand, eh! And so it should be. This young bantam! A boy! What more? They say that in Castile he is the one who wears the skirt. Well, as Dona Isabella can keep him in order in Castile, so can Ximenes Gordo in Saragossa.’
He waved a gay farewell to his wife and children, called for his horse and rode off to the Palace.
The people in the streets called to him: ‘Good fortune, Don Ximenes Gordo! Long life to you!’
And he answered these greetings with a gracious inclination of the head. After all, he was King of Saragossa in all but name.
Arriving at the Palace he flung his reins to a waiting groom. The groom was one of the Palace servants, but he bowed low to Don Ximenes Gordo.
Gordo was flushed with pride as he entered the building. He should be the one who was living here. And why should he not do so?
Why should he not say to young Ferdinand: ‘I have decided to take up my residence here. You have a home in Castile, my Prince; why do you not go to it? Dona Isabella, Queen of Castile, will be happy to welcome her Consort. Why, my Prince, it may well be that there is a happier welcome awaiting you there in Castile than you find even here in Aragon.’
And what pleasure to see the young bantam flinch, to know that he realised the truth of those words!
The servants bowed to him – he imagined they did so with the utmost obsequiousness. Oh, there was no doubt that Ferdinand was beaten, and realised who was the master.
Ferdinand was waiting for him in the presence chamber. He looked less humble than he had expected, but Gordo reminded himself that the young man was arrogant by nature and found it difficult to assume a humble mien. He must be taught. Gordo relished the thought of watching Ferdinand ride disconsolately out of Saragossa, defeated.
Gordo bowed, and Ferdinand said in a mild and, so it seemed, placating voice: ‘It was good of you to come so promptly at my request.’
‘I came because I have something to say to Your Highness.’
‘First,’ said Ferdinand, still mildly, ‘I shall beg you to listen to me.’
Gordo appeared to consider this, but Ferdinand had taken his arm, in a most familiar manner, as though, thought Gordo, he accepted him as an equal. ‘Come,’ said Ferdinand, ‘it is more private in my ante-chamber, and we shall need privacy.’
Ferdinand had opened a door and gently pushed Gordo before him into a room. The door had closed behind them before Gordo realised that they were not alone.
As he looked round that room Gordo’s face turned pale; in those first seconds he could not believe that his eyes did not deceive him. The room had been converted into a place of execution. He saw the scaffolding, the rope and a masked man whom he knew to be the public hangman. Beside him stood a priest, and several guards were stationed about the room.
Ferdinand’s manner had changed. His eyes glittered as he addressed Gordo in stern tones. ‘Don Ximenes Gordo, you have not long to make your peace, and you have many sins on your conscience.’
Gordo, the bully, had suddenly lost all his swaggering arrogance.
‘This cannot be . . .’ he cried.
‘It is to be,’ Ferdinand told him.
‘That rope is for . . . for . . .’
‘You have guessed right. It is for you.’
‘But to condemn me thus . . . without trial! Is this justice?’
‘It is my justice,’ said Ferdinand coolly. ‘And in my father’s absence I rule Aragon.’
‘I demand a trial.’
‘You would be better advised to concern yourself with the salvation of your soul. Your time is short.’
‘I will not submit . . .’
Ferdinand signed to the guards, two of whom came forward to seize Gordo.
‘I beg of you . . . have mercy,’ he implored.
‘Pleasant as it is to hear you beg,’ said Ferdinand, ‘there will be no mercy for you. You are to die, and that without delay. This is the reward for your crimes.’ Ferdinand signed to the priest. ‘He has urgent need of you and the time is passing.’
‘There have been occasions,’ said Gordo, ‘when I have served your father well.’
‘That was before you became puffed up by your arrogance,’ answered Ferdinand, ‘but it shall not be forgotten. Your wife and children shall receive my protection as reward for the service you once gave my father. Now, say your prayers or you will leave this earth with your manifold sins upon you.’
Gordo had fallen to his knees; the priest knelt with him.
Ferdinand watched them.
And after an interval he signed to the hangman to do his work.
There was silence in the streets of Saragossa. The news was being circulated in the great houses and those haunts frequented by the rabble. There had been arrests, and those who had been seized were the more prominent of Gordo’s supporters.
