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

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.