Виктория Холт - Castile for Isabella

Isabella began to learn from her mother and her teachers how the state of Castile was being governed; she was made aware of the terrible mistakes which were being made by her half-brother.

‘My child,’ said her pastor, ‘take a lesson from the actions of the King, and, if ever it should be your fate to assist in the government of a kingdom, make sure that you do not fall into like pitfalls. Taxes are being imposed on the people. For what reason? That the King may sustain his favourites. The merchants, who are one of the means of providing a country with its riches, are being taxed so heavily that they are prevented from giving the country of their best. Worst of all, the coinage has been adulterated. You must try to understand the importance of this. Where we had five mints we now have one hundred and fifty; this means that the value of money has dropped to a sixth of its previous value. My child, try to understand the chaos this can bring about. Why, if matters do not mend, the whole country will be on the verge of insolvency.’

‘Tell me,’ said Isabella earnestly, ‘is my brother Henry to blame for this?’

‘The rulers of a country are often to be blamed when it falls on evil times. It is their duty to efface themselves for the love of their country. The duty of Kings and Queens to their people should come before their pleasure. If ever it should be your destiny to rule...’

Isabella folded her hands together and said, ‘My country would be my first consideration.’ And she spoke as a novice might speak when contemplating the taking of her vows.

And always on such occasions she imagined herself ruling with Ferdinand; she began to realise that this prospective bridegroom, who was so real to her in spite of the fact that she had never seen him, was the dominating influence in her life.

Later came news that Henry had decided to lead a crusade against the Moors. There was nothing which could win the approval of the people so surely as an attempt to conquer the Moors. Spaniards smarted in the knowledge that for centuries the Arabs had remained in Spain, and that large provinces in the south were still under their domination. Since the days of Rodrigo Diaz of Bivar, the famous Castilian leader who had lived in the eleventh century and had been known as the Cid Campeador, Spaniards had looked for another great leader; and whenever one appeared who proposed to lead a campaign which was calculated to drive the Moors from the Iberian Peninsula the cry went up: ‘Here is the Cid reborn and come among us.’

Thus, when Henry declared his intention of striking against the Moors, his popularity increased.

He needed money for his campaigns, and who should provide it but his long-suffering people? The riches of the countryside were seized that armies might be equipped for the King’s campaign.

Henry, however, was a soldier who could make a brave show, marching through the streets at the head of his troops, but was not so successful on the battlefields.

Again and again his troops were routed; he returned from the wars, with his dazzling cavalcade making a brave show; but there were no conquests, and the Moors remained as strongly entrenched as ever.

He declared that he was chary of risking the lives of his soldiers, for in his opinion the life of one Christian was worth more than those of a thousand Mussulmans.

This was a sentiment which he hoped would find favour with the people; but they grumbled, particularly those in whose districts the fighting had taken place.

It would seem, said these people, that the King makes war on us, not on the Infidel.

And each day in the schoolroom at Arevalo Isabella would hear of the exploits of Henry, and must learn her lessons from them.

‘Never go to war,’ she was told, ‘unless you have a well-founded hope of victory. Fine uniforms do not necessarily make good soldiers. Before you go to war make sure that your cause is just and that it is wholeheartedly yours.’ ‘Never,’ said their preceptor, instructing Isabella and Alfonso, ‘had a prospective ruler a better opportunity of profiting from the folly of a predecessor.’

The children were told why, on every count, Henry was a bad King. They were not told of his voluptuous adventures, but these were hinted at, and mistresses and ministers were spoken of under one category as Favourites.

He was extravagant almost to the point of absurdity. His policy was to give bribes to his enemies in the hope of turning them into friends, and to his friends that they might remain friendly.

Mistaken policies, both of them, Isabella and Alfonso were warned. Friends should be kept by mutual loyalty, and enemies met by the mailed fist and not by placatory gold.

‘Learn your lessons well, children. There may come a time when you will need them.’

