Текст книги "Spain for the Sovereigns "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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‘So now, Mother, you know,’ said Isabella. ‘There is no need for you to be sad any more. As often as I can I will come to Arevalo and we will talk together. You can be happy now, Mother.’
The old Queen nodded.
‘I shall rest here for a few days,’ said Isabella, ‘then I shall go. I do not wish to stay too long at this time because of my condition. You understand, Mother?’
Old Isabella went on nodding her head.
Isabella put her lips to her mother’s forehead. ‘While I am here we shall be together often. That makes me happy. Now I shall go to my apartment and rest awhile. It is necessary, you see, because of the child.’
The old Queen put out a hand suddenly. She whispered: ‘Have a care.’
‘I will take great care,’ Isabella assured her.
‘He will never get a child,’ said her mother. ‘It is the life he has led.’ She laughed suddenly. It was an echo of that wild laughter which had once terrified the young Isabella when she had first become aware of the taint of insanity in her mother. ‘He will try to foist the Queen’s child on the people, but they’ll not have it. No, they’ll not have it.’
She was talking of her stepson, King Henry IV, who had been dead for some years. She still at times lived in the past.
She gripped Isabella’s hand. ‘I must keep the children away from him. A pillow over their mouths . . . that is what it would be. Poison mixed with their food. I do not trust them . . . neither Henry nor his Queen. They are evil . . . evil, and I have my babies to protect. My little Alfonso could be King of Castile . . . my little Isabella could be Queen.’
So all that she had said had left only a momentary impression on that poor dazed mind.
Isabella felt the sobs about to choke her as she took a hurried leave of her mother.
She lay on her bed, and slowly the tears ran down her cheeks. This was weakness. She, the Queen of Castile, to be in tears! No one must see her thus.
It was so tragic. That poor woman, who cared so much, who had planned for her children, whose unbalanced state had no doubt been aggravated by her anxieties for them, might now see one of her dearest dreams realised; but her poor mind could not grasp the truth.
‘Poor sad Highness!’ murmured Isabella. ‘Dearest Mother! Is there any sickness worse than that of the mind?’
Beatriz had come into the apartment.
‘I did not send for you,’ said Isabella.
But Beatriz had thrown herself on her knees beside the bed.
‘Highness, you are unhappy. When you are so, if I could comfort you in the smallest measure, nothing would keep me from you.’
Beatriz had seen the tears; it was no use hiding the distress. Isabella put out a hand, and Beatriz took it.
‘It makes me weep; it is so sad,’ said Isabella.
‘It is not wise that you should upset yourself. ‘You were right, I think, Beatriz. I should not have come. There is no good I can do her. Or is there? I fancy she was pleased to see me.’
‘The little good you may do her by your visit might mean a lot of harm to your health.’
‘I have been thinking about the child, Beatriz. I am a little upset this day, because my thoughts are melancholy.’
‘There is nothing to fear. You are healthy. The miscarriage was due to your exertions. There will be no more miscarriages.’
‘It was not a miscarriage that I feared, Beatriz.’
‘You feared for your own health. But you are strong, Highness. You are young. You will bear many children yet.’
‘It was seeing her, Beatriz. How did she become like that? Why was she born with a mind that could plunge into darkness? I can tell you the answer, my dear friend. It is because others in her family have suffered so.’
‘What are you thinking?’ cried Beatriz aghast.
‘That she is my mother . . . even as I am the mother of this life which stirs within me now.’
‘These are morbid thoughts. It is bad for a pregnant woman to harbour such.’
‘It is a sudden fear grown up within me, Beatriz, like an evil weed in a plot of beautiful flowers. There were others before her who were afflicted thus. Beatriz, I think of my child.’
‘It is folly. Forgive me, Highness, but I must say what I think. The Princess Isabella is a beautiful child, her mind is lively and quick. This darkness has come to your mother because of the sad life she led. It has nothing to do with her blood.’
‘Is that so, Beatriz? Do you believe it?’
‘Indeed I do,’ lied Beatriz. ‘I will tell you something else. It will be a boy. I know it from the way you carry it.’
‘A boy, Beatriz. It is what Ferdinand wants. Do you know he would like our heir to be a boy? He thinks that sovereigns should be male.’
‘We ourselves have seen Castile under two kings, and we are not greatly impressed by masculine rule. Now we have a Queen, and I’ll warrant that in a very short time Castile will have good reason to be thankful for that.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Isabella, ‘I should appoint you as my Primate.’
