There was another embrace, so fierce that it was an effort not to cry out in protest against it.

‘It will not be long,’ said the Queen. ‘It cannot be long now. Be ready and do not forget.’

Isabella nodded, but her mother went on with the often repeated phrase: ‘One day you may be Queen of Castile.’

‘I will remember, Highness.’

The Queen seemed suddenly calm. She prepared to leave, and once more her little daughter gave her a sweeping curtsy.

Isabella was hoping that her mother would not go into that room where Alfonso lay in his cradle. Alfonso had cried in protest last time his mother had embraced him so fiercely. Poor Alfonso, he could not be expected to know that he must never protest, that he must not ask questions but merely listen; soon he would be old enough to hear that one day he could be King of Castile, but as yet he was only a baby.

When she was alone, young Isabella took the opportunity of slipping into the room where Alfonso lay in his cradle. He was clearly unaware of the tension in the Palace. He lay kicking joyously, and he crowed with pleasure as Isabella appeared.

‘Alfonso, baby brother,’ murmured Isabella.

The baby laughed at his sister and kicked more furiously.

‘You do not know, do you, that one day you could be King of Castile?’

Surreptitiously, Isabella bent over the cradle and kissed her brother. She looked furtively about her. No one had noticed that little weakness, and she made excuses to herself for betraying her emotion. Alfonso was such a pretty baby and she loved him very much.


* * *

The Queen of Castile was on her knees beside her husband’s bed. ‘What hour is it?’ he asked her, and as she dropped her hands from her face he went on: ‘But what matters the hour? My time has come. It is now for me to say my farewells.’

‘No!’ she cried, and he could hear the rising hysteria in her voice. ‘The time has not yet come.’

He spoke gently, pityingly. ‘Isabella, my Queen, we should not deceive ourselves. What good will it do? In a short time there will be another King of Castile, and your husband, John II, will begin to be a memory – a not very happy one for Castile, I fear.’

She had begun to beat her clenched fist lightly on the bed. ‘You must not die yet. You must not. What of the children?’

‘The children, yes,’ he murmured. ‘Do not excite yourself, Isabella. I shall arrange that good care is taken of them.’

‘Alfonso...’ muttered the Queen, ‘a baby in his cradle. Isabella... just past her fourth birthday!’

‘I have great hopes of our sturdy Isabella,’ said the King. ‘And there is Henry. He will be a good brother to them.’

‘As he has been a good son to his father?’ demanded the Queen shrilly.

‘This is no time for recriminations, my dear. It may well be that there were faults on both sides.’

‘You... you are soft with him... soft.’

‘I am a weak man and I am on my death-bed. You know that as well as I do.’

‘You were always soft with him... with everybody. Even when you were well, you allowed yourself to be governed.’

The King lifted a weak hand for silence. Then he went on: ‘I believe the people are pleased. I believe they are saying “Good riddance to John II. Welcome to Henry IV. He will be a better king than his father was.” Well, my dear, they may be right in that, for they would have to search far and wide for a worse.’

John began to cough and the Queen’s eyes widened in fear. She made an effort to control herself. ‘Rest,’ she cried. ‘For the love of the saints, rest.’

She was afraid that he would die before she had made her plans. She distrusted her stepson Henry. He might seem to be good-natured, a less intellectual, a more voluptuous replica of his father, but he would allow himself to be ruled by favourites who would not easily tolerate rivals to the throne. They would impress upon him the fact that if he displeased his subjects they would rally round young Alfonso and Isabella. Therefore he would be watchful.

She trusted no one, and she was growing more and more determined that her own son should inherit the throne.

And what shall I do? the Queen asked herself; and her fist began to beat once more upon the bed. I, a weak woman, surrounded by my enemies!

Her wild gaze rested on the dying man in the bed.

He must not die until she was ready for him to do so; he must remain King of Castile until she was prepared to whisk her little son and daughter from Madrid.