Then in the market-place the body of a man was hung that all might see what befell those who flouted the authority of the rulers of Aragon.
Gordo! It seemed incredible. There was the man who a few days before had been so sure of his ability to rule Saragossa. And now he was nothing but a rotting corpse.
The young Prince of Aragon rode through the streets of Saragossa; there were some who averted their eyes, but there were many to cheer him. They had been mistaken in him. They had thought him a young boy who could not even take first place in Castile. They had been mistaken. Whatever happened in Castile, he was, in the absence of his father, master of Aragon.
The volume of the cheers began to increase.
‘Don Ferdinand for Aragon!’
Ferdinand began to believe that he would successfully complete the task which he had come to Saragossa to perform. He had been ruthless; he had ignored justice; but, he assured himself, the times were harsh and, when dealing with men such as Gordo, one could only attack with weapons similar to their own.
So far he had succeeded; and success was all that mattered.
The money so desperately needed was coming in, and if it was less than he and his father had hoped for that was due to the poverty of the people, not to their unwillingness to provide it.
Soon he would rejoin his father; and on the way he would call and see his little Alonso.
Messengers from Castile came riding into Saragossa. They had come in great haste, fearing that they might arrive to find Ferdinand had already left.
Ferdinand had them brought to him immediately.
He was thoughtful as he read what his wife had written. It was all the more effective because Isabella was by nature so calm.
She was asking him to return without delay. There was trouble about to break in Castile. An army was gathering to march against her, and many powerful nobles of Castile had gone over to the enemies’ camp.
These men were insisting that she was not the rightful heir to the crown. It was true she was the late King Henry’s half-sister, and he had no son. But he had a daughter – whom many believed to be illegitimate, and who was even known as La Beltraneja because her father was almost certainly Beltran de la Cueva, Duke of Albuquerque.
Those who had set themselves against Isabella now sought to place La Beltraneja on the throne of Castile.
There was a possibility that Portugal was giving support to their enemies.
Castile was in danger. Isabella was in danger. And at such a time she needed the military skill and experience of her husband.
‘It may well be,’ wrote Isabella, ‘that my need of you at this time is greater than that of your father.’
Ferdinand thought of her, kneeling at her prie-Dieu or with her advisers carefully weighing the situation. She would not have said that, had she not meant it with all her heart.
He shouted to his attendants.
‘Prepare to leave Saragossa at once. I shall need messengers to go to my father and let him know that what he needs is on its way to him. As for myself and the rest of us, we must leave for Castile without delay.’
ISABELLA
Isabella, Queen of Castile, looked up from the table at which she sat writing. There was a quiet pleasure in her serene blue eyes, and those who knew her very well wondered if what they suspected was true. She had been, these last weeks, a little more placid than usual, and through that placidity shone a certain joy. The Queen of Castile could be keeping a secret to herself; and it might be one which she would wish to remain unknown until she could share it with her husband.
The ladies-in-waiting whispered together. ‘Do you think it can be true? Is the Queen pregnant?’
They put their heads together and made calculations. It was only a few weeks since Ferdinand had ridden away to join his father.
‘Let us pray that it is true,’ said these ladies, ‘and that this time it will be a son.’
Even as she dealt with the papers on her table, Isabella too was saying to herself: ‘This time let it be a son.’
She was very happy.
That destiny for which she had been prepared was being fulfilled; she was married to Ferdinand after years of waiting, after continual hazards and fears that the marriage which had been planned in their childhood might not take place.
But, largely due to her own determination – and that of Ferdinand and his family – the marriage had taken place; and on the death of Ferdinand’s father, when Ferdinand would be King of Aragon, the crowns of Aragon and Castile would be united; and, apart from that small province still occupied by the Moors, Isabella and Ferdinand could then be said to rule over Spain.
It was certainly the realisation of a dream.
And Ferdinand, her husband, a year younger than herself, handsome, virile, was all that she had hoped for in a husband – or almost. She had to admit that he did not accept with a very good grace the fact that she was Queen of Castile and he her Consort. But he would in time, for she had no intention of letting a rift grow between them. Theirs was to be a marriage, perfect in all respects. She was going to ask his advice in all matters; and if it should ever be necessary for her to make a decision with which he did not agree she would employ the utmost tact and try to persuade him in time to agree with her.
