Spain for the Sovereigns (17 page)

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.

Isabella was eager for the meeting, and she immediately agreed to it.

Meanwhile, with Ferdinand and her counsellors, she drew up the peace terms.

Isabella, not yet incapacitated by pregnancy, rode to the border town of Alcantara, where Dona Beatriz of Portugal was waiting for her.

The ladies embraced and, because each was so eager to bring about peace, they wasted no time in celebrations but began their discussions immediately.

‘My dear Dona Beatriz,’ said Isabella, as they sat together in the council chamber, ‘the Portuguese Army was beaten in the field, and should it come against us once more we should be confident of annihilating it.’

‘That is true,’ said Dona Beatriz, ‘but let us not consider the possibility of war. Let us turn our thoughts to peace.’

‘By all means,’ was the answer. ‘The first clause that we should insist on would be that Alfonso gives up the title and armorial bearings of Castile which he has assumed.’

‘That is reasonable. I feel sure he will agree to that.’

‘There must be no more claims from or on behalf of Joanna, and the King must no longer consider himself betrothed to her. Moreover, he must never again aspire to her hand.’

Dona Beatriz frowned. ‘He has a great fondness for Joanna,’ she said.

‘And for the crown of Castile,’ replied Isabella dryly, ‘to which he pretends to believe she has a claim.’

‘I can put this clause before him,’ said Beatriz. ‘It will be for me to persuade him to accept it.’

‘You are convinced of the justice of it?’

‘I am convinced that there must be peace between Castile and Portugal.’

‘Between Castile
and
Aragon and Portugal,’ said Isabella with a smile. ‘We are stronger now.’

‘I will remind the King of that also.’

‘As for Joanna,’ went on Isabella, ‘she must either leave Portugal or be betrothed to my son, Juan.’

‘Juan! He is not yet a year old . . . and she . . . she is now a young woman.’

‘It is a condition,’ said Isabella. ‘We will give her six months to decide whether she will leave Portugal or be betrothed to my son. If, when he reaches a marriageable age, she prefers to enter a convent, I shall not stand in her way. If she did enter a convent it would be necessary for her to take the veil’

Beatriz looked long into the smiling face of Isabella, and she thought: We are discussing the life of a young girl who, although she has been a menace to Isabella, is in herself innocent. Yet Isabella, herself so happy in her marriage and her family, is so determined to be secure upon the throne, that she is not only denying this girl any hope of the crown but of the normal life of a woman. The face Isabella showed to the world was completely enigmatic. It would be well not to be deceived by that gentle façade.

‘It is a hard choice for a young girl,’ mused Beatriz. ‘Betrothal to a baby or the veil!’

‘It is an important condition,’ said Isabella.

‘I can put these terms before Joanna,’ said Beatriz, ‘and before the King. I can do no more.’

‘That is understood,’ said Isabella. ‘All Castilians who have fought with the King of Portugal for Joanna will be pardoned and, to show that I and my husband wish for friendship with Portugal, my daughter, the Infanta Isabella, shall be betrothed to Alonso, son of the Prince of Portugal.’

‘So these are your conditions,’ said Beatriz. ‘I do not think it will be easy to obtain the King’s consent to all of them.’

‘I deplore war,’ Isabella told her. ‘But it will be necessary for the King to agree to
all
these conditions if we are to have peace. He must remember that he was defeated in the field. He will know that, eager as Castile is for peace, it does not need it so desperately as does Portugal.’

The two ladies took their leave of each other, Beatriz travelling westward to Lisbon, Isabella eastward to Madrid.