Текст книги "Spain for the Sovereigns "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 19 страниц)
THE PRINCE OF THE ASTURIAS
Isabella came riding to the Alcazar of Segovia.
More than a year had passed since she had lost her child and raised men and arms to fight the invading Alfonso. It had been an arduous period.
Yet Isabella had quickly recovered from her miscarriage; indeed, many said that it was her spirit which had proved the best doctor. There had been no time during that dark period to lie abed and woo back her health; Isabella had very soon to be on horseback, riding through her kingdom, calling a Cortes at Medina del Campo and by her eloquence moving all so deeply that she had raised the money she so badly needed.
That had been after the disasters at Toro and Zamora, which had both fallen to Alfonso, and when, had Alfonso been wise, he would have thrown in his full force against the inferior Castilian army of Ferdinand and Isabella.
But Alfonso had been timid; he had hesitated again, even when the Archbishop of Toledo, considering Alfonso’s gains at Toro and Zamora to be decisive, not only openly allied himself with the King of Portugal but took with him five hundred lancers to join his new friend in the fight against his old one.
But now the Castilian army had been vastly improved and was ready to do battle with the enemy; and on her journeys through her kingdom Isabella gave herself up to the pleasure of a short respite where she would enjoy the hospitality of her dearest friend.
When the news was brought to Beatriz de Bobadilla that the Queen was in the Alcazar she hurried to greet Isabella, and the two women embraced without formality.
‘This makes me very happy,’ said Beatriz emotionally. ‘I would I had known I might expect the honour.’
‘There would then have been no surprise.’ Isabella smiled.
‘But think of the anticipation I have missed!’
‘Beatriz, it is wonderful to see you. I would like to be alone with you as we used to be in the past.’
‘I will have food and wine sent to us, and we will take it in my small private chamber. I long to hear what has been happening to you.’
‘Pray lead me to that small private chamber,’ said Isabella.
Beatriz laid her hand on the Queen’s arm as they went together to the small room of which Beatriz had spoken.
‘I pray Your Highness sit down,’ said Beatriz. ‘Soon we shall be served, and then . . . we will talk in comfort.’ Beatriz called: ‘Food and wine, for the Queen and myself . . . with all speed.’
Isabella, smiling, watched her. ‘You have not changed at all,’ she said. ‘They all hold you in great awe, I’ll swear.’
‘Why should they not? They are my servants,’ said Beatriz, falling into the familiarity which had often existed between them.
‘And your husband, Andres too – do you still command him?’
Beatriz laughed. ‘Andres obeys me, he says, because he values peace and it is the only way to get it. And Ferdinand? He is well?’
‘He is very well, Beatriz. What should I do without him?’
Beatriz looked at the Queen, her head on one side, a smile playing about her mouth. So, thought Beatriz, she continues to adore that man. But not completely. Beatriz knew that Ferdinand had been disappointed not to have taken full authority from Isabella. Beatriz applauded the Queen’s resistance.
‘He fights for his kingdom as well as yours,’ said Beatrix, ‘for although you are Queen of Castile, he is your Consort.’
‘He has been magnificent. Beatriz, I do not believe there has ever been a soldier in Spain to compare with Ferdinand.’
Beatriz laughed aloud; then her servants appeared with refreshments and her manner changed. Now the utmost respect must be paid to the Queen, and Beatriz dropped the easy familiar manner.
But when they were alone again Beatriz said: ‘Isabella, you are looking a little tired. I hope you are going to stay here for some time that I may look after you, as I used to in the old days when we were together.’
‘Ah, those old days,’ sighed Isabella. ‘I was not a queen then.’
‘But we had some anxious times, nevertheless.’ Beatriz smiled reminiscently. ‘At least we do not have to worry that you will be snatched from Ferdinand and given to some husband who would be unacceptable to you!’
‘Thank God for that. Oh, Beatriz, I am a little worried about this battle that must soon take place.’
‘But you put your trust in Ferdinand.’
‘I do, indeed I do. But there are mighty forces against us.’
‘Ferdinand will succeed,’ said Beatriz. ‘He is a good soldier.’
Beatriz was thoughtful for a few seconds. A better soldier than a husband, she was thinking; and he will be determined to succeed. He will not allow himself to be driven from Castile.
‘I was very sad,’ went on Beatriz, ‘when I heard that you had lost your child.’
‘It seems long ago.’
‘But a bitter blow.’