She smiled fondly.
Dear Ferdinand. He would hate this separation as much as she did. But it was his duty to go to his father’s help when he was called upon to do so. And as her good confessor, Tomas de Torquemada, used to tell her – in those days when he had undertaken her religious instruction – no matter what the rank, duty came first.
Now she smiled, for her attendant was announcing that Cardinal Don Pedro Gonzalez de Mendoza was begging an audience.
She asked that he be brought to her without delay.
The Cardinal came to her and bowed low.
‘Welcome,’ said Isabella. ‘You look disturbed, Cardinal. Is aught wrong?’
The Cardinal let his eyes rest on those of her attendants who remained in the apartment.
‘I trust all is well with Your Highness. Then all will be well with me,’ he said. ‘Your Highness appears to be in excellent health.’
‘It is so,’ said Isabella.
She understood. Soon she would dismiss her attendants because she guessed that the Cardinal had something to say which could not be said before others; also he did not wish it to be known that his mission was one of great secrecy.
Isabella felt herself warming to this man, and she was surprised at herself.
He was Cardinal of Spain and, although he was the fourth son of the Marquis of Santillana, so talented was he, and to such a high position had he risen, that he was now at the head of the powerful Mendoza family.
To his Palace at Guadalaxara he could draw the most influential men in Spain, and there persuade them to act for or against the Queen.
These were dangerous times, and Isabella’s great desire was to promote law and order in Castile. She had been brought up to believe that one day this duty might be hers; and she, with that conscientiousness which was a part of her nature, had determined to rule her country well. There was one condition which brought a country low and that was war. She wished with all her heart to be able to lead her country to peace; and she believed that she could do so through the support of men such as Cardinal Mendoza.
He was an exceptionally handsome man, gracious and charming. About forty years old, in spite of his association with the Church he had not lived the life of a churchman. He was too fond of the luxuries of life, and he deemed it unwise for a man to deny himself these.
Abstinence narrowed the mind and starved the soul, he had said. Hypocrisy was lying in wait for the man who denied his body the daily food it craved; and the man who indulged himself now and then was apt to be more lenient with other men; he would find a kindly tolerance growing within him to replace that fanaticism which could often find an outlet in cruelty.
Thus he soothed his conscience. He liked good food and wine, and he had several illegitimate children.
These sins, thought Isabella, sat lightly upon him. She deplored them, but there were times – and these would become more frequent – when she must compromise and suppress her natural abhorrence for the good of the country.
She knew that she needed this charming, tolerant and brilliant man on her side.
When they were alone, he said: ‘I have come to warn Your Highness. There is one who, while feigning to be your friend, is making plans to desert you for your enemies.’
Isabella nodded slowly. ‘I think I know his name,’ she said.
Cardinal Mendoza took a step closer to her. ‘Alfonso Carillo, Archbishop of Toledo.’
‘It is hard to believe,’ Isabella spoke sadly. ‘I remember how he stood beside me. There was a time when I might have become the prisoner of my enemies. It would have meant not only incarceration but doubtless in time a dose of poison would have ended my life. But he was there to save me, and I feel I should not be alive, nor be where I am today but for the Archbishop of Toledo.’
‘Your Highness doubtless owes much to this man. But his object in helping you to the crown was that, although you wore it, he should rule through you.’
‘I know. Ambition is his great failing.’
‘Have a care, Highness. Watch this man. You should not share matters of great secrecy with him. Remember that he is wavering now. This time next week . . . perhaps tomorrow . . . he may be with your enemies.’
‘I will remember your words,’ Isabella assured him. ‘Now I pray you sit here with me and read these documents.’
The Cardinal did so, and watching him, Isabella thought: Have I gained the support of this man, only to lose that of one who served me so well in the past?
Impatiently, Alfonso Carillo, Archbishop of Toledo waited.
It was intolerable, he told himself that he should be kept waiting. It should be enough that the Queen knew he wished to see her for her to dismiss any other person that she might receive him.
‘Ingratitude!’ he murmured, as he paced up and down. ‘All that I have done in the past is forgotten. Since that young cockerel, Ferdinand, sought to show his power over me, he has poisoned her mind against me. And my place beside her has been taken by Mendoza.’