‘Nay,’ said Beatriz, ‘I would prefer to be the power behind the throne. Do you think we could leave tomorrow?’
‘Our stay has been so short.’
‘Isabella, my dearest mistress, she does not know who you are nor why you are here. Let us leave tomorrow. It would be better for you . . . and the child.’
‘I believe you are right,’ said Isabella. ‘What good can we do by staying here? But when my child is born I shall come again and see her . . . I shall come often. There are times when her mind clears a little. Then she understands and is happy to see me.’
‘She is as happy here as she could be. You are her very dutiful daughter. It is enough, Isabella, that she is cared for. You must think of the child.’
Isabella nodded slowly.
She was thinking of the child. A new dread had come into her life. She believed that it would always be haunted by a shadow.
She would think often of those wild fits of laughter which used to overtake her mother; she would think of the poor dazed mind, lost in a half-world of darkness; and in the future she would watch her children, wondering and fearful. Her mother had brought the seeds of insanity from Portugal. It was possible that they had taken root and would break into hideous flower in the generations to come.
Meanwhile Alfonso of Portugal had not been idle. No sooner had he returned to his country in the company of the young Joanna than he was eager to make another attempt to win for her and himself the crown of Castile, for although he had tired of the old campaign, he was very eager to begin a new one.
He discussed this with his son John.
‘Are we to allow the crown of Castile to slip from our grasp?’ he demanded. ‘What of our young Joanna – this lady in distress? Is she to be deprived of what is hers by right?’
‘What do you propose to do, Father? We have lost the best of our army in Castile. We are not equipped to go to war again.’
‘We should need help,’ Alfonso agreed. ‘But we have our old ally. Louis will help us.’
‘At the moment he is deeply involved with Burgundy.’
Alfonso’s eyes were glittering with a new purpose.
‘He will help if our ambassadors can persuade him of the justice of our cause.’
‘And the profit our success might bring to him,’ added John cynically.
‘Well, Louis will see that there is profit in it for himself.’
‘Whom shall we send into France? You had someone in mind?’
Alfonso was restless. His desire for adventure did not leave him with advancing years. He wished to enjoy his youthful bride, but he could not marry a girl – however young, however charming – who might be illegitimate and have no claim to a crown whatsoever. There was only one way in which he could deal with this matter. He must set a crown on his little Joanna’s head. Then he would marry her; then Castile would be under the sway of Portugal.
He could not bear to wait for what he wanted. He must be on the move all the time.
He thought of the long journey into France, of his
ambassadors trying to set the case before Louis, whose mind would be on the threatened war with Burgundy.
There was only one man in Portugal, he felt sure, who could explain to Louis what great good could come to France and Portugal through an invasion of Castile and the setting up of Joanna in place of Isabella.
He looked as eager as a boy as he turned to John. ‘I myself will go to Louis,’ he said.
It was a triumphal progress which Alfonso made through France with the retinue of two hundred which he had taken with him.
Louis XI had given the order: ‘The King of Portugal is my friend. Honour him wherever he should go.’
Thus the people of France gave a warm welcome to this friend of their King’s, and those in the country villages threw flowers at his feet and cried ‘Long life’ to him as he went on his way.
Louis himself, seeming so honest in his shabby fustian doublet and battered old hat, in which he wore a leaden image of the Virgin, took Alfonso in his arms and kissed him on both cheeks before a large assembly, to assure all those who did not know Louis of his friendship and esteem for his ally.
There was a meeting between the two kings, when they sat opposite each other in the council chamber surrounded by their ministers and advisers. Louis was as affable as ever, but his friendly words were couched in cautious phrases and he did not offer that which Alfonso had come to France to obtain.
‘My dear friend and brother,’ said Louis, ‘you see me here in a most unhappy state – my kingdom plunged in war, my resources strained to their limit in this conflict with Burgundy.’
‘But my brother of France is master of great resources.’
‘Great!’ The eyes of the King of France flashed with fire rarely seen in them. Then he smiled a little sadly, stroking his fustian doublet as though to call attention to his simple and shabby garments that the King of Portugal might compare them with his own finery. He shook his head. ‘Wars deplete our treasury, brother. I could not burden my poor people with more taxes than they already suffer. Nay, when I have brought this trouble with Burgundy to an end . . . then . . . why then I should be most happy to come to your help, that together we may defeat the usurper Isabella and set the rightful heiress on the throne of Castile. Until then . . .’ Louis lifted his hands and allowed a helpless expression to creep over his cunning features.