‘As the loss of a child must be. But there was no time to brood. It was all-important that we should get an army together; and we did it, Beatriz, even though it may well be due to that that the child was lost.’
‘It might have killed you,’ said Beatriz gruffly.
‘But I am strong, Beatriz; have you not yet learned that? Moreover, I am destined to be Queen of Castile.’
‘You are Queen of Castile.’
‘I have never really reigned yet. Since my accession there has been this trouble. Once it is settled I shall be able to do for Castile what I always longed to do.’
‘Castile will prosper when you are firmly on the throne, Isabella.’
Isabella’s eyes were shining with purpose. She looked full of vitality at such times, thought Beatriz; it was rarely that those outside her intimate circle saw her so unreserved.
‘First,’ she was saying, ‘I shall abolish this disastrous anarchy. I shall bring law and order back to Castile. Then, when I have a law-abiding country, I shall do all in my power to make good Christians of my subjects. You remember Tomas de Torquemada, Beatriz?’
Beatriz grimaced. ‘Who could forget him?’
‘You were harsh with him, Beatriz.’
‘He was too harsh with us all, including himself.’
‘He is a good man, Beatriz.’
‘I doubt it not. But I cannot forgive him for trying to suppress our laughter. He thought laughter was sinful.’
‘It was because he realised how necessary it was for me to avoid frivolous ways. I remember that one day, after confession, he made me promise that if ever it were in my power I would convert my kingdom to the true faith.’
‘Let us hope that in converting them you will not make them as lean and wretched looking as friend Tomas.’
‘Well, Beatriz, there is another task of mine when all is at peace. I will endeavour to free every inch of Spanish soil from Moslem rule; I will raise the flag of Christ over every Alcazar, over every town in Spain.’
‘I am sure you will do it,’ said Beatriz, ‘but only if you have some little regard for your health. Stay with me a while, dear Isabella. Give me the pleasure of looking after you myself. Please. I beg of you.’
‘How I should enjoy that!’ said Isabella. ‘But there is work to do. I have stolen these few short hours from my duty because I was in the neighbourhood of Segovia and could not resist the joy of seeing you. But tomorrow I must be on my way.’
‘I shall do my utmost to persuade you to stay.’
But Isabella was not to be persuaded; the next day she set out for Tordesillas.
The battlefield was between Toro and Zamora, along the banks of the glittering Douro. The armies were now equally matched; Alfonso was old compared with Ferdinand, but his son, Prince John, had joined him and was in command of the cavalry.
Ferdinand, surveying the enemy, determined to succeed or die in the attempt. Alfonso lacked Ferdinand’s zeal; it was characteristic of him to tire quickly of the causes for which he had originally been so enthusiastic. He had been long in Castile, and his presence was needed in his own country; his men were restive; they too had been a long time away from home. Alfonso had intended to make speedy war in Castile, drive Isabella, whom he called the usurper, from the throne and put his betrothed Joanna in her place. But the affair had been long drawn out; and already he was tiring of it. His son John was enthusiastic, but John had not much experience of war; and Alfonso longed for the end of this day’s battle.
Ferdinand, riding between the Admiral of Castile and the Duke of Alva, cried aloud: ‘St James and St Lazarus!’ which was the old cry of Castile; and those Castilians in the Portuguese ranks who heard it, trembled. It was as though Ferdinand were reminding them that they were traitors.
There was one riding furiously towards the enemy, who cared not for the old cry of Castile. The Archbishop of Toledo enjoyed battle, and he was determined to exploit this opportunity to the full.
The battle had begun, and furiously it raged; it was as though every soldier in those armies knew what depended upon its issue.
Ferdinand shouted to his men. They must fight. In the name of Isabella, they must fight. Their future and the future of their Queen, the future of Castile, depended on them.
There were many who remembered the Queen; they thought of the pregnant woman who had endured great discomfort to come to them that she might move them with her eloquence, that she might remind them of their duty to Castile. They remembered that these men who fought against them were their old enemies, the Portuguese, and those Castilians who had seen fit to fight against their own Queen.
Lances were shattered, and swords were drawn; and men grappled hand to hand with one another in the melee.
And Ferdinand’s heart leaped with joy, for he knew that the outcome of this day’s battle would be victory for him.
But there were a few men in the Portuguese Army who were determined that it should not be so. Edward de Almeyda, the Portuguese flag bearer, was an example to all. He had snatched the Portuguese Emblem from Castilian soldiers who were about to trample it in the dust and, with a shout of triumph, held it aloft, a sign to all Portuguese that the day was not lost for Alfonso.