His eyes narrowed. He was a man of choleric temper whose personality would have been more suited to the military camp than to the Church. But as Archbishop of Toledo he was Primate of Spain; he was determined to cling to his position; and although he prided himself on having raised Isabella to the throne, if she failed to recognise that the most important person in Castile was not its Queen, nor her Consort, nor Cardinal Mendoza, but Alfonso Carillo, he, who had helped her to reach the throne, would be prepared to dash her from it.
His eyes were flashing; he was ready for battle.
And so he waited; and, when at length he was told that the Queen was ready to receive him, he met Cardinal Mendoza coming from her apartments.
They acknowledged each other coolly.
‘I have been waiting long,’ said the Archbishop reproachfully.
‘I crave your pardon, but I had state matters to discuss with the Queen.’
The Archbishop hurried on; it would be unseemly if two men of the Church indulged in violence; and he was feeling violent.
He went into the audience chamber.
Isabella’s smile was apologetic.
‘I regret,’ she said placatingly, ‘that you were forced to wait so long.’
‘I also regret,’ the Archbishop retorted curtly.
Isabella looked surprised, but the Archbishop considered himself especially privileged.
‘The waiting is over, my lord. I pray you let us come to business.’
‘It would seem that Your Highness prefers to discuss state matters with Cardinal Mendoza.’
‘I am fortunate in having so many brilliant advisers.’
‘Highness, I have come to tell you that I can no longer serve you while you retain the services of the Cardinal.’
‘I suggest, my lord, that you go too far.’
The Archbishop looked haughtily at this young woman. He could not help but see her as she had been when as a young Princess she asked for his help. He remembered how he had set up her young brother Alfonso as King of Castile while Henry IV still lived; he remembered how he had offered to make Isabella Queen on Alfonso’s death, and how she had gently reminded him that it was not possible for her to be Queen while the true King, her half-brother Henry, still lived.
Had she forgotten what she owed to him?
‘I pray,’ murmured the Archbishop, ‘that Your Highness will reconsider this matter.’
‘I should certainly not wish you to leave me,’ said Isabella.
‘It is for Your Highness to choose.’
‘But I choose that you should remain and curb your animosity towards the Cardinal. If you will be the Cardinal’s friend I am assured that he will be yours.’
‘Highness, it is long since I visited my estates at Alcalá de Henares. I may shortly be asking your permission to retire there from Court for a while.’
Isabella smiled sweetly. She did not believe that the Archbishop would willingly go into retirement.
‘You are too important to us for that to be allowed,’ she told him; and he appeared to be placated.
But the Archbishop was far from satisfied. Every day he saw Cardinal Mendoza being taken more and more into his mistress’s confidence and, a few weeks after that interview with the Queen, he made an excuse to retire from Court.
He had, however, no intention of retiring to his estates. He had decided that, since Isabella refused to be his puppet, he must set up one in her place who would be.
He was well aware that there were certain men in Spain who were dissatisfied with the succession of Isabella and would be ready to give their allegiance to the young Princess Joanna La Beltraneja, who many preferred to believe was not illegitimate – for if she were the legitimate daughter of the late King, then she, not Isabella, should be Queen of Castile.
He called to his house certain men whom he knew to be ready to rebel. Among these was the Marquis of Villena, son of the great Marquis, the Archbishop’s nephew who, before his death, had played as big a part in his country’s politics as the Archbishop himself. The present Marquis might not be a brilliant intriguer like his father, but he was a great soldier, and as such thirsted for battle. He was very rich, this young Marquis, and because he owned vast estates in Toledo and Murcia he could raise support from these provinces.
There were also the Marquis of Cadiz and the Duke of Arevalo.
When these men were gathered together the Archbishop, making sure that they were not overheard, announced his plans to them.
‘Isabella has assumed the crowns of Castile and Leon,’ he said, ‘but there appears to be some doubt throughout this land as to whether she has a right to them. There are many who would rejoice to see the Princess Joanna in her place.’
There were murmurs of approval. None of these men had received great honours from Isabella and, if the young Princess Joanna were accepted as Queen of Castile, since she was only twelve years old, there would be a Regency and high places for many of them.