‘Wars have a way of dragging on,’ said Alfonso desperately.
‘But until this conflict has been brought to a satisfactory conclusion you will stay in my kingdom as my guest . . . my very honoured guest.’
Louis had leaned forward in his chair, and certain of the Portuguese retinue shivered with distaste. Louis reminded them of a great spider in his drab garments, his pale face brightened only by those shrewd, alert eyes.
‘And it may well be,’ went on the King of France, ‘that by that time His Holiness can be persuaded to give you the dispensation you need for marriage with your niece.’
It was a further excuse for delay. The marriage could not take place without the dispensation from the Pope, and was he likely to give it while Isabella was firmly on the throne of Castile?
If the journey through France had delighted the King of Portugal, his meeting with France’s King could only fill him with foreboding.
Alfonso had been right to feel apprehensive. As the months passed, although the French continued to treat him with respect, Louis, on every occasion when the purpose of his visit was mentioned, became evasive.
Burgundy! was the answer. And where was the dispensation from the Pope?
A whole year Alfonso lingered in France, for, having made the long journey, how could he face a return without having achieved what he had come for?
The unhappy figure of the King of Portugal at the Court of France had become a commonplace. He was looked upon as a hanger-on whose prestige waned with each passing week.
The Duke of Burgundy had died and Louis had invaded his dominions. The Pope had given the dispensation.
Still there was no answer for Alfonso.
He began to grow melancholy and to wonder what he should do, for he could not stay indefinitely in France.
And one day, after he had been a year in Louis’s dominions, one of his retinue asked to speak to Alfonso privately; and when they were alone he said to the King: ‘Highness, we are being deceived. Louis has no intention of helping us. I have proof that he is at this time negotiating with Ferdinand and Isabella, and seeking a treaty of friendship with them.’
‘It is impossible!’ cried Alfonso.
‘There is proof, Highness.’
When he was assured that he had been told the truth Alfonso was overcome with mortification.
What can I do? he asked himself. Return to Portugal? There he would become the object of ridicule. Louis was not to be trusted, and he, Alfonso, had been a fool to think he could bargain with such a man. Louis had never intended to help him; and it was obvious that, since he sought the friendship of Isabella and Ferdinand, he believed them to be secure on the throne of Castile.
He called to three of his most trusted servants.
‘Prepare,’ he said, ‘to leave the Court immediately.’
‘We are returning home, Highness?’ asked one eagerly.
‘Home,’ murmured the King. ‘We can never go home again. I could never face my son, nor my people.’
‘Then where shall we go, Highness?’
Alfonso looked in a bewildered fashion at his servants.
‘There is a little village in Normandy. We will make for that place, and there we shall live in obscurity until I have made up my mind what I had best do.’
Alfonso stared out of the window of the inn at the fowls which scrabbled in the yard.
I, he mourned, a King of Portugal to come to this!
For several days he had lived here, like a fugitive, incognito, afraid to proclaim his identity lest even these humble people should be laughing at him.
At the Court of France his retinue would be asking themselves what had become of him; he did not care. All he wanted now was to hide from the world.
In Portugal Joanna would hear of his humiliation; and what would become of her? Poor child! A sad life hers, for what hope had she now of ever attaining the throne of Castile?
He had dreamed of a romantic enterprise. A fair young girl in distress, a gallant king to her rescue, who should become her bridegroom; and here he was, an ageing man in hiding, perhaps already known to the world as a fighter of lost causes.
What is left to me? he asked himself. What is left to Joanna? A convent for her. And for me?
He saw himself in coarse robe and hair shirt. He saw himself barefoot before some shrine. Why not a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and, after that, return home to the monastic life? Thus if he could not procure the crown of Castile he could make sure of his place in heaven.
He did not pause long to consider. When had he ever done so?
He called for pen and paper.
‘I have a very important letter to write,’ he said.
‘My son, [he wrote] I have decided to retire from the world. All earthly vanities which were once within me are dead. I propose to go on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and after that devote myself to God in the monastic life.
‘It is for you to hear this news as though it were of my death, for dead I am to the world. You will assume the sovereignty of Portugal. When you receive this letter Alfonso is no longer King of Portugal. I salute King John . . .’
Isabella lay in her bed awaiting the birth of her child. It would not be long now, and she was glad that Beatriz was with her.
The Queen’s journeyings had brought her to Seville. It was the month of June, the heat was intense and the sweat was on Isabella’s brow as the intermittent pain tortured her body.
