Виктория Холт - Castile for Isabella

She always believed that her sister or her father would send their creatures to do their work.

She called to her women to bring her embroidery. They would work awhile, she said.

There was comfort in the stitching; she could believe she was back in the past – in her home in Aragon when her mother had been alive, before sinister schemes had rent their household – when she had been a member of a happy family; or in the early days of marriage in Castile.

And thus, during those hours which followed the departure of the messenger, her fears were less acute.

She took her dinner with her ladies, as was her custom, and it was shortly after the meal that she complained of pains and dizziness.

Her women helped her to bed and, as the pain grew more violent, Blanche understood.

So this was it. It was not a knife in the dark, nor murderous hands about her throat. Foolish again to have suspected that it would be, when this was the safe way... the way Carlos had gone. They would say: She died of a colic, of a fever. And those who doubted that she had died a natural death would either not bother to question the verdict or not dare to.

‘Let it be quick,’ she prayed. ‘Oh Carlos... I am coming to you now.’

* * *

A message was taken to the inn, and when it was handed to its recipient he read it calmly and gave no sign that he was surprised or shocked by its contents.

He said to his groom: ‘We shall return to the castle.’ And they left at once, riding full speed towards Ortes.

When he arrived there, he summoned the servants together and addressed them.

‘I am speaking in the name of the Comte and Comtesse de Foix,’ he told them. ‘You are to go about your business as though nothing has happened. Your mistress will be quietly interred, but news of her death is not to go beyond these walls.’

One of the women stepped forward. She said: ‘I would like to say, sir, that I fear my mistress is the victim of an evil assassin. She was well when she sat down to her meal. She suffered immediately afterwards. If you please, I think some investigation should be made.’

The messenger lifted his heavy-lidded eyes to stare at the woman. There was something so cold, so menacing in his look, that she began to tremble.

‘Who is this?’ he demanded.

‘Sir, she served Queen Blanche and was much beloved by her.’

‘It would account for her derangement perhaps.’ The cold implacable tone held a warning which was clear to everyone. ‘Poor lady,’ went on the messenger, ‘if she is the victim of hallucinations we must see that she has proper attention.’

Then another of the women spoke. She said: ‘Sir, she is hysterical. She knows not what she says. She had a great affection for Queen Blanche.’

‘Nevertheless, she shall be cared for... unless she recovers her balance. Now do not forget the orders of the Comte and Comtesse. This distressing news is to be a secret until orders are given to the contrary. If any should disobey these orders it will be necessary to punish them. Take care of the late Queen’s poor friend. Make the wishes of the Comte and Comtesse known to her.’

It was as though a shudder ran through all those listening.

They understood. A murder had been committed in their midst. Their gentle mistress, who had harmed no one and done much good to so many, had been eliminated; and they were being warned that painful death would be their reward if they raised their voices against her murderers.

Queen Joanna let her fingers play in the dark glistening hair of her lover. He bent over her couch and, as they kissed, she knew that his thoughts were not so much with her as with the brilliant materialisation of his dreams of fortune.

‘Dear Beltran,’ she asked, ‘you are contented?’

‘I think, my love, that life goes well for us.’ ‘What a long way you have come, my Beltran, since I looked from my window and beckoned you to my bedchamber. Well, one way to glory is through the bedchambers of Kings. Also through the Queen’s, you have discovered.’

He kissed her with passion. ‘To combine desire with ambition, love with power! How singularly fortunate I have been!’

‘And I. You owe your good fortune to me, Beltran. I owe mine to my own good sense. So you see I may congratulate myself even more than you do yourself.’

‘We are fortunate... in each other.’

‘And in the King, my husband. Poor Henry! He grows more shaggy with the years. I often think he is like a dear old dog, growing a little obese, a little blind, a little deaf – figuratively, of course – but remaining so good-tempered, never growling even when he is neglected or insulted, and always ready to give a friendly bark, or wag his tail at the least attention.’

‘He realises his good fortune in possessing such a Queen. You are incomparable.’

She laughed. ‘Indeed I begin to think I am. Who else could have produced the heiress of Castile?’

‘Our dearest little Joanna – how enchanting she is!’

