Spain for the Sovereigns - Plaidy Jean (читать книги TXT) 📗
She loved her children devotedly. She wanted to make sure that they were receiving the best education which could be provided for them – remembering how she herself had missed it. At the same time their spiritual education must not be neglected. She wanted the girls to be both good rulers and good wives and parents; she insisted that they sit with her and learn to embroider; and there was nothing which made her more contented than to have her children with her while she and the girls worked on an altar-cloth, and Juan sat on a stool close by and read aloud to them.
This they were now doing, and again and again her eyes would stray from her work to rest on one or other of her children. Her pale and lovely daughter, Isabella, her firstborn, who still coughed a little too frequently for her mother’s comfort, was beautiful, bending over her work. They would have to find a husband for her soon.
It will be more than I can bear, to lose her, thought Isabella.
And there was Juan – perhaps the best loved of them all. Who could help loving Juan? He was the perfect child. Not only was he the boy for whom Ferdinand had longed, he had the sweetest nature of all the children; he was docile, yet excelled in all those sports in which Ferdinand wished to see him excel. His tutors discovered in him a desire to please, which meant that he learned his lessons quickly and well. He was beautiful – at least in the eyes of his mother. She felt her love overflowing as she looked at him. In her thoughts she had long called him Angel. She had even done so openly, and consequently he was beginning to be known in the family circle by that name.
There was Juana – little Suegra. Almost defiantly Isabella insisted on the nickname. It was as though she wished to emphasise the resemblance between this child and her grandmother, Ferdinand’s sprightly and clever mother. Isabella tried not to see a subtler resemblance, that between her own sad mother and this child.
It was difficult to avoid this comparison. If there was trouble Juana would be in it. She had charm; it was in her very wildness. The others were serene children; perhaps they took after their mother. Yet little Juana, though she might have the features of Ferdinand’s mother, had that in her – at least, so Isabella often told herself – which bore a terrifying similarity to the frailty of the poor sick lady at Arevalo.
And little Maria, the plain one, stolid, reliable, good little Maria! She would give her parents little concern, Isabella guessed. Strangely enough – for this very reason – she did not give her mother the same delight as did the others.
Isabella wondered whether she herself, when a child, had been rather like Maria – quiet, serene, docile . . . and not very attractive.
She saw that Juana was not working, and that her part of the altar-cloth was not as neat as that of the others.
Isabella leaned forward and tapped the child on her knee.
‘Come, Suegra,’ she said, ‘there is work to be done.’
‘I do not like needlework,’ said Juana, which made young Isabella catch her breath in horror. Juana went on: ‘It is no use scowling at me, sister. I do not like needlework.’
‘This, my child,’ said the Queen, ‘is for the altar. Do you not wish to work for a holy purpose?’
‘No, Highness,’ said Juana promptly.
‘That is very wrong,’ said the Queen sternly.
‘But Your Highness asked me what I wanted,’ Juana pointed out. ‘I must tell the truth, for if I did not that would be a lie, and I should have to confess it, and do a penance. It is very wrong to tell lies.’
‘Come here,’ said Isabella; and Juana came to her. Isabella held the child by her shoulders and drew her close to her. ‘It is true,’ she went on, ‘that you must not tell lies. But it is true also that you must discipline yourself. You must learn to like doing what is good.’
Juana’s eyes, which now bore a strong resemblance to those of Ferdinand, flashed in rebellion. ‘But Highness, if you do not like . . .’ she began.
‘That is enough,’ said Isabella. ‘Now you will work on this cloth tomorrow until you have completed your share of it, and if it is badly done you will unpick your stitches and do them again until it is well done.’
Juana’s lower lip protruded and she said defiantly: ‘I shall not be able to go to Mass if I must sit over my needlework.’
The Queen was aware of a tension among the children, and she said: ‘What has been happening here?’
Her eldest daughter looked uncomfortable; so did Juan.
‘Come,’ said Isabella, ‘I must know the truth. You, Angel, you tell me.’
‘Highness, I do not know of what you speak.’
‘I think you do, my son. Your sister Juana has been wicked in some way. I pray you tell me what she has done.’
‘I . . . I could not say, Highness,’ said Juan; but his beautiful face had turned a shade paler and he was afraid that he was going to be forced to say something which he would rather not.
Isabella could not bear to hurt him. His kindly nature would not allow him to betray his sister; and at the same time he was anxious not to disobey his mother.
She turned to Isabella; Isabella also did not wish to betray her sister.
The Queen was faintly irritated and yet proud of them. She would not have them tellers of tales against each other. She respected this family loyalty.
And fortunately she was saved from forcing an answer, by Juana herself – bold, fearless Juana, with the wild light in her eyes.
‘I will tell you, Highness,’ she said. ‘I often do not go to church. I run away and hide, so that they cannot find me. I do not like to go to church. I like to dance and sing. So I hide . . . and they cannot find me, and so they go without me.’
Isabella surveyed this defiant child with a stern expression which would have filled the others with terror. But Juana merely stood her ground, her handsome little head held high, her eyes brilliant.
‘So,’ said Isabella slowly, ‘you have been guilty of this wickedness. I am ashamed that a child of mine could behave thus. You, the daughter of the Sovereigns of Castile and Aragon! You whose father is the greatest soldier in the world and who has brought peace within these kingdoms! You are a Princess of the royal house. You would seem to forget this.’
‘I do not forget,’ said Juana, ‘but it does not make me want to go to church.’
‘Juan,’ said the Queen to her son, ‘go and bring to me your sister’s governess.’
Juan, white-faced, obeyed. As for Juana, she stood regarding her mother with eyes that dilated with a certain fear. She believed that she was to be beaten, and she could not endure corporal punishment; not that she feared the pain; it was the attack upon her dignity which was so upsetting.
She turned and would have run from the room, but the Queen had caught her skirt. This was a very embarrassing situation for the Queen to encounter, and she felt a physical sickness which she found it difficult to control.
She told herself that it was due to her pregnancy; but there was a deep fear within her; and as she held the struggling child in a firm grip she felt a great love for this wild daughter come over her. She wanted to hold the child to her breast and weep over her; she wanted to comfort her, to soothe her, to beg the others to kneel with her and pray that Juana might not go the way of her grandmother.
‘Let me go!’ cried Juana. ‘Let me go! I don’t want to stay here. I don’t want to go to Mass.’
Isabella held the child’s head against her; she was aware of the shocked and wondering eyes of Isabella and Maria.
‘Be quiet, my daughter,’ she warned. ‘Be still. It will be better for you if you are.’
The quiet tones of her mother soothed the little girl somewhat, and she laid her head against the Queen’s breast and stayed there. Isabella thought she was like an imprisoned bird, a wild bird who knew that it was hopeless to struggle.