‘And we must learn our lessons, Alfonso,’ said Isabella. ‘For it may well be that one day the people will have had enough of Henry; and if he has no son they will call upon you to take the throne of Castile. As for myself, one day I shall help Ferdinand to rule Aragon. We must certainly learn our lessons well.’

So, gravely, they listened to what was told to them; and it seemed to them both that the years at Arevalo were the waiting years.

* * *

Isabella sat thoughtfully over her needlework.

At any moment, she thought, there may be change. At any moment the people may decide that they will have no more of Henry; then they will march to Arevalo and take away Alfonso to make him King.

She had heard that the debasing of the coinage had caused chaos among certain sections of the community; and the result was that robbery had increased.

Some of the noblest families in Castile, declaring themselves to be on the verge of bankruptcy, lost all sense of decency and took to robbery on the roads. Travelling was less safe than it had been for centuries; and castles, which had once been the homes of noble families, were now little less than robbers’ dens. Some of these nobles even attempted to put right their reverses by selling Christian men and women, whom they seized during raids on villages, as slaves to the Moors.

Such conduct was quite deplorable, and it was clear that anarchy reigned in Castile.

Much reform was needed; but all the King seemed to care about was his fancy-dress parades and the pleasure of his Favourites.

Isabella prayed for the well-being of her country. ‘Ah,’ she told herself, ‘how different we shall be – Ferdinand and I – when we rule together!’

One day her mother came to her in a mood of great excitement, and Isabella was reminded of the night when she had been called from her bed to give thanks because the King of Aragon had asked that she might be given in marriage to his son Ferdinand.

‘Isabella daughter, here is wonderful news. The Prince of Viana is asking for your hand in marriage. This is a brilliant offer. Not only is Carlos heir to Aragon, but Navarre is his also. My dear Isabella, why do you stare at me so blankly? You should rejoice.’

Isabella had grown pale; she lifted her head and held herself at her full height, for once losing her sense of decorum. ‘You have forgotten, Highness,’ she said. ‘I am already betrothed to Ferdinand.’

The Dowager Queen laughed. ‘That... oh, we will forget it. Ferdinand of Aragon? A very good match, but he is only a younger brother. Carlos, the heir of Aragon, the ruler of Navarre, is asking for your hand. I do not see why the marriage should be long delayed.’

On one of the few occasions in her young life Isabella lost control. She knelt and, seizing her mother’s skirts, looked up at her imploringly. ‘But, Highness,’ she cried, ‘I have been promised to Ferdinand.’

‘The promise was not binding, my child. This is a more suitable match. You must allow your elders to know what is good for you.’

‘Highness, the King of Aragon will be angry. Does he not love the fingernails of Ferdinand better than the whole body of his elder son?’

That made the Dowager Queen smile. ‘Carlos has quarrelled with his father, but the people of Aragon love Carlos, and he is the one whom they will make their King. The territories of Navarre are also his. Why, there could not be a better match.’

Isabella stood rigid and for the first time showed distinct signs of a stubborn nature.

‘It is a point of honour that I marry Ferdinand.’ Her mother laughed, not wildly nor excitedly, merely with faintly amused tolerance; but now Isabella was past caring about the state of her mother’s emotions.

The Dowager Queen said once more: ‘Leave these matters to your elders, Isabella. Now you should go on your knees and give thanks to God and his saints for the great good fortune which is to be yours.’

Wild protests rose to Isabella’s lips, but the discipline of years prevailed, and she said nothing.

She allowed herself to be led to her prie-Dieu and, while her mother prayed for the speedy union of her daughter and the Prince of Viana, heir to the throne of Aragon, she could only murmur: ‘Ferdinand! Oh Ferdinand! It must be Ferdinand. Holy Mother of God, do not desert me now. Let anything happen to me or the Prince of Viana or the whole world, but give me Ferdinand.’

In the Palace at Saragossa Joan Henriquez, Queen of Aragon, was discussing the effrontery of Carlos with her husband, John.

‘This,’ declared Joan, ‘is meant to insult you, to show you how little this son of yours cares for your authority. He knows it is a favourite project of ours that Ferdinand shall mate with Isabella. So what does he do but offer himself!’