Eyes glittered, and hands curled about sword hilts. A Regency would be a very desirable state of affairs.
‘I strongly suspect these efforts to declare the Princess Joanna illegitimate,’ stated the Archbishop; and nobody reminded him that not very long ago he was one of the most fiery advocates of Joanna’s illegitimacy and Isabella’s right to the throne.
The circumstances had changed. Ferdinand had sought to curb his power; Isabella had transferred her interest to Cardinal Mendoza. Therefore the Archbishop had decided to change his mind.
‘My lord Archbishop,’ said Villena, ‘I pray you tell us what plans you have for dethroning Isabella and setting up Joanna in her place.’
‘There is only one way of bringing this about, my friend,’ replied the Archbishop, ‘and that is with the sword.’
‘It would be necessary to raise an army,’ suggested Arevalo. ‘Is that possible?’
‘It must be possible,’ said the Archbishop. ‘We cannot allow a usurper to retain the throne.’
He smiled at the assembly. ‘I know what you are thinking, my friends. Isabella has won the allegiance of many. Ferdinand is related to many Castilian families. It might be difficult to raise an army, you are thinking. Yet we will do it. And I have other plans. They concern the Princess Joanna. Do not forget that young lady has her part to play in our schemes.’
‘I cannot see the young Princess riding into battle,’ said Villena.
‘You take me too literally, my dear Marquis,’ answered the Archbishop. ‘You cannot believe that I would have brought you here unless I had something to put before you. The Princess will be the bait we have to offer. Then I think we can draw powerful forces into the field. I propose to dispatch an embassy immediately. My friends, let us put our heads close together and lower our voices, for even here there may be spies. I will now acquaint you with my plans. They concern Portugal.’
Many of those present began to smile. They could see whither the Archbishop’s plans were leading.
They nodded.
How fortunate, they were thinking, that the Archbishop was on their side. How careless of Isabella to have lost his friendship, when such a loss could lead to a much greater one: that of the throne of Castile.
Alfonso V of Portugal had listened with great interest to the proposals which had been brought to him from the secret faction of Castile, headed by the Archbishop of Toledo.
He discussed this matter with his son, Prince John.
‘Why, Father,’ said the Prince, ‘I can see that naught but good would come of this.’
‘It will mean taking war into Castile, my son. Have you considered that?’
‘You have been successful in your battles with the Barbary Moors. Why should you not be equally so in Castile?’
‘Have you considered the forces which could be put into the field against us?’
‘Yes, and I have thought of the prize.’
Alfonso smiled at his son. John was ambitious and greedy for the good of Portugal. If they succeeded, Castile and Portugal would be as one. There might be a possibility of the Iberian Peninsula’s eventually coming under one ruler – and that ruler would be of the House of Portugal.
It was a tempting offer.
There was something else which made Alfonso smile.
There had been a time when he had thought to marry Isabella. His sister, Joanna, had married Isabella’s half-brother, Henry IV of Castile. Joanna was flighty. He had often warned her about that. It was all very well for a queen, married to a husband like Henry, to take an occasional lover, but she should have made sure that there was no scandal until long after the birth of the heir to the throne. Joanna had been careless, and, as a result, his little niece – another Joanna – was reputed to be the daughter, not of Henry the King, but of Beltran de la Cueva, Duke of Albuquerque; and so strong was this belief that young Joanna had been dubbed ‘La Beltraneja’, and the name still clung to her. And because Joanna had been declared illegitimate, Isabella was now Queen of Castile. But that state of affairs might not continue; and if he decided to go to war it should not prevail.
He had been very angry with Isabella. He recalled how he had gone to Castile to become betrothed to her, and she had firmly refused him.
It was an insult. On one occasion she had declared her unwillingness to accept him as a suitor and had sought the help of the Cortes in averting the marriage. It was too humiliating for a King of Portugal to endure.
Therefore it would be a great pleasure to turn Isabella from the throne and set the crown on the head of his little niece.
John was smiling at him now. ‘Think, Father,’ he said.
‘When little Joanna is Queen of Castile and your bride, you will be master of Castile.’
‘She is my niece.’
‘What of that! The Holy Father will readily give the dispensation; especially when he sees that we can put a strong army in the field.’
