Виктория Холт - Castile for Isabella

‘Highness,’ she said soothingly, ‘here we have lived very happily.’

‘You are not going to live here happily much longer, my daughter,’ spat out the Queen. ‘In fact, you are to prepare for a journey at once.’

‘We are going away?’

‘Ah!’ cried the Queen, her voice rising on a note of hysterical laughter. ‘He does not trust us here. He thinks that Arevalo will become a hot-bed of rebellion now. And he is right. They cannot foist a bastard on Castile... a bastard who has no right to the crown. I doubt not that there will be many who will want to take Alfonso and put a crown upon his head....’

Alfonso looked alarmed.

‘Highness,’ said Isabella quickly, ‘it would not be possible while the King my brother lives.’

The Queen surveyed her children through narrowed eyes.

‘Your brother commands,’ she said, ‘that I, taking you two children with me, return at once to Court.’

Isabella’s heart was leaping within her, and she was not sure whether it was with fear or pleasure.

She said quickly: ‘Highness, give us your leave to retire and we will begin preparations. We have been here so long that there will be much for us to do.’

The Queen looked at her eleven-year-old daughter and nodded slowly.

‘You may go,’ she said.

Isabella seized her brother’s hand and, forcing him to bow, almost dragged him from the apartment.

As she did so she heard her mother’s muttering; she heard the laughter break out.

This, thought Isabella, is really the end of my childhood. At Court I shall quickly become a woman.

How would she fare at that most scandalous Court – she who had been so carefully nurtured here at Arevalo? She was a little alarmed, remembering the rumours she had heard.

Yet she was conscious of an intense elation, for she believed that she must now grow up quickly; and growing up meant marriage... with Ferdinand.

The March sunshine shone through the windows of the Chapel in the Palace of Madrid on to the brilliant vestments of those taking part in the most colourful ceremony Isabella had ever witnessed. She was awed by the chanting voices, by the presence of glittering and important men and women.

She was not unconscious of the tension in the atmosphere, for she was wise enough to know that the smiling faces were like the masks she had seen worn at the fêtes and tournaments which had heralded this event.

The whole Court pretended to rejoice because of the birth of Isabella’s little niece, but Isabella knew that those smiling masks hid the true feelings of many people present at this christening.

There stood her half-brother Henry, looking very tall indeed and somewhat untidy, with his reddish hair straggling out beneath his crown. Beside him stood his half-brother, nine-year-old Alfonso.

Alfonso was quite handsome, thought Isabella, in his robes of state. He appeared to be solemn too, as though he knew that many people would be looking his way on this occasion. It seemed to Isabella that Alfonso was one of the most important people present – more important than the baby herself perhaps – and Isabella knew why. She could never entirely escape from that high-pitched voice of her mother’s, reminding them that, should the people decide they had had enough of Henry, they would turn to Alfonso.

Isabella herself had an important part to play in the christening.

With the baby’s sponsors, of whom she was one, she stood beside the font. The others were the Frenchman, Armignac, and the brilliantly clad Juan Pacheco, Marquis of Villena, and his wife. It was the Marquis who held her attention. Through eavesdropping whenever possible, she had heard his name mentioned often and she knew a great deal about him.

Echoes of conversations came back to her. ‘He is the King’s right hand.’ ‘He is the King’s right eye.’ ‘Henry does not take a step without consulting the Marquis of Villena.’ ‘Ah, but have you heard that... lately there has been a little change?’ ‘It cannot be...’ ‘Oh, but they say it is so. Now that is a joke.’

It was so interesting. Far more interesting here at Court, where she could actually see the people who had figured so largely in the rumours she had overheard at Arevalo.

The Marquis was smiling now, but Isabella felt that his mask was the most deceitful of them all. She sensed the power of the man and she wondered what he would look like when he was angry. He would be very formidable, she was sure.

Now the heavy, dark brows of Alfonso Carillo, the Archbishop of Toledo, were drawn together in a frown of concentration as he performed the christening ceremony and blessed the baby girl who had been carried to him under a canopy by Count Alba de Liste.

