Spain for the Sovereigns - Plaidy Jean (читать книги TXT) 📗
She had been aware of a sudden stillness in the woods – a brief stillness, yet it seemed to her to last a long time, for it brought to her, like the scent of an animal on the wind, the consciousness of evil.
The silence was broken by shouting voices, by cries of alarm.
When she arrived on the scene of the accident the huntsmen had improvised a stretcher, and on it lay her beautiful, her beloved Alonso.
He was dead when they reached the Palace. She could not believe it. It was too sudden, too tragic. She had entered her new life, had learned to understand it and to find it contained more happiness than she had believed possible, only to lose it.
The Palace was plunged into mourning. The King’s only son, the heir to the throne, was dead. But none mourned more sincerely, none was more broken-hearted than Alonso’s young widow.
Now the young Emmanuel was treated with greater respect than had ever before come his way, for who would have believed that one so healthy and vital as Alonso would not live to take the crown.
But he had died in the space of a few hours, and now the more intellectual Emmanuel was heir to the throne.
Isabella was unaware of what was going on in the Palace. Everything else was obscured by this one overwhelming fact: she had lost Alonso.
The King sent for her, for her grief alarmed him. He had been warned that if she continued to shut herself away and mourn, she herself would soon join her husband.
What would Isabella and Ferdinand have to say to that? The Princess was a precious commodity. It was important that she be kept alive.
‘My dear,’ he said to her, ‘you must not shut yourself away. This terrible thing has happened, and you cannot change it by continually grieving.’
‘He was my husband, and I loved him,’ said Isabella.
‘I know. We loved him also. He was our son and our heir. We knew him longer than you did, so you see our grief is not small either. Come, I must command you to take more care of your health. Promise me you will do this.’
‘I promise,’ said Isabella.
She walked in the Palace gardens and asked that she might be alone. She looked with blank eyes at terraces and statues. There she had walked with Alonso. There they had sat and planned how they would spend the days.
There was nothing but memories.
Emmanuel joined her and walked beside her.
‘I would rather be alone,’ she said.
‘Forgive me. Allow me to talk with you for a minute or two. Oh, Isabella, how it grieves me to see you so unhappy.’
‘Sometimes I blame myself,’ she said. ‘I was too happy. I thought only of my happiness; and perhaps we are not meant to be happy.’
‘You suffered ill fortune, Isabella. We are meant to be happy. When, you have recovered from this shock, I would implore you to give me a chance to make you happy.’
‘I do not understand you.’
‘I am heir to my uncle’s throne. Therefore your parents would consider me as worthy a match as Alonso.’
She stood very still in horror.
‘I could never think of marrying anyone else,’ she said. ‘Alonso is the only husband I shall ever want.’
‘You say that because you are young and your grief is so close.’
‘I say it because I know it to be true.’
‘Do not dismiss me so lightly, Isabella. Think of what I have said.’
She was always conscious of him. He was so often at her side.
No, no, she cried with all her heart. This cannot be.
And she fretted and continued to mourn, so that the King of Portugal’s alarm increased.
He wrote to the Sovereigns of Castile, to tell them how their daughter’s grief alarmed him.
‘Send our daughter home to us,’ said Isabella. ‘I myself will nurse her back to health.’
So a few months after she had left her country Isabella returned to Castile.
And when she felt herself enfolded in her mother’s embrace she cried out that she was happy to come home. She had lost her beloved husband, but her beloved mother was left to her – and only through the Queen and a life devoted to piety could she want to live.
THE LAST SIGH OF THE MOOR
The time had come for the onslaught on the capital of the Moorish kingdom, and Ferdinand’s army was now ready to begin the attack.
He and Isabella were waiting to receive Boabdil. They had sent a messenger to him, reminding him of the terms he had agreed to in exchange for his release, and they now commanded him to leave Granada and present himself before them, that the terms of surrender might be discussed.
Ferdinand hoped that the people of Granada would remember the terrible fate which had overtaken Malaga, and that they would not be so foolish as to behave in such a way that Ferdinand would have no resort but to treat them similarly.
‘He should be here ere this,’ Ferdinand was saying. ‘He should know better than to keep us waiting.’
Isabella was silent. She was praying that the surrender of the last Moorish stronghold might be accomplished without the loss of much Christian blood.
But the time passed and Boabdil did not come.
Isabella looked at Ferdinand, and she knew that he was already making plans for the siege of Granada.
The messenger stood before the Sovereigns.
He handed the dispatch to Ferdinand, who, with Isabella, read what Boabdil had written.
‘It is impossible for me to obey your summons. I am no longer able to control my own desires. It is my wish to keep my promises, but the city of Granada refuses to allow me to depart. It is full now, not only with its own population, but those who have come from all over the kingdom to defend it. Therefore I regret that I cannot keep my promise to you.’
Ferdinand clenched his fists and the veins stood out at his temples.
‘So,’ he said, ‘they will not surrender.’
‘It is hardly to be expected that they would,’ Isabella replied mildly. ‘When we have taken Granada, consider, Ferdinand, we shall have completed the reconquest. Could we expect it to fall into our hands like a ripe fruit? Nay, we must fight for this last, this greatest prize.’
‘He has spoken,’ said Ferdinand. ‘He has chosen his own fate and that of his people. We shall no longer hesitate. Now it shall be . . . to Granada !’
The Sovereigns called together the Council and, while it was sitting, news was brought that fresh revolts had broken out in many of the cities which had been captured from the Moors. There had been Moorish forays into Christian territory, and Christians had been slaughtered or carried away to be prisoners or slaves.
This was the answer to Ferdinand’s imperious command to the Moorish King.
The war was not yet won. The Moors were ready to defend the last stronghold of the land which they had called their own for seven hundred years.
In the little house in Cordova, Cristobal continued to wait for a summons to Court. None came. From time to time he saw some of his friends at Court, particularly Luis de Sant’angel. Beatriz de Bobadilla sent messages to him, and occasionally he received sums of money through her, which she said came from the Queen.
But still there was no summons to Court, no news of the fitting out of the expedition.
Little Ferdinand, the son of Cristobal and Beatriz de Arana, would sit on his knee and be told tales of the sea, as once little Diego had.
