Виктория Холт - Castile for Isabella

He dismissed his spy and immediately called on the Archbishop.

‘We are leaving at once,’ he said, ‘for Avila. There is not a moment to lose. I, with Alfonso, will meet you there. We shall take immediate action. De la Cueva is to be created Duke of Albuquerque in compensation for the loss of the Mastership of Santiago. This is the way the King observes his pledges!’

‘And when we reach Avila with the heir to the throne, what then?’

‘Alfonso will no longer be the heir to the throne. He will ascend it. At Avila we will proclaim Alfonso King of Castile.’

* * *

Alfonso was pale, not with the strain of the journey, but with a fear of the future. He had spent long hours on his knees praying for guidance. He felt so young; it was a pitiable situation for a boy of eleven years to have to face.

There was no one whose advice he could ask. He could not reach those whom he loved. His mother’s mind was becoming more and more deranged and sunk in oblivion, and, even if he were allowed to see her, it would be doubtful whether he would be able to explain to her his need. And when he thought of his childhood, his mother’s voice seemed to come echoing down to him: ‘Do not forget that one day you could be King of Castile.’ So even if he could make her understand what was about to happen she would doubtless express great pleasure. Was this not what she had always longed for?

But Isabella – his dear, good sister – she would advise. Isabella was anxious to do what was right, and he had a feeling that Isabella would say: ‘It is not right for you to be crowned King, Alfonso, while our brother Henry lives, for Henry is undoubtedly the son of our father and is therefore the rightful heir to Castile. No good can come of a usurpation of the crown, for, if God had willed that you should be King, He would have taken Henry as He took Carlos that Ferdinand might be his father’s heir.’

‘No good can come of it,’ murmured Alfonso. ‘No good... no good.’

This city enclosed in its long grey walls depressed him. He looked out on the woods of oak and maple and those hardy trees which had been able to withstand the cruel winter.

Avila seemed to him a cruel city, a city of granite fortresses, set high above the plains, to receive the full force of the summer sun and the biting winds of a winter which was notoriously long and rigorous.

Alfonso was afraid, as he had never been afraid in his life.

‘No good can come of this,’ he repeated.

* * *

The June sun was hot. From where he stood surrounded by some of the most important nobles of Castile, Alfonso could see the yellowish grey walls of Avila.

Here on the arid plain within sight of the city a strange spectacle was about to be enacted and he, young Alfonso, was to play an important part in it.

He experienced a strange feeling as he stood there. That clear air seemed to intoxicate him. When he looked at the city above the plain he felt an exultation.

Mine, he thought. That city will be mine. The whole of Castile will be mine.

He looked at those men who surrounded him. Strong men, all men who were eager for power; and they would come to him and take his hand, and when they took it they would offer him allegiance, for they intended to make him their King.

To be King of Castile! To save Castile from the anarchy into which it was falling! To make it great; perhaps to lead it to great victories!

Who knew, perhaps one day he might lead a campaign against the Moors. Perhaps in the years to come people would link his name with that of the Cid.

And as he stood there on the plain outside Avila, Alfonso found that his fear was replaced by ambition, and that he was now no unwilling participator in the strange ceremony which was about to take place.

Crowds had gathered on the plain. They had watched the cavalcade leave the gates of the city; at its head had been the Marquis of Villena and beside him was the young Alfonso.

On the plain there had been set up scaffolding and on this a throne had been placed. Seated on the throne was a life-sized dummy, representing a man, clad in a black robe; and on the head had been put a crown, in its hand a sceptre. A great sword of state was placed before it.

Alfonso had been led to a spot some distance from the scaffolding whilst certain noblemen, who had formed the procession which had been led by Villena and Alfonso, mounted the scaffolding and knelt before the crowned dummy, treating it as though it were the King.

Then one of the noblemen stepped to the front of the platform, and there was a tense silence among the multitude as he began to read a list of the crimes which had been committed by King Henry of Castile. The chaos and anarchy which persisted in the land were attributed to the King’s evil rule.