But even as he rode away a Castilian soldier had lifted his sword and cut off the right arm which held the flag. But as it would have fallen, Almeyda, ignoring the loss of his right arm, had caught it in his left hand.
‘Joanna and Alfonso!’ he shouted as swords hacked at the arm which now held the flag aloft.
With both arms shattered and bleeding he managed to transfer the standard to his mouth; and he was seen riding among his defeated fellow countrymen, armless, the standard in his mouth, for some minutes before he was unhorsed.
Even such heroism could not save the day. Prince John was missing. Alfonso had also disappeared.
Ferdinand found himself master of the field.
In the castle of Castro Nufio, some miles from the battlefield, the young Joanna waited in apprehension. She knew that this battle would prove decisive, and she believed that her affianced husband would be the victor.
Then all hope of a peaceful existence for her would be over. She did not believe that Isabella would ever quietly stand aside and allow her to take the throne.
What would happen to her if Isabella’s armies were victorious she could not imagine; all she knew was that neither solution could bring her much joy; and she greatly wished that she could have been allowed to stay in the Madrid convent, living a life which was governed by bells.
All day she had waited for news. She had placed herself at a window in the fortified castle where she could command a good view of the surrounding country.
Soon, she knew, a rider would appear, perhaps several; she would know then whether the result of the conflict was defeat or victory for Alfonso.
It was almost dusk when her vigil was rewarded, and she saw a party of riders coming towards the castle. She stood alert, her eyes strained, and as they came nearer she recognised the leader of the party. It was Alfonso, and with him were four of his men.
She knew what this must mean; for Alfonso did not come riding to Castro Nuno as a victor; it was obvious from his demeanour that he came as a fugitive.
She hurried down, calling as she went: ‘The King is riding to the castle. He will be here in a few minutes.’
From all over the castle men and women came hurrying into the hall, and Joanna was in the courtyard when Alfonso and his party rode in.
Poor Alfonso! Indeed, he looked an old man today. He was dishevelled and dirty, his face grey; and for the first time she felt tender towards him.
He leaped from his horse and threw the reins to a groom, crying: ‘The army is routed. We must leave almost immediately for Portugal.’
‘I am to go to Portugal?’ stammered Joanna.
Alfonso put a hand on her shoulder. His eyes were suddenly alight with that quixotic expression which was not unendearing.
‘Do not despair,’ he said. ‘It is a defeat. A temporary defeat. I will win your kingdom for you yet.’
Then he took her hand and they went into the castle.
A few hours later, when Alfonso and his party had refreshed themselves, they left Castro Nuno and rode westward over the border into Portugal; and Joanna went with them.
Isabella was at Tordesillas when the news was brought to her. Ferdinand triumphant! The King of Portugal and his son John in flight! Through great endeavour and fervent prayer she had overcome yet another ordeal which in the beginning had seemed impassable.
Never before had Isabella been so sure of her destiny as now.
At the Convent of Santa Clara she gave thanks to God for this further proof of His favour. There in that beautiful building which had once been the palace of a king’s mistress she remained in her cell, on her knees, while she reminded herself that she owed this victory to the intervention of God. The atmosphere of the Convent of Santa Clara suited her mood. She, the triumphant Queen of Castile, was prostrated in humility, in that beautiful building with its Moorish baths which had once been the delight of Dona Maria de Padilla, who herself had delighted Pedro the Cruel; these walls, which must once have been the scene of voluptuous entertainments, now enclosed the refuge of silent-footed nuns.
Isabella wanted all to know that the victory was due to Divine guidance. All her subjects must understand that she was now the undoubted ruler of Castile.
The next day, in a loose and simple gown, her feet bare, Isabella led a procession to the Church of St Paul, where, in the greatest humility, she gave thanks to God for this victory which could leave no doubt that she, and she alone, was Queen of Castile.
Although the battle which had been fought between Toro and Zamora was decisive, it did not bring complete peace to Castile.
Louis XI of France, who had come to the aid of Alfonso, was still giving trouble, and Ferdinand could not disband his army; and when Isabella studied the effect of the war, following on the disastrous reigns of her half-brother and her father, she knew that her task had hardly begun.
It was September before she was able to spend a few days in Ferdinand’s company.
She was in residence at the Madrid Alcazar and, when messengers brought her news that he was on the way, she set her cooks to prepare a banquet worthy of the victor.
Isabella was not by nature extravagant and she knew that Ferdinand was not. How could they be when they considered the state of the exchequer; when they had had to work so hard to get together the means to fight their enemies? But although Isabella was cautious in spending money, she knew that there were times when she must put aside that caution.
Those about her must understand the importance of this victory. They must not whisper among themselves that the Queen of Castile and her Consort were a parsimonious pair who did not know how to live like royalty.
This would be the first real celebration she and Ferdinand together had had since the Battle of Toro, and everyone must be aware of its importance.
Ferdinand came riding in triumph to the Alcazar, and Isabella was waiting to receive him.
As she stood, surrounded by her ministers and attendants, and Ferdinand came towards her, her heart beat faster at the sight of him. He had aged a little; the lines were more deeply marked on his face; that alertness of his eyes was accentuated. But even in those first few seconds the rivalry was there between them. Ferdinand in battle was the supreme leader. Here in the Alcazar he was merely the Queen’s Consort. He had to adjust himself, and the adjustment was somewhat distasteful.
He took Isabella’s hand, bowed over it and put his lips against it.
‘Welcome, my husband,’ she said, and her voice had lost its habitual calm. ‘Welcome, my dearest husband.’
The heralds blew a few triumphant notes on their trompas and the drummers beat their baldosas.
Then Isabella laid Ferdinand’s hand on her arm, and this was the signal for them to enter the castle.
There was feasting and music, and Isabella was happier than she had been for a very long time.
Ferdinand did not leave her side during the banquet and the ball which followed, and she believed that he had such an affection for her that he ceased to fret because in Castile she was supreme.
Isabella almost wished that she were not a queen on that night, and that she and Ferdinand could have retired in peace from their guests and spent an hour or so with their little seven-year-old Isabella.
When the ball was at last over and they had retired to their apartments she reminded him that it was eight years almost to the month since they had married.
‘It is difficult to believe it is so long,’ said Isabella, ‘for in that eight years we have seen far too little of each other.’
‘When the kingdom is at peace,’ Ferdinand answered, ‘there will not be these separations.’
‘I shall be so much happier then. Oh, Ferdinand, what should I have done without you? You have brought victory to Castile.’
‘It is only my duty,’ he said. She saw the faintly sullen lines beginning to form about his mouth, and she went swiftly to him and put an arm about his shoulders.
‘We have a great task before us, Ferdinand,’ she said, ‘but I thank God that we are together.’
He was a little mollified. ‘Now it is our task to deal with the French,’ he told her.
‘You think it will be difficult, Ferdinand?’
‘No, I do not think so. Louis has his hands full with the trouble between himself and Burgundy, and now that we have driven Alfonso back where he belongs he’ll have little heart for this fight.’
‘Soon, then, we shall have peace, and then, Ferdinand, begins our real task.’
‘I have news for you. Arevalo has made advances. I think he is prepared to forget the claims of Joanna and offer his allegiance to you.’
‘That is excellent news.’
‘It shows which way the wind blows, eh?’
‘And the Archbishop of Toledo?’
‘He will follow doubtless.’
‘Then victory will indeed be ours.’
Ferdinand seized her hands and drew her to her feet. She was comely; she was a woman; and here in the bedchamber he was no longer merely the Consort of the Queen.
‘Have we not fought for it, sacrificed for it?’ he demanded. ‘Why, Isabella, you might have lost your life. You were very ill when you lost our child.’
‘It is a great grief to me . . . a continual grief. Yet our crown depended on the army I could raise.’
‘And all these months,’ went on Ferdinand, ‘I have scarcely seen you.’ He drew her towards him. ‘We are young, eh, Isabella. We are husband and wife. The quickest way to forget our sorrow is to have a son who will replace the child we lost. We have won a great victory, Isabella, and this should not be beyond our powers.’
Then he laughed and lifted her in his arms. That cold dignity dropped from her as though it were a cloak which he had loosened. And there was Isabella, warm, loving, eager.
It was during Ferdinand’s stay at the Madrid Alcazar that their son was conceived.
From his residence at Alcalá de Henares, Alfonso de Carillo, the Archbishop of Toledo, grimly reviewed the situation.
King Alfonso had fled with Joanna into Portugal. There were victories all over Castile for Ferdinand. Many of the Archbishop’s possessions had already passed into the hands of Ferdinand, and very soon he himself would do so.
Ferdinand would have no mercy on him. Was this the end, then, of an exciting and glorious career?
