The Queen tried to hide her discomfiture and anger.

‘You are sick,’ she said. ‘You must stay in your bed. Take care, Isabella. You must not over-excite yourself. Remember how your mother was affected. Your brother and I wish to please you in every possible way.’

‘Then perhaps you will leave me now.’

The Queen inclined her head.

‘Good day to you, Isabella. You need have no fear of marriage. You take these things too seriously.’

With that she turned and left the apartment; and when Isabella called Beatriz and Mencