Spain for the Sovereigns - Plaidy Jean (читать книги TXT) 📗

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.’

‘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.’