‘Beatrix,’ she murmured, ‘are you there, Beatriz?’
‘Beside you, my dearest.’
‘There is no need to worry, Beatriz. All will be well.’
‘Indeed all will be well!’
‘The child will be born in the most beautiful of my towns. Seville, La Tierra de Maria Santisima. One understands why it is so called, Beatriz. Last night I sat at my window and looked out on the fertile vineyards. But how hot it is!’
Beatriz leaned over Isabella, moving the big fan back and forth.
‘Is that better, my dearest?’
‘Better, Beatriz. I am happy to have you with me.’
A frown had puckered Isabella’s brow, and Beatriz asked herself: ‘Is she thinking of the woman in the castle of Arevalo? Oh, not now, my dearest, not at this time. It would be wrong. It might work some evil. Not now . . . Isabella, my Queen, when the child is about to come into the world.’
‘It is the pain,’ said Isabella. ‘I should be able to endure it better than this.’
‘You are the bravest woman in Castile.’
‘When you think what it means! Our child is about to be born . . . mine and Ferdinand’s. This child could be King or Queen of Castile. That was what my mother used to say to us . . .’
Isabella had caught her breath, and Beatriz, fanning more vigorously, said quickly: ‘The people are already gathering outside. They crowd into the patios and in the glare of the sun. They await news of the birth of your child.’
‘I must not disappoint them, Beatriz.’
‘You will never disappoint your people, Isabella.’
Beatriz held the child in her arms. She laughed exultantly. Then she handed it to a nurse and went to kneel by Isabella’s bed.
‘The child?’ said Isabella.
‘Your Highness has borne a perfect child.’
‘I would see the child.’
‘Can you hear the cries? Loud . . . healthy . . . just as they should be. Oh, this is a happy day! Oh, my dearest mistress, your son is born.’
Isabella lay back on her pillows and smiled.
‘So it is a son.’
‘A Prince for Castile!’ cried Beatriz.
‘And he is well . . . quite well . . . in all ways?’
‘He is perfect. I know it.’
‘But . . .’
She was thinking that, when her mother had been born, doubtless there had been no sign of the terrible affliction which was to come to her.
‘Put unhappy thoughts from your mind, Highness. They are doubly bad at such a time. All is well. This is a beautiful child, a fine heir for Castile. Here he is.’ She took him from the nurse and laid him in Isabella’s arms.
And as she looked at her son, Isabella forgot her fears.
He was born at last – the son for whom she and Ferdinand had longed.
‘He shall be John . . . Juan,’ she said, ‘after Ferdinand’s father. That will delight my husband.’
She kissed the baby’s brow and whispered: ‘Juan . . . my little son, born in the most beautiful of my towns, welcome . . . welcome to Castile.’
ISABELLA AND THE ARCHBISHOP OF SARAGOSSA
Alfonso gave himself up to dreaming. He would sit in the room overlooking the inn yard, dreaming of the life he would lead in the monastery of his choosing. He had decided that he would become a Franciscan because their simple way of life best fitted his present mood. How different would existence at a Franciscan monastery be compared with that of a royal Court!
First, there would be his pilgrimage. He closed his eyes and saw himself, pack on back, simply clad in a flowing garment, the sun beating upon him, suffering a hundred discomforts. Imaginary discomforts were so comforting.
And as he sat dreaming there he heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs in the lane and started out of his world of imagination to see that several members of his retinue, whom he had left behind at the Court of France, had arrived at the inn.
He went down to greet them.
They bowed before him. ‘God be praised, Highness,’ said their leader, ‘that we have found you.’
‘Call me Highness no more,’ said the King. ‘I have relinquished my rank. Very soon I shall be nothing more than the humblest friar.’
His followers looked aghast, but he saw that they were already aware of his intended abdication; and it was for this reason that they, discovering his hiding-place, had come to him with all haste.
‘Highness,’ said one, ‘it is imperative that you return to Portugal with all speed. If there is any delay it may well be that the Prince, your son, will have become King.’
‘It is what I intended.’
‘There is also the Princess Joanna, who expects to be your bride.’
Alfonso looked pained. He had allowed the thought of Joanna to slip from his mind. But she was so young, so helpless. She would be a charmingly innocent bride.
The Franciscan robe lost some of its charm then; thinking of the soft body of the Princess Joanna, he was reminded of the hardship of the hair shirt.
A princess in distress, and he was sworn to rescue her! How could he desert her?