‘And but twelve years old!’ added Alfonso.
‘It is unlike a bridegroom to complain of the youth of his bride.’
Alfonso said: ‘Let us put this matter before the Council. If they are in agreement, then we will give our answer to the Archbishop of Toledo and his friends.’
‘And if,’ said John, ‘they should be so misguided as to ignore the advantages of such a situation, it must be our duty, Father, to insist on their accepting our decision.’
Little Joanna was bewildered. From her earliest childhood she had known there was something strange about herself. Sometimes she was called Highness, sometimes Infanta, sometimes Princess. She was never quite sure what her rank was.
Her father had been kind to her when they met, but he was dead now; and she had not seen her mother for a long time when the call came for her to go to Madrid.
When her father had died she had heard that her aunt Isabella had been proclaimed Queen of Castile; and Isabella had said that she, Joanna, was to have her own household and an entourage worthy of a Princess of Castile. Isabella was kind, she knew; and she would be good to her as long as she did not allow anyone to say that she was the King’s legitimate daughter.
But how could a girl of twelve prevent people from saying what they wished to say?
Joanna lived in fear that one day important men would come to her, disturbing her quiet existence among her books and music; she was terrified that they would kneel at her feet, swear allegiance and tell her that they were going to serve her with their lives.
She did not want that and all it implied. She wanted to live in peace, away from these awe-inspiring men.
And now she was on her way to Madrid because her mother had sent for her.
She had heard many stories of her mother. She was very beautiful, it was said; and when she first came into Castile to be the wife of the King, although her manner had been frivolous by Castilian standards, no one had guessed that she would be responsible for one of the greatest and most dangerous controversies which had ever disturbed the succession of Castile.
And she, the Princess Joanna, was at the very heart of that controversy. It was an alarming thought.
She had often met the man who was reputed to be her father. He was tall and very handsome; a man of great importance and a brave soldier. But he was not her mother’s husband, and therein lay the root of the trouble.
When she saw her mother on this occasion she would ask her to tell her sincerely the truth; and if Beltran de la Cueva, Duke of Albuquerque, was indeed her father she would make this widely known and in future refuse to allow anyone to insist on her right to the throne.
It was a big undertaking for a twelve-year-old girl, and Joanna feared that she was not bold or very determined; but there must be some understanding if she were ever to live in peace.
And, now that she was going to her mother’s establishment in Madrid, she trembled to think what she might discover there. She had heard whispers and rumours from her servants of the life her mother led in Madrid. When she had left the King she had kept a lavishly extravagant house where, it was said, parties of a scandalous nature frequently took place.
Joanna had several brothers and sisters, she believed. They, however, were more fortunate than she was. They shared the stigma of illegitimacy, but nobody could suggest that they had even a remote claim to the throne.
She was alarmed to contemplate what sort of house this was to which she was going; and as she, with her little company, rode along the valley of the Manzanares the plain which stretched about them seemed gloomy and full of foreboding. She turned her horse away from the distant Sierras towards the town, and as they entered it they were met by a party of riders.
The man at the head of this party rode up to Joanna and, bowing his head, told her that he had been watchful for her coming.
‘I am to take you to the Queen, your mother, Princess,’ he told her. ‘She has gone to a convent in Madrid, and it would be advisable for you to join her there with all speed.’
‘My mother. . . in a convent!’ cried Joanna; for it was the last place in which she would expect to find her gay and frivolous mother.
‘She thought it wise to rest there awhile,’ was the answer. ‘You will find her changed.’
‘Why has my mother gone to this convent?’ she asked.
‘She will explain to you when you see her,’ was the answer.
They rode into the town, and eventually they reached the convent. Here Joanna was received with great respect by the Mother Superior, who immediately said: ‘You are fatigued, Princess, but it would be well if you came to see the Queen without delay.’
‘Take me to her, I pray you,’ said Joanna.
The Mother Superior led the way up a cold stone staircase to a cell, which contained little more than a bed and a crucifix on the wall; and here lay Joanna, Princess of Portugal, Queen to the late Henry IV of Castile.
Joanna knelt by her mother’s bed, and the older Joanna smiled wanly. Kneeling there, the Princess knew that it was the approach of death which had driven her mother to repentance.