‘So enchanting that we must make sure no one snatches the crown from her head. They will try, my love. They grow insolent. Someone referred to her as La Beltraneja yesterday in my hearing.’

‘And you were angry?’

‘I gave evidence of my righteous anger, but inwardly I was just a little pleased, a little proud.’

‘We must curb that pride and pleasure, dearest. We must plan for her sake.’

‘That is what I intend to do. I visualise the day when we shall see her mount the throne. I do not feel that Henry will live to a great age. He is too indulgent in those pleasures which, while giving him such amusement, rob him of his health and strength.’

Beltran was thoughtful. ‘I often wonder,’ he mused, ‘what his inner thoughts are when he hears our darling’s nickname.’

‘He does not hear. Did you not know that Henry has the most obliging ears in Castile? They are only rivalled by his eyes, which are equally eager to serve him. When he does not want to listen, he is deaf; when he does not wish to see, he is blind.’

‘If only we could contrive some magic to render the ears and eyes of those about him equally accommodating!’

Joanna gave a mock shudder. ‘I do not like the all-important Marquis. He has too many ideas swirling about in that haughty head of his.’

Beltran nodded slowly. ‘I have seen his eyes resting with alarming speculation on the young Alfonso. Also on his sister.’

‘Oh, those children! And especially Isabella. I fear the years at Arevalo, under the queer and pious guardianship of mad Mamma, have done great harm to the child’s character.’

‘One can almost hear her murmuring: “I will be a saint among women.”’

‘If that were all, Beltran, I would forgive her. I fancy the murmuring is: “I will be a saint among... Queens.”’

‘Alfonso is of course the main danger.’

‘Yes, but I would like to see those two removed from Court. The Dowager has gone. Oh, what a blessing not to have to see her! Long may she remain in Arevalo.’

‘I heard that she has lapsed into a deep melancholy and is resigned to leaving her son and daughter at Court.’

‘Let her stay there.’

‘You would like to banish Alfonso and Isabella to Arevalo with her.’

‘Farther away than that. I have a plan... for Isabella.’

‘My clever Queen...’ murmured Beltran; and laughing, Joanna put her lips to his.

‘Later,’ she said softly, ‘I will explain.’

* * *

Beatriz de Bobadilla regarded her mistress with a certain dismay. Isabella was sitting, quietly stitching at her embroidery, as though she were unaware of all the dangers which surrounded her.

There was about Isabella, Beatriz decided, an almost unnatural calm. Isabella believed in her destiny. She was certain that one day Ferdinand of Aragon would come to claim her; and that Ferdinand would conform exactly with that idealised picture which Isabella had made of him.

What a lot she has to learn of life! thought Beatriz.

Beatriz felt as though she were an experienced woman compared with Isabella. It was more than those four years’ seniority which made her feel this. Isabella was an idealist; Beatriz was a practical woman.

Let us hope, thought Beatriz, that she will not be too greatly disappointed.

Isabella said: ‘I wish there were news of Ferdinand. I am growing old now. Surely our marriage cannot long be delayed?’

‘You may be sure,’ Beatriz soothed, ‘that soon there will be plans for your marriage.’

But, wondered Beatriz, bending over her work, will it be to Ferdinand?

‘I hope all is well in Aragon,’ said Isabella.

‘There is great trouble there since the rebellion in Catalonia.’

‘But Carlos is dead now. Why cannot the people settle down and be happy?’

‘They cannot forget how Carlos died.’

Isabella shivered. ‘Ferdinand had no hand in that.’

‘He is too young,’ agreed Beatriz. ‘And now Blanche is dead. Carlos... Blanche... . There is only Eleanor alive of King John’s family by his first wife, and she will not stand in the way of Ferdinand’s inheritance.’

‘He is his father’s heir by right now,’ murmured Isabella.

‘Yes, but...’

‘But what?’ demanded Isabella sharply.

‘How will Ferdinand feel... how would anyone feel... knowing that it had been necessary for one’s brother to die before one could inherit the throne?’

‘Carlos died of a fever...’ began Isabella. Then she stopped. ‘Did he, Beatriz? Did he?’