They would go to a place where they could dwell in peace, where there was no danger of a morsel of poison being slipped into their food or drink, where it would be impossible for an assassin to slip into their sleeping chamber and press a pillow over their baby mouths as they slept. They should go where they might bide their time until that moment – and the Queen was sure it would come – when Henry should be ousted from the throne and little Alfonso – or Isabella – triumphantly take it, King – or Queen – of Castile.


* * *

King John lay back on his pillows watching his wife.

Poor Isabella, he thought, what will become of her – she who was already tainted with the terrible scourge of her family? There was madness in the royal house of Portugal; at the moment it had not completely taken possession of Isabella, his Queen, but now and then there were signs that it had not passed her by.

He was by no means stupid, bad King though he had been, and he wondered whether that tendency to insanity had been inherited by their children. There was no sign of it as yet. Isabella had inherited none of the hysteria of her mother; there could rarely have been a more serene child than his sedate little daughter. Little Alfonso? It was early to say as yet, but he seemed to be a normal, happy baby.

He prayed that the terrible disease of the mind had passed them by and that Isabella had not brought its taint into the royal house of Castile to the detriment of future generations.

He should never have married Isabella. Why had he? Because he was weak; because he had allowed himself to be led.

When Maria of Aragon, Henry’s mother, had died, it had naturally been necessary for John to find a new wife, and he had believed it would be an admirable gesture to ally himself with the French. He had considered marriage with a daughter of the King of France; but his dear friend and adviser, Alvaro de Luna, had thought differently. He had seen advantages to Castile, he said – and to himself, which he did not mention – through an alliance with Portugal.

Poor misguided de Luna! Little did he realise what this marriage was going to mean to him.

The dying John allowed himself to smile as he thought of de Luna in the early days of their friendship. Alvaro had first come to Court as a page – handsome, attractive, he had been a dazzling personality, a skilled diplomat, a graceful courtier, under whose spell John had immediately fallen. He asked nothing more than to stay there, and, in return for the pleasure this man’s company brought him, John had bestowed on him all the honours for which he craved. De Luna had been not only Grand Master of St James but Constable of Castile.

Oh yes, thought John, I was a bad king, for I gave myself completely to pleasure. I had no aptitude for statecraft and, because I was not a stupid man, because I had some intellectual leanings, my behaviour was the more criminal. I have not the excuse of inability to rule; I failed through indolence.

But my father, Henry III, died too young. And there was I, a minor, King of Castile. There was a Regency to rule in my stead. And how well! So well that there was every excuse why I should give myself to pleasure and not concern myself with the government of my country.

But regrettably there had come the day when John was old enough to be King in more than name. And there he had been, young, good-looking, accomplished in the arts, finding that there were so many more interesting things to do than govern a kingdom.

He had been frivolous; he had loved splendour; he had filled his Court with poets and dreamers. He was a dreamer himself. He had been touched perhaps by the Moorish influence of his surroundings. He had lived rather like a Caliph of some Arabic legend. He had sat, with his friends around him, reading poetry; he had staged colourful pageants; he had roamed about the brilliant gardens of his Madrid Alcazar with his tamed Nubian lion for companion.

The splendour of the Palace was notorious; so was the extravagance and frivolity of the King. And side by side with royal extravagance was the hardship and poverty of the people. Taxes had been imposed to provide revenue for favourites; there was misery and privation throughout the land. These were the inevitable results of his misrule and, if the country had been split by civil war and his own son Henry had taken sides against him, he blamed himself, because here on his death-bed he saw more clearly where he had failed.

And always beside him had been his beloved Alvaro de Luna, who, having begun life humbly, could not resist the opportunity to flaunt his possessions, to show his power. He had made himself rich by accepting bribes, and wherever he went he was surrounded by lackeys and trappings of such magnificence that the King’s retinue was put in the shade.

Some said that de Luna dabbled in witchcraft, and it was to this cult that he owed his power over the King. That was untrue, John told himself now. He had admired the brilliant, dashing courtier, this illegitimate son of a noble Aragonese family, because he was possessed of the strong character which John himself lacked.