His only hope lay with the Queen, and Isabella, after all, was the ruler of Castile.
He would write to her reminding her of all she owed him. It was true that he had boasted of having raised her up and that he would cast her down. He had been wrong. He had not understood the force of her character. He had believed her to be steadfast and firm in her determination to support what she believed to be right. So she was. But she was shrewd also; or was it that her belief in her destiny was so strong that she forced others to share that belief even against their will?
The Archbishop of Toledo, statesman and soldier, was forced to admit that he had been foolish in allying himself with the wrong side.
Now he must humble himself. So he wrote to Isabella offering her his allegiance. He reminded her of all that he had done for her in the past. He asked pardon for his folly and arrogance.
Ferdinand, who was with Isabella when this plea arrived, laughed scornfully. ‘This is the man who, when you were risking your life to ride about the country pleading for funds, took five hundred lances and rode at the head of them to serve our enemy. He must think we are fools.’
Isabella was thinking of that occasion when she had called at his palace and the Archbishop had said that if she entered by one door he would go out at the other. It was hard to forget such an insult. It was also hard to forget that occasion when she had been threatened with capture at Madrigal, and the Archbishop of Toledo had come galloping to her rescue.
She smiled. He was a fiery old man, whose dignity must be preserved at all costs. And he had been piqued by her reliance on Ferdinand and Cardinal Mendoza.
‘We should not be too harsh with the old Archbishop,’ mused Isabella.
Ferdinand looked at her in amazement.
‘Public execution should be his lot.’
‘Once he was my very good friend,’ she reminded him.
‘He was also our very bad enemy. It will be good for the people to see what happens to those who work against us.’
Isabella shook her head. ‘I should never agree to the execution of the Archbishop,’ she said.
‘You are a sentimental woman.’
‘That may be, but I cannot forget all he once did for me.’
Ferdinand snapped his fingers. ‘There was a time, Isabella, when defeat stared us in the face. If Alfonso had been a better general we should not be rulers of Castile at this moment. Fugitives we should be. Or you might. I should doubtless have died on the field of battle.’
‘Do not speak of it,’ said Isabella.
‘Then I pray you be reasonable. This man is dangerous.’
‘This man is old and broken in spirit.’
‘Such as he is never accept age; their spirit is unbreakable.’
‘I would rather have him my friend than my enemy.’
‘Then send him where he can be neither.’
‘I could not do that, Ferdinand.’
‘Nevertheless . . .’
Gently she interrupted: ‘I shall not do it, Ferdinand.’
She watched the slow flush spread over Ferdinand’s face. He clenched his hands and said between his teeth: ‘I intrude. I had forgotten. You are the Queen. I ask Your Highness’s permission to retire.’
With that he bowed and left her.
It was not the first of such scenes. Isabella sighed. She feared it would not be the last. But she was right – she knew she was right.
She must rule Castile with that dignity and calm of which she – and so few others – was capable. Anger and resentment could never go hand in hand with justice.
The Archbishop had been her bitter enemy, she knew; but he had also been her friend.
She had decided how he should be dealt with. He should buy his pardon. He was rich, and the royal exchequer was low. He should remain in exile at Alcalá de Henares for the rest of his life.
He would be saddened, of course, by his exile from Court. But he was ageing, and he would find plenty to occupy him at Alcalá de Henares. He was an alchemist of some ability, and he would turn his immense energy into that field for the years that were left to him.
Isabella wrote the order which decided the future of the Archbishop of Toledo, and when she had dispatched it she sat silent for a few moments, and a sad wistful smile touched her mouth.
She was thinking of Ferdinand.
Isabella was riding towards Arevalo. Beside her was her friend Beatriz de Bobadilla and a few of her attendants.
It was early spring, and soon Isabella would be too heavy to trust herself on horseback.
Beatriz would stay with her until after the confinement. Isabella turned to smile at her friend. Beatriz had declared her intention of resuming her old position with the Queen as chief maid of honour until the baby had been born; she was going to see that no undue exertion threatened the life of this one. And Beatrix was a forceful woman. Once she had stated her intention, Andres, her husband, must allow her to leave him; and Isabella, her Queen, must be ready to receive her.
‘Your Highness is amused?’ asked Beatriz.
‘Only by your determination to look after me.’
‘Indeed I will look after you,’ said Beatriz. ‘And who better than one who loves you as I do?’
‘I know, Beatriz. You are good, and it gives me great pleasure to have you with me. I am sorry though for poor Andres.’
