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

Beatriz had her duties to her husband and was not in constant attendance on Isabella, so that those opportunities of being together were especially precious.

Isabella was now thinking of Ferdinand, who had seemed to be brooding on some secret matter. She wondered if his thoughts were with the events in Granada as hers were; but perhaps they were with some woman, some family of his, which existed unknown to her. It seemed strange that Ferdinand might have other families, women who loved him, children who aroused his affection even as her Isabella, Juan, Juana and little Maria did – a strange, disturbing and unhappy thought.

She looked at Beatriz, who, not with any great pleasure, was working on a piece of needlework. Beatriz was too active a woman to find delight in such a sedentary occupation. Isabella would have enjoyed talking of these matters which disturbed her to a sympathetic friend like Beatriz; but she refrained from doing so; not even to Beatriz would she speak of matters, so derogatory, she believed, to the dignity of herself and Ferdinand as sovereigns of Castile and Aragon.

Beatriz herself spoke, for on these occasions Isabella had asked her friend to dispense with all ceremony, and that they should behave as two good wives come together for a friendly gossip.

‘How go affairs in Navarre?’ asked Beatriz.

‘They give us cause for anxiety,’ answered Isabella. ‘One can never be sure what tortuous plan is in Louis’s mind.’

‘Surely even he could not arrange that the vows La Beltraneja has taken should be swept aside.’

‘He is very powerful. And I do not trust Pope Sixtus. We have had our differences. And bribes can work wonders with a man such as he is, I fear.’

‘Bribes or threats,’ murmured Beatriz. ‘Francis Phoebus is, I hear, a beautiful creature. They say that he is rightly called Phoebus and that his hair is like golden sunshine.’

‘Doubtless,’ answered Isabella, ‘they exaggerate. Phoebus is a family name. It may well be that he is handsome, but he is also a king, and the beauty of kings and queens often takes its lustre from their royalty.’

Beatriz smiled at her friend. ‘My Queen,’ she said, ‘I believe your natural good sense is equal to your beauty – and you are beautiful, Isabella, Queen or not!’

‘We were talking of Francis Phoebus,’ Isabella reminded her.

‘Ah, yes, Francis Phoebus, who is as beautiful as his name. I wonder what he feels about marrying the released nun of doubtful parentage.’

‘If that marriage is made,’ said Isabella grimly, ‘there will be many to assure him that there is no doubt whatsoever of her parentage. Oh, Beatriz, the tasks before us seem to grow daily. I had hoped that ere long we should be making war. . . real war . . . on Granada. But now that it would seem favourable to do so, there is trouble in Navarre. If Louis suggests removing La Beltraneja from her convent, having her released from her vows and married to his nephew of Navarre, make no mistake about it, his first plan will be to take Navarre under the protection of France, and his second to win my crown for La Beltraneja.’

‘Even Louis would never succeed.’

‘He would not succeed, Beatriz, but there would be another bitter war. A War of the Succession has already been fought and won. I pray hourly that there may not be another.’

‘That you may devote your energies to the war against the Moors.’

Isabella thoughtfully continued with her needlework.

It was shortly afterwards that Ferdinand entered her apartment. He came without ceremony, but Beatriz, realising that he would not wish her to greet him with the informality which Isabella allowed, was on her feet and gave him a deep curtsey.

Isabella saw that Ferdinand was excited. His eyes shone in his bronzed face and his mouth twitched slightly.

‘You have news, Ferdinand, good news?’ she asked. ‘Please do not consider the presence of Beatriz. You know she is our very good friend.’

Beatriz waited for his dismissal, but it did not come.

He sat down on the chair beside the Queen, and Isabella signed to Beatriz that she might return to her chair.

Ferdinand said: ‘News from Navarre.’

‘What news?’ asked Isabella sharply.

‘The King of Navarre is dead.’

An almost imperceptible look of triumph stole across Ferdinand’s face.

Beatriz caught her breath. She had visualised so clearly the young man known as Francis Phoebus who had been likened to the Sun God himself, and only a few moments ago she had considered him in his golden beauty; now she must adjust the picture and see a young man lying on his bier.

‘How did he die?’ Isabella asked.

‘Quite suddenly,’ said Ferdinand; and, try as he might to look solemn, he could not manage it. The triumph remained on his face.

Beatriz’s eyes went to Isabella’s face, but as usual the Queen’s expression told her nothing.

What does she think of murder? wondered Beatriz. How can I know, when she does not betray herself? Does she accept the murder of a young man, as beautiful as his name implies, because his existence threatens the throne of Castile? Will she say Thank God? Or in her prayers will she ask forgiveness because, when she hears that murder has been done at the instigation of her husband, she has rejoiced?

‘Then,’ said Isabella slowly, ‘the danger of a marriage between Navarre and La Beltraneja no longer exists.’

‘That danger is over,’ agreed Ferdinand.

He folded his arms and smiled at his Queen. He looked invincible thus, thought Beatriz. Isabella realises this; and perhaps she says to herself: Unfaithful husband though you are, murderer though you may be, you are a worthy husband for Isabella of Castile!

‘Now who rules Navarre?’ asked Isabella.

‘His sister Catharine has been proclaimed Queen.’

‘A child of thirteen!’

‘Her mother rules until she is older.’

‘There is one thing we must do with all speed,’ said Isabella. ‘Juan shall be betrothed to Catharine of Navarre.’

‘I agree,’ said Ferdinand. ‘But I have news that Louis has not been idle. He is making preparations to seize Navarre. In which case it may very well be that they will not accept our son for Catharine.’

‘We must act against Louis at once,’ said Isabella.

‘Your short respite is over,’ Ferdinand told her ruefully.

‘I will leave at once for the frontier,’ Isabella replied. ‘We must show Louis that, should he attempt to move into Navarre, we have strong forces to resist him.’

Isabella folded up her needlework as though, thought Beatriz, she were a housewife, preparing to perform some other domestic duty.

She handed the work to Beatriz. ‘It must be set aside for a time,’ she said.

Beatriz took the work, and understanding that they wished to discuss plans from which she was excluded, she curtsied and left Ferdinand and Isabella alone together.

Boabdil rode into battle against the Christian army.

Muley Abul Hassan and his brother El Zagal were fighting their own war, also against the Christians. They had made several attacks near Gibraltar and had had some success.

The people of Granada were beginning to say: ‘It may be that Muley Abul Hassan grows old and feeble, but with El Zagal beside him he can still win victories. Perhaps it is not the will of Allah that we throw him aside for the new Sultan, Boabdil.’

‘Boabdil must go into action,’ cried Zoraya. ‘He must show the Arab kingdom that he can fight as poor Muley Abul Hassan, and even El Zagal, never could.’

So it was that Boabdil rode into action against the Christians. He was confident of success. Brilliantly clad in a mantle of crimson velvet embroidered with gold, he was an impressive figure, for beneath the cloak his damascened steel armour caught and reflected the light and glistened.