He remembered the Court – its balls and banquets, its fetes, all its pleasures. The life of a king was his life; he had been brought up to expect it.
‘It is too late,’ he said. ‘I have already written to my son. When he receives my letter he will make ready for his coronation. Once he is crowned King of Portugal, there will be no place there for me.’
‘Highness, it is not too late. Louis has offered a fleet of ships to carry you back to Portugal. We should leave without delay. And if we are fortunate we may reach Portugal before the coronation of Prince John.’
Alfonso shook his head. ‘But no,’ he said. ‘I have decided.’ He smiled. This would be the most quixotic adventure of them all. The charms of Joanna were appealing; the court life had its attractions; but he could not abandon the Franciscan habit as easily as this.
‘Highness,’ went on the chief of his advisers, ‘you cannot give up your crown. The Princess Joanna awaits you. She will be longing for your return. All Portugal will wish to see their King again. You cannot abandon the Princess Joanna. You cannot abandon your people.’
He told himself they were right.
My beautiful Joanna, my little niece-bride. Of course I could not abandon you.
Yet he remained aloof from their argument, for his dignity would not allow him to give way too easily.
They knew that; they also knew that in time they would persuade him to give up this dream of retirement; they would make him see it as the chimera it was.
Ferdinand faced Isabella in that apartment where they were alone with their children. Ferdinand was dressed for a long journey.
‘It grieves me to leave you,’ he was saying, ‘but you understand that it must be so.’
‘Indeed I understand. You must always go to your father when he needs you . . . as I must to my mother.’
Ferdinand thought that the one was not to be compared with the other. His father, the great warrior statesman, and Isabella’s mother, the insane creature of the Castle of Arevalo! But he did not comment on this. Isabella was, of course, referring to their duty.
‘At least,’ she said, ‘you have happier news for him than when you were last with him. Although we must not forget that we are not yet completely safe.’
‘I shall always be wary of Alfonso,’ he said. ‘How can one know what mad scheme he will think of next? The idea of giving up his throne to his son! He talks of going into a monastery!’
Isabella smiled. ‘He has been humiliated by Louis, and he cannot face his countrymen. Poor Alfonso! He is unfit to wear a crown.’
‘You will take care of yourself and our children while I am away.’
Isabella smiled at him fondly. ‘You can trust me to do so, Ferdinand.’
‘Care for them as assiduously as you care for Castile.’
‘I will, Ferdinand.’
‘There is a large enough force on the frontier to withstand an attack from Portugal should it come.’
‘Have no fear.’
‘You are a wise woman, Isabella. I regret I must leave my family. But the time is passing.’
‘You must say goodbye to the children,’ Isabella reminded him. She called to her daughter. ‘Isabella, my dear. Come. Your father has to leave us now.’
The eight-year-old Infanta Isabella came running at her mother’s call. She was a pretty though delicate child, and in her abundant hair was that hint of red which she had inherited from her Plantagenet ancestors. Even at eight she lacked the serenity of her mother.
She knelt before Ferdinand and Isabella, but Ferdinand swing her up in his arms and, holding her tightly against him, kissed her.
‘Well, daughter,’ he said, ‘are you going to miss me?’
‘So much, dear Father,’ she answered.
‘I shall soon be with you again.’
‘Please come back soon, Father.’
Isabella looked at them fondly.
‘You will not,’ said the Infanta, ‘look for a husband for me, Father.’
‘That had not been my intention.’
‘Because,’ said young Isabella, playing with the ornament on his doublet, ‘I shall never wish to leave you and the Queen to go to France and be the daughter of the French King.’
‘You shall not leave us for many years,’ Ferdinand promised.
And Isabella threw her arms about her father’s neck and hugged him tightly.
The Queen, watching them, found herself praying silently. ‘Preserve them both. Bring them happiness . . . the greatest happiness in life. If there are afflictions to be borne I will bear them. But let these two know perfect happiness.’
They seemed to her like two children. Ferdinand, who was so often like a spoilt boy, for all his valour in battle, for all his dignity; and dear Isabella, whose desire at this time was never to leave the heart of her family.
Isabella thrust away her emotion and said: ‘You should not forget your son, Ferdinand. He will wish to take his leave of you.’
‘He is too young to know our father,’ said young Isabella, pouting slightly, not wishing to share her parents’ attention with the baby who, she considered, usually had an unfair portion of it.
‘Yet your father will wish to take his leave of him,’ said the Queen.