‘Do not be. He has his work to do. Mayhap he is glad of a little respite from my tongue. This journey is too much for Your Highness.’
‘You tried hard to dissuade me from making it,’ said Isabella. ‘But I fear that in the next few weeks I shall feel still less inclined to do so.’
‘After this you must rest more frequently.’
There was a frown between Beatriz’s well-marked brows. She knew Isabella as well as anyone knew her; she was aware of that firm spirit behind the serene facade. She knew that she could only appear to persuade Isabella when the Queen had made up her own mind. That was why she had ceased to rail against this journey to Arevalo, once she realised that Isabella was quite determined to make it.
But Beatriz was not only worried by the effect this journey might have on Isabella; she was wondering how much the Queen would have to suffer during her stay at the castle of Arevalo.
Beatriz had made up her mind that their stay there should be as brief as she could make it.
Isabella turned to her friend. ‘I always feel deeply moved when I come to Arevalo,’ she said. ‘There are so many memories.’
‘Perhaps we should have delayed the journey until after the child is born.’
‘No, it is long since I have seen my mother. She may be growing anxious. It is very bad for her to be anxious.’
‘I would rather she was anxious because you were absent than that I and Ferdinand, and all who love you, should be because of your state of health.’
‘You fret too much, Beatriz. It is all in the hands of God.’
‘Who would have as little patience with us now as He had last time,’retorted Beatriz.
‘Beatriz, you blaspheme.’
Isabella was really shocked, and Beatriz seeing the horror in the Queen’s face, hastened to apologise.
‘You see, Highness,’ she murmured, ‘I am as I always was. I speak without thinking.’
A gentle smile crossed Isabella’s face. ‘It is on account of your care for me, I know. But I would hear no more of the hazards of this journey and your disapproval of our visit to my mother.’
‘I see I have offended Your Highness, and crave pardon.’
‘Not offended, Beatriz, but please say no more.’
It was an order and, as they rode on to Arevalo, Beatriz was silent for a while; and Isabella’s thoughts went back to the day when she, with her mother and young brother, had hurried away from her half-brother’s Court to live for so many years in obscurity in the castle of Arevalo.
Isabella knelt before the woman in the chair. This was her mother, also Isabella, Queen-widow of King John II of Castile.
And as Isabella knelt there she felt an urge to weep, for she remembered so well those days when she had watched her mother’s face for a sign of the madness which could be terrifying to a small daughter.
The long thin fingers stroked her hair and the woman said: ‘Who is this who has come to see me?’
‘It is Isabella.’
‘I am Isabella.’
‘It is that other Isabella, Highness. Your daughter.’
‘My daughter Isabella.’ The blank expression lifted and the eyes became more bright. ‘My little child, Isabella. Where is your brother, Isabella? Where is Alfonso?’
‘He is dead, Mother,’ answered Isabella.
‘One day he could be King of Castile. One day he shall be King of Castile.’
Isabella shook her head and the tears stung her eyes.
The old Queen put her face close to her daughter’s, but she did not seem to see her. She said in a husky whisper: ‘I must take them away while there is time. One day Alfonso could be King of Castile. And if aught should happen to him, my little Isabella would be Queen.’
Isabella took the trembling fingers and laid her lips against them.
‘Mother, so much time has passed. I am your Isabella and I am Queen of Castile. That makes you happy, does it not? Is it not what you always wanted?’
The old Queen rose in her chair, and Isabella stood up and quickly put her arms about her.
‘Queen . . .’ she murmured. ‘Queen of Castile?’
‘Yes, Mother. I . . . your little Isabella. But little no longer. Mother, I am married to Ferdinand. It was the match we always wanted, was it not? And we have a daughter . . . yet another Isabella. A sweet and lively child. And, Mother, there is another soon to be born.’
‘Queen of Castile . . .’ repeated the old Queen.
‘She stands before you now, Mother, your own daughter.’
There was a smile about the twitching lips. She had understood and she was happy.
How glad I am that I came, thought Isabella. She will be at peace now. She will remember.
‘Come, Mother,’ she said, ‘let us sit down. Let us sit side by side, and I will tell you that the war is over and there is no more danger to my crown. I will tell you how happy I am with my kingdom, with my husband and my family.’
She led her mother to her chair, and they sat side by side. They held hands while Isabella talked and the old woman nodded and from time to time said: ‘Isabella . . . my little daughter, Queen of Castile.’