The people continued to listen in silence.

‘Henry of Castile,’ cried the nobleman, turning to the figure on the throne, ‘you are unworthy to wear the crown of Castile. You are unworthy to be given royal dignity.’

Then the Archbishop of Toledo stepped on to the platform and snatched the crown from the head of the figure.

‘You are unworthy, Henry of Castile, to administer the laws of Castile,’ went on the voice.

The Count of Plascencia then took his place on the platform and removed the sword of state.

‘The people of Castile will no longer allow you to rule.’

The Count of Benavente took the sceptre from the dummy’s hand.

‘The honour due to the King of Castile shall no longer be yours, and the throne shall pass from you.’

Diego Lopez de Zuñiga picked up the dummy and threw it down on to the scaffolding, setting his foot upon it.

The people then were caught up in the hysteria which such words and such a spectacle aroused in them.

Someone in the crowd shouted: ‘A curse on Henry of Castile!’ And the rest took up the cry.

Now the great moment had come for Alfonso to take his place on the platform. He felt very small, there under that blue sky. The town looked unreal with its granite ramparts, squat posterns and belfries.

The Archbishop lifted the boy in his arms as though he would show him to the people.

Alfonso appeared beautiful in the eyes of those watching crowds; this innocent boy appealed to them and tears came to the eyes of many assembled there because of his youth and the great burden which was about to be placed upon him.

The Archbishop announced that it had been decided to deprive the people of their feeble, criminal King, but in his place they were to be given this handsome, noble boy whom, now that they saw him, they would, he knew, be willing to serve with all their hearts.

And there on the plains before Avila there went up a shout from thousands of throats.

‘Castile! Castile for the King, Don Alfonso!’

Alfonso was set upon the throne on which, shortly before, the dummy had been.

The sword of state was set before him, the sceptre placed in his hand, and the crown upon his head. And one by one those powerful nobles who had now openly declared their intention to make him King of Castile, came forward to swear allegiance as they kissed his hand.

The words echoed in Alfonso’s brain.

‘Castile for the King, Don Alfonso!’

Isabella was distraught. She was torn between her love for her brother Alfonso and her loyalty towards her half-brother Henry.

She was in her sixteenth year, and the problems which faced her seemed too complex for a girl of her limited experience to solve.

She could trust few people. She knew that she was watched by many, that her smallest gestures were noticed, and that even in her intimate circle she was spied upon.

There was one whom she could trust, but Beatriz herself had been a little absent-minded lately. It was understandable; she had been married to Andres de Cabrera, and it was inevitable that the preoccupation of Beatriz with her new status should somewhat modify the devotion she was ready to give to her mistress.

I must be patient, thought Isabella; and she continued to dream of her own marriage, which surely could not be long delayed.

But this was not the time, when Alfonso had been placed in such a dangerous position, to think of her own selfish hopes.

There was civil strife in Castile, as there must be when two Kings claimed the throne. Sides must be taken, it seemed, by everybody; and although there were many in the kingdom who disapproved of Henry’s rule, the theatrical ceremony outside the walls of Avila seemed to many to be revolutionary conduct in the worst taste. Henry was the King, and Alfonso was an impostor, declared many of the great nobles of Castile. At the same time there were many more who, not having been favourites of the King and Queen, were ready to seek their fortunes under a new monarch who must have a regency to help him govern.

Henry was almost hysterical with grief. He hated bloodshed and was determined to avoid it if possible.

‘A firm hand is needed, Highness,’ his old tutor, the Bishop of Cuenca, warned him.

Henry turned on him with unusual anger. ‘How like a priest,’ he declared, ‘not being called upon to engage in the fight, to be very liberal with the blood of others!’

‘Highness, you owe it to your honour. If you do not stand firm and fight your enemies, you will be the most humiliated and degraded monarch in the history of Spain.’

‘I believe that it is always wiser to settle difficulties by negotiation,’ Henry retorted.