So they went to the royal nursery. The nurses curtsied as they approached and stood back from the cradle, where little Juan crowed and smiled as though to show off his prowess to the spectators.
Ferdinand lifted him in his arms and kissed the small forehead, young Juan showing a mild protest; but he was a healthy, happy baby. A quiet baby, thought Isabella exultantly.
And so the farewells were said and Ferdinand left his wife and children to ride into Aragon.
He was shocked to see how his father had aged. John of Aragon was almost eighty-three years old, but, although he looked ill, his mental powers had not diminished in the least; moreover, his agility belied his years.
Ferdinand had no need to complain of any lack of respect shown to him in Aragon. Here his father insisted on treating him not only like a king, but a greater king than he was himself.
‘Ferdinand, King of Castile!’ cried John as he embraced his son. ‘It does my heart good to see you. Oh, no . . . no. I shall walk on your left. Castile should take precedence over Aragon.’
‘Father,’ said Ferdinand, deeply moved, ‘you are my father and always should take precedence.’
‘Not in public any more, my son. And I pray you do not kiss my hand. It is I who shall kiss yours on all public occasions. Oh, it does me good to see you thus. King of Castile, eh?’
‘Consort to the Queen, Father.’
‘That little matter? It is of no account. King of Castile you are, and as such worthy of the utmost respect.’
It was a delight to John to be alone with his son. He would hear all the news. So he was grandfather to two children now. That delighted him. And Ferdinand had a son. Juan! They had thought to delight him to the utmost by giving him that name. ‘May it be long before he comes to the throne of Castile,’ cried John emotionally.
He wanted news of Isabella. ‘She still refuses to allow you equal rights then? She is a strong woman.’
‘To understand Isabella one must be with her constantly,’ mused Ferdinand. ‘And even then perhaps one does not know her really well. She has the strongest character in Castile and the mildest manners.’
‘She is highly respected throughout all Spain, and France too, I believe. It is of France that I wish to speak to you, my son. I have been in communication with Louis, and he is prepared to relinquish his friendship with Portugal, to give no more support to the cause of La Beltraneja and to make an alliance with you and Isabella, that there shall be perpetual peace between France and Castile.’
‘If this could be effected, Father, it would lift great anxieties from our minds.’
‘If it should be effected! Do you not know your old father? It shall be effected.’
Ferdinand felt happy to be in Aragon.
‘There is something in one’s native air,’ he said to his attendants, ‘that lifts the spirits. How I miss my family! I long to see the Queen and my children. But nevertheless I could not be entirely unhappy while I am in Aragon.’
There were certain delights in Saragossa, but Ferdinand must enjoy them in secret.
He left his father’s palace and rode out at dusk. His destination was a house in the city, where he was received by a dignified lady who gave way to expressions of pleasure when she saw who her visitor was.
‘I have business,’ said Ferdinand, ‘with the Archbishop of Saragossa. I pray you take me to him.’
The lady bowed her head and led the way up a staircase. Ferdinand noted the expensive furnishings of the house and said: ‘It delights me that my lord Archbishop lives in a manner fitting to his rank.’
‘My lord is happy to enjoy the benefits of his rank,’ was the answer.
She opened a door on to a room where a boy of about seven years old was taking a fencing lesson.
He did not look up as the two stood in the doorway, but his tutor turned.
‘On guard!’ cried the boy.
‘Pray continue,’ said Ferdinand; and he smiled to watch the boy’s skill with the sword.
The tutor, no doubt thinking that the lesson should be brought to an end, with a flick of his wrist sent the boy’s sword spinning out of his hand.
‘How dare you! How dare you!’ cried the boy. ‘One day I will run you through for that.’
‘Alonso, Alonso,’ said the lady. She turned to Ferdinand. ‘He has such high spirits. He excels at most sports and cannot bear not to shine.’ She signed to the tutor to leave them, and when they were alone she said: ‘Alonso, your father has come.’
The boy stood for a few seconds, staring at Ferdinand; then he came forward, knelt, took Ferdinand’s hand and kissed it.
‘So my lord Archbishop is glad to see his father?’
‘The Archbishop has great pleasure in welcoming the King.’
Ferdinand’s lips twitched at the corners. This boy, with his flashing dark eyes and bold manners, was very dear to him. For his sake he had risked unpleasant scandal by bestowing on him, when he was only six years old, the Archbishopric of Saragossa, with all its attendant revenues, so the child was one of the richest people in Aragon.
