Виктория Холт - Castile for Isabella

‘You have leave to retire,’ said Henry.

The Queen curtsied; Isabella did the same; and they returned in silence to their apartment.

There were days when the château of Ortes in Béarn seemed like a prison to Blanche, and her apartments there took on the aspect of a condemned cell.

Within those ancient walls she felt as though assassins hid behind the hangings, that in dark corners they waited for her.

Sometimes, after she had dismissed her servants, she would lie in bed, tense... waiting.

Was that a creak of a floor-board? A soft footfall in her room?

Should she close her eyes and wait? How would it come? A pillow pressed over her mouth? A knife thrust into her breast?

Yet what is my life that I should cling to it? she asked herself. For what can I hope now?

Perhaps there was always hope. Perhaps she believed that her family would repent; that ambition, which had dominated it for so many years and had robbed its members of their finer feelings, would miraculously depart leaving room only for loving kindness.

Miracles there might be, but not such miracles as that.

Here she lived, the prisoner of her sister and her sister’s husband. It was terrible to know that they planned to rid themselves of her, that they were prepared to kill her for the sake of acquiring Navarre. It was a rich province, and many had cast covetous eyes on that maize and wheat-growing, that wine-producing land. But what land was worth the disintegration of a family, and the sordid criminality of its members against each other?

It would have been better, she often thought, if her mother had never inherited Navarre from Charles III, her father.

Often she dreamed that Carlos came to her, that he warned her to flee from this grim castle. In the mornings she was never sure whether she had dreamed that she had seen him or whether he had actually been with her. It was said that his ghost walked the streets of Barcelona. Perhaps the ghosts of murdered men did walk the earth, warning those they loved who were in similar danger, perhaps seeking revenge on their murderers. But Carlos had never been one to seek revenge. He had been too gentle. If he had been less so, he could not have failed to lead the people successfully against his father and his stepmother, and would doubtless now be the heir of Aragon in place of little Ferdinand. But it was the gentle ones who were sacrificed.

Blanche shivered. Her character was not unlike that of Carlos, and it seemed to her that there were warnings all about her that her time must come, as had that of Carlos.

There were occasions when she felt that she wanted to make the journey into Aragon to reason with her father and her stepmother, or to go to her sister, Eleanor, and her husband, Gaston de Foix, and tell them what was in her mind.

To her father and stepmother she would say: ‘What has your terrible crime brought to you? You have made Ferdinand heir of Aragon in place of Carlos. But what has happened to Aragon? The people murmur continually against you. They do not forget Carlos. There is continual strife. And one day, when you come near to the end of your days, you will remember the man who died at your command, and you will be filled with such remorse that you would rather have died before you committed such a crime.’

And to Eleanor and Gaston: ‘You want me removed so that Navarre can pass to you. You desire your son Gaston to be the ruler of Navarre. Oh Eleanor, take warning in time. Remember what happened to Carlos. Do not, for the sake of land, for the sake of wealth, for the sake of ambition – even though this is centred in your son – stain your souls with the murder of your sister.’

One must not blame young Gaston. One must not blame young Ferdinand. It was for their sakes that their parents were ready to commit crimes, but these boys were not parties to those crimes. Yet what kind of men would they be, they who must eventually know that murder had been committed for their sakes? Would they, as their parents had, make ambition the over-ruling feature of their lives?

‘I am a lonely woman,’ she told herself, ‘a frightened woman.’

Yes, she was frightened. She had lived with fear now for two years; each day on waking she wondered whether this would be her last, each night wondered whether she would see the morning.

When she had come into Béarn she had been frantic, looking about for means of escape.

There had seemed to be no one to help her... until she remembered Henry, the husband who had repudiated her. It was strange that she should have thought of him; and yet was it so strange? There was about him a gentleness which others lacked. He was a lecher; he had deceitfully led her to believe that he intended to keep her in Castile even while he was planning to rid himself of her; and yet it was to him she had turned in her extremity.

She had written to him then; she had reminded him that he was not only her former husband but her cousin. Did he ever remember their happiness when she had first come to Castile? Now they were parted and she was a lonely woman, forced to exile far from her home.

Now, recalling that letter, she wept a little. She had been happy during those first days of her marriage. She had not known Henry then; she had been too young, too inexperienced to believe that any man, so gentle, so determined to please her as her husband had seemed, could be so shallow and insincere, not really feeling the deep emotion to which he had falsely given expression.

How could she have guessed in those days that tragedy was waiting for her in the years ahead? How could she have visualised those barren years, the inevitable conclusion of which had been banishment to this gloomy castle where death lurked, waiting to spring upon her at an unguarded moment?

‘For two years I have been here,’ she murmured. ‘Two years... waiting... sensing evil... knowing that I have been brought here to end my days.’

In that last frantic letter to Henry she had renounced her claim to Navarre in favour of the husband who had repudiated her, for it had seemed to her then that if she removed the cause of envy she might be allowed to live.

Was that letter a plea to Henry? Was she telling him that she was handing him Navarre because she was in Béarn, a lonely frightened prisoner? Did she still believe that Henry was a noble knight who would come and rescue the lady in distress, even though he had ceased to love her?

‘I was always a foolish woman,’ mused Blanche sadly.

Henry in Castile was living his gay and voluptuous life, there surrounded by his mistresses and his wife who shared his tastes, it seemed. How foolish to imagine that he would have a thought to spare for the dangers of a woman who had ceased to concern him once he was satisfactorily – from his point of view – divorced from her and had sent her away. There was no help from Henry. She might as well never have offered him Navarre. He was too indolent to take it.

So Navarre remained – her inheritance, the coveted land, on account of which death stalked the castle of Ortes, waiting until the moment was propitious to strike.

With the coming of night her fears increased.

Her women helped her to bed. They slept in her apartment, as she felt happier with them there.

They could not be unaware of the sense of fear which pervaded the place; she noticed how they would start at a footfall, leap to their feet when they heard voices or footsteps at the door.

* * *

A messenger arrived at Ortes with a letter from the Comtesse de Foix to her sister Blanche. It was an affectionate letter, containing news of a marriage the Comtesse was trying to arrange for her sister. Because of that unfortunate incident in Castile, Blanche must not imagine that her family would allow her to lead the life of a hermit.

I do not care if I live the life of a hermit, thought Blanche. All I care is that I live.

In one of the kitchens the messenger from the Comtesse de Foix was drinking a glass of wine.

The servant who had brought it to him lingered as he refreshed himself, and there came a moment when they were quite alone. Then the messenger ceased to smile pleasantly as he sipped his wine.

He frowned in annoyance and said to the servant: ‘Why is there this delay? If it continues you will have some explaining to do.’

‘Sir, it is not easy.’

‘I cannot comprehend the difficulties; nor can others.’

‘Sir, I have attempted... once or twice.’

‘Then you are a bungler. We do not suffer bunglers. Can you guess what your fate may well be? Put out your tongue. Good! I see it is pink, and that I believe is a sign of health. I’ll swear it’s plausible too. I’ll swear it has played its part in luring the maidens to your bed, eh? Ah, I know. You have paid too much attention to them and neglected your duty. Let me tell you this: that tongue could be cut out, and you’d be a sorry fellow without it. And that, my friend, is but one of the misfortunes which could befall you.’

‘Sir, I need time.’

‘You have wasted time. I give you another chance. It must happen within twenty-four hours after I leave. I shall stay at the inn nearby, and if the news is not brought to me within twenty-four hours...’

‘You... you shall not be disappointed, sir.’

‘That is well. Now fill my glass. And... remember.’

* * *

The messenger had left and Blanche felt easier in her mind as she watched him ride away.