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

‘He is pleased with what we have done here in Castile; but he is ailing, I fear. He forgets that he is nearly eighty-three. And I think we forget it too.’

‘He has caused you to worry, Ferdinand.’

‘I cannot help feeling that his end is near.’

‘Yet it is largely due to him that this treaty of St Jean de Luz, between ourselves and the French, has been made.’

‘His mind will be active till the end, Isabella. But I fear I may never see him again.’

‘Come, Ferdinand, I will call our daughter. She will turn your thoughts from this melancholy subject.’

But even as Isabella called for her daughter she knew that the subject was not an entirely melancholy one; and the thought disturbed her.

It was early in the following year when the news came from Aragon.

The fierce winds of January, sweeping across the plain from the Guadarramas, penetrated the Palace, and in spite of huge fires it was difficult to keep it warm.

As soon as the messenger entered his presence, Ferdinand knew the nature of the news he had brought. It was evident, in the man’s attitude as he presented the message, that he was not merely in the presence of the heir to the throne but in that of the monarch himself.

The colour deepened in Ferdinand’s bronzed cheeks.

‘You bring news of the King of Aragon?’

‘Long live Don Ferdinand, King of Aragon!’ was the answer.

‘It is so?’ said Ferdinand, and he drew himself up to his full height while he tried to think of his sorrow and all that the loss of one of the best friends he could ever have would mean to him. He turned away as though to hide his emotion. But the emotion was not entirely grief, and he did not want the man to see how much it meant to him to have inherited the throne of Aragon.

He turned back and put his hand over his eyes. ‘I pray you leave me now,’ he said quietly.

He waved his hand, and those who had been with him retired also.

He sat down at a table and buried his face in his hands. He was trying to think of his father, who had schemed for him – murdered for him – and all those occasions when John of Aragon had given him advice and help. He remembered his father at his mother’s bedside when she had been afraid because she believed that the ghost of Carlos, Ferdinand’s murdered stepbrother, had been there at the bedside. Carlos had died, it was generally believed, at the hands of his father and stepmother, so that their son Ferdinand might find no one to stand in his way to the throne.

This man was dead now. Never again could Ferdinand turn to him for guidance. The father who had loved him, surely as few were loved, was now no more. Every action of his had been for the advancement of Ferdinand; not only was Ferdinand his idolised son but the son of the woman whom he had loved beyond all else in the world.

Even in dying he gave Ferdinand a crown.

Isabella had heard the news and came in haste to the apartment.

He glanced up as she approached. She looked grave; and he thought then that there could not be a woman in the world who disguised her feelings as successfully as Isabella.

She knelt at his feet; she took his hand and kissed it. She was offering him solace for the loss of his father and at the same time homage to the King of Aragon.

‘It has come, Isabella,’ he said, ‘as I feared.’ He might have added, and as I hoped. For he had certainly longed to feel the crown upon his head.

He felt a flicker of irritation against her because, being aware of his own mercenary feelings at this time, he could blame Isabella for them. It was Isabella’s determination to remain supreme in Castile that made it so necessary for him to be a king in his own right – not merely of Sicily, but of the great province of Aragon.

Now that had happened and, when he should be grieving for his father, he found himself elated.

‘You must not grieve,’ said Isabella. ‘He would not have it so. Ferdinand, this is a great occasion. I am Queen of Castile; you are King of Aragon. All that I have is yours; all that you have is mine. Now almost the whole of Spain is united.’

‘The whole of Spain apart from that accursed Moorish kingdom – ours . . . ours, Isabella.’

‘We have a son who will be King of Spain, Ferdinand. I remind you of this, because I know how you suffer at this moment.’

Ferdinand was suddenly aware of his loss. He said: ‘He was so good to me. No one ever had a better father.’

‘I know,’ she said; and she lifted her kerchief to her eyes.

But she was thinking: Castile and Aragon – we reign over almost the whole of Spain. Our destiny is being fulfilled. We are God’s chosen rulers.

And he was thinking: I am a king . . . a king in my own right. King of Aragon, to stand side by side with the Queen of Castile.

The King of Aragon was no longer quite so insistent on the deference which must be paid to him. It was clear that he was the King. . . the King in his own right. He had a crown which he did not owe to his wife.

Isabella was delighted to see this change in him. She believed it augured well for their future. Ferdinand would not now grudge her her power in Castile.

If the war for the Succession could only be settled once and for all, Isabella would be ready to set her kingdom in order; but as long as Alfonso boasted of his intention to set Joanna on the throne of Castile in place of Isabella there could be no peace.

Yet her hopes for the future were high. She had her family – her charming Isabella, her healthy little Juan, so normal, both of them – and she for a brief spell had Ferdinand with her, a contented Ferdinand no longer looking for slights: Don Ferdinand, the King of Aragon.

It was during those spring months that Isabella once more discovered that she might expect a child.

Isabella found it necessary to visit the fortified towns on the borders of Castile and Portugal.

As she travelled from place to place she brooded on the sad state of her kingdom. Robbers were still numerous on the road. The Hermandad was doing good work, but while war threatened it was impossible to find the necessary funds to keep the organization going. The position was not as serious as it had once been, but there must be continual vigil in the frontier towns.

Beatriz came from Segovia to be with her.

‘You should rest,’ said Beatriz. ‘Eight months after the birth of Juan and you become pregnant again!’

‘It is a queen’s duty, Beatriz,’ Isabella reminded her friend with a smile, ‘to ensure that the royal line is continued.’

‘And to take care of herself that she may perform this duty,’ retorted Beatriz. ‘Has Your Highness forgotten another occasion, when you lost your child?’

Isabella smiled. She allowed Beatriz to speak to her in this rather hectoring manner because she knew that it was the outward sign of a great affection. Perhaps no one in Castile loved her, reflected Isabella, as did this forthright, bold Beatriz de Bobadilla.

‘It is not for me to think of the peril to myself,’ she said calmly. ‘If I am timid, how can I expect my friends to be otherwise?’

Beatriz attempted once more to dissuade Isabella from making these journeys, which were not only arduous but dangerous; but Isabella firmly implied that she wished to hear no more; and although Beatriz was by nature overbearing and Isabella so calm, Beatriz always realised when the moment had come to say no more and to drop the role of privileged friend for that of humble confidante.

It was while Isabella was inspecting the border fortifications that she received a communication from the Infanta Dona Beatriz of Portugal. The Infanta, who was Isabella’s maternal aunt, deplored the fact that Castile and Portugal, whose sovereigns were so closely related, should be continually at war. She would be grateful, she wrote, if Isabella would meet her, and if together they could discuss some means of making peace between the two countries.