There was another whom Isabella could not fail to notice. This was a tall man, who might be said to be the handsomest man present; his clothes were more magnificent than those of any other; his jewels glittered with a brighter lustre – perhaps because there were so many of them. His hair was so black that it held a bluish tinge, his eyes were large and dark, but he had a fine fair skin which made him look very young.

He was particularly noticeable, standing close to Henry, for he was almost as tall as the King; and, thought Isabella, if one did not know who was the real King and was asked to pick him out from all those assembled, one would pick Beltran de la Cueva, who had recently been made Count of Ledesma.

The Count was another of those people who were attracting so much attention, and as he watched the baby under the canopy, many watched him.

Unaccustomed though she was to such ceremonies, Isabella gave no sign of the excitement which she was feeling; and, if it appeared that there was a certain watchfulness directed at those three – the King, the Queen and the new Count of Ledesma – Alfonso and Isabella also had their share of this attention.

The thought was in many minds on that day that, if the rumours which were beginning to be spread through the Court were true – and there seemed every reason that they should be – these two children were of the utmost significance. And the fact that the boy was so handsome, and clearly showed he was eager to do what was expected of him, was noted. And so, also, was the decorous behaviour of the young girl, as she stood with the other sponsors, rather tall for her eleven years, her abundant hair – with the reddish tinge inherited from her Plantagenet ancestors – making a charming frame for her placid face.

* * *

In a small ante-chamber adjoining the chapel, the Archbishop of Toledo, whilst divesting himself of his ceremonial robes, was in deep conversation with his nephew, the Marquis of Villena.

The Archbishop, a fiery man, who would have been more suited to a military than an ecclesiastical career, was almost shouting: ‘It is an impossible situation. I never imagined anything so fantastic, so farcical in all my life. That man... standing there looking on...’

Villena, the wily statesman, had more control over his feelings than his uncle had over his. He lifted a hand and signed towards the door.

‘Why, nephew,’ said the Archbishop testily, ‘the whole Court talks of it, jeers at it, and the question is asked: “How long will those who want to see justice done endure such a situation?”’

Villena sat on one of the tapestry-covered stools and sardonically contemplated the tips of his shoes. Then he said: ‘The Queen is a harlot; the child is a bastard; the King is a fool; and the people in the streets cannot long be kept in ignorance of all that. Perhaps there have been wanton Queens who have foisted bastards on foolish kings before this. What I find impossible to endure is the favour shown to this man. Count of Ledesma! It is too much.’

‘Henry listens to him on all occasions. Why, in the name of God and all His saints, does he behave with such stupidity?’

‘Perhaps, Uncle, because he is grateful to their Beltran.’

‘Grateful to his wife’s lover, to the father of the child who is to be foisted on the nation as his own!’

‘Grateful indeed,’ said Villena. ‘I fancy our Henry did not care to see himself as one who cannot beget a child. Beltran is so obliging: he serves the King in every way... even to providing the Queen with his bastard to set upon the throne. We know Henry is incapable of begetting children. None of his mistresses has produced a child. After twelve years he was divorced from Blanche on the grounds that both were impotent. And he has been married to Joanna for eight years. It is surprising that Beltran and his mistress have taken so long.’

‘We must not allow the child to be foisted on the nation.’

‘We must go carefully, Uncle. There is time in plenty. If the King continues to shower honours on Beltran de la Cueva, he will turn more and more from us. Very well then, we will turn more and more from him.’

‘And lose our places at Court, lose all that we have worked for?’

Villena smiled. ‘Did you notice the children in chapel? What a pleasant pair!’

The Archbishop was alert. He said: ‘It would never do. You could never set up young Alfonso while Henry is alive.’

‘Why not... if the people are so disgusted with him and his bastard?’

‘Civil war?’

‘It might be arranged more simply. But, Uncle, as I said, there is no need to act immediately. Keep your eyes on those two... Alfonso and Isabella. They made a good impression on all who beheld them. Such pleasant manners. I declare our mad Dowager Queen has made an excellent job of their upbringing.