John was the sort of man who seemed willingly to accept the domination of others. He had been as docile as usual when he agreed to his marriage with Isabella of Portugal.

If that marriage had brought him little peace, it had brought disaster to de Luna, for the bride was a woman of strong character in spite of her latent taint. Or was it that he himself was so weak and feared her outbursts of hysteria?

‘Who,’ she had demanded, ‘is King of Castile, you or de Luna?’

He had reasoned with her; he had explained what good friends he and the Constable had always been.

‘Of course he flatters you,’ she had retorted scornfully. ‘He coaxes you as he would a horse he was riding. But he holds the reins; he decides which way you shall go.’

It was when she was pregnant with Isabella that the real wildness had begun to show itself. It was then that he began to suspect the taint might exist in her blood. Then he had been ready to do anything to calm her in order not to have to face the terrifying fear that he might have introduced madness into the royal bloodstream of Castile.

She had fretted and worked for the disgrace of de Luna, and now he felt bitterly ashamed of the part he had played; he tried to shut this out of his thoughts, but he could not do so. Some perversity in his dying self forced him to face the truth as he had never done before.

He remembered the last time he had seen de Luna; he remembered what friendship he had shown the man, so that poor Alvaro had reassured himself, had told himself that he cared nothing for the enmity of the Queen while the King was his friend.

But he did not save his friend; he loved him still, yet he had allowed him to go to his death.

That, he thought, is the kind of man I am. That action was characteristic of John of Castile. He entertained warm feelings for his friends, but he was too indolent, too much of a coward to save one whom he had loved more than any. He had been afraid of angry scenes, of being forced to face that which he dared not; and so the Queen, balanced very delicately between sanity and insanity, had achieved in a few months what his ministers had plotted for thirty years: the downfall of de Luna.

John felt tears in his eyes as he thought of de Luna’s brave walk to the scaffold. He had heard how gallantly his friend had gone to death.

And up to the moment of de Luna’s execution he, the King, who should have been the most powerful man in Castile, had promised himself that he would save his friend, had longed to quash the sentence of death and bring de Luna back to favour; but he had not done so, for he, who had once been dominated by the charm of de Luna, was now the thrall of the latent madness of his wife.

All I wanted was peace, thought the dying King. All? It was more difficult to find than anything else in turbulent Castile.


* * *

In his tapestried apartment of the Palace, Henry, heir to the throne, was waiting to hear the news of his father’s death.

The people, he knew, were eager to acclaim him. When he rode through the streets they shouted his name; they were tired of the disastrous rule of John II and they longed to welcome a new King who could bring a new way of life to Castile.

As for Henry, he was very eager to feel the crown on his head, and he was determined to keep the popularity which was his. He had no doubt that he could do this, for he was fully aware of his charm. He was good-tempered, easy-going, and he had the art of flattering the people, which never failed to delight them. He could condescend to be one of them without apparent condescension; that was the secret of the people’s love for him.

He was determined to dazzle his subjects. He would raise armies and achieve victories; he would go into battle against the Moors, who for centuries had remained in possession of a large part of Spain. The Moors were perennial enemies, and the proud Castilians could always be brought to a wild enthusiasm by talks of campaigns against them. He would give them pageants to delight their eyes, spectacles and entertainments to make them forget their miseries. His reign should be one of continual excitement and colour.

And what did Henry want? He wanted more and more pleasure – that meant new pleasures. They would not be easy to find, for he was a man of great erotic experience.

While he was waiting, his wife, Blanche, came to him. She too was expectant, for would she not be Queen of Castile when the news was brought to them? She would wish to receive the homage, to stand beside Henry and swear with him to serve the people of Castile with every means at her disposal.

He took her hand and kissed it. Always affectionate in public, even when they were alone he did not show his indifference; he was never actively unkind, for it was against his nature to be so. Now the look of affection he gave her disguised the distaste which she was beginning to rouse in him.

It was twelve years since Blanche of Aragon became his wife. At first he had been delighted to have a wife, but she was not his kind; she could not share his pleasures as his many mistresses could; and since the union had proved fruitless he had no further use for her.

He needed a child – never more than at this time – and he had recently been considering what action he might take to remedy matters.

He had been a voluptuary from boyhood, when there had always been pages, attendants, and teachers to encourage a very willing pupil; and the exploitation of the senses had appealed to him so much more than book-learning.

His father had been an intellectual man who had filled the Court with literary figures, but Henry had nothing in common with men such as Iñigo Lopez de Mendoza, Marquis of Santillana, the great literary figure, nor for the poet John de Mena.

What had such men done for his father? Henry asked himself. There had been anarchy in the Kingdom and unpopularity for the King – civil war, with a large proportion of the King’s subjects fighting against him. If he had pursued pleasure as indefatigably as his son he could not have been more unpopular.

Henry was determined to go his own way and now, looking at Blanche, he was making up his mind that since she could not please him she must go.

She said in her gentle way: ‘So, Henry, the King is dying.’

‘It is so.’

‘Then very soon...’

‘Yes, I shall be King of Castile. The people can scarcely wait to call me King. If you look out of the window you will see that they are already gathering about the Palace.’

‘It is so sad,’ she said.

‘Sad that I shall soon be King of Castile?’

‘Sad, Henry, that you can only be so because of the death of your father.’

‘My dear wife, death must come to us all. We must take our bow at the end of the performance and move on, so that the next player may strut across the stage.’

‘I know it, and that is why I am sad.’

He came to her and laid an arm about her shoulders. ‘My poor, sweet Blanche,’ he said, ‘you are too sensitive.’

She caught his hand and kissed it. Temporarily, he deceived even her with his gentle manners. Later she might wonder what was going on in his mind as he caressed her. He was capable of telling her that she was the only woman he really loved at the very moment when he was planning to rid himself of her.

Twelve years of life with Henry had taught her a great deal about him. He was as shallow as he was charming, and she would be a fool to feel complacent merely because he implied that she still held a high place in his affections. She was aware of the life he led. He had had so many mistresses that he could not have been sure how many. He might, even at a moment when he was suggesting that he was a faithful husband, be considering the pursuit and seduction of another.

Lately she had grown fearful. She was meek and gentle by nature, but she was not a fool. She was terrified that he would divorce her because she had failed to bear a child, and that she would be forced to return to her father’s Court of Aragon.

‘Henry,’ she said on impulse, ‘when you are indeed King it will be very necessary that we have a son.’

‘Yes,’ he replied with a rueful smile.

‘We have been so unfortunate. Perhaps...’ She hesitated. She could not say: Perhaps if you spent less time with your mistresses we might be successful. She had begun to wonder whether it was possible for Henry to beget a child. Some said that this could be a result of a life of debauchery. She could only vaguely visualise what went on during those orgies in which her husband indulged. Was it possible that the life he had led had rendered him sterile?

She glanced at him; did she imagine this or had his gaze become a little furtive? Had he really begun to make plans to rid himself of her?

So she was afraid. She realised that she was often afraid. She dared not state frankly what was in her mind.

Instead she said: ‘There is trouble at my father’s Court.’

He nodded and made a little grimace. ‘It would seem that there must be trouble when a King has children by two wives. We have an example here at home.’

‘None could prevent your taking the crown, Henry.’

‘My stepmother will do her utmost, never fear. She is already making plans for her little Alfonso and Isabella. It is a dangerous thing when a King’s wife dies and he takes another... that is, when there are children of both first and second unions.’

‘I think, Henry, that my stepmother is even more ambitious than yours.’

‘She could scarcely be that; but let us say that she has as high hopes for her little Ferdinand as mine has for Alfonso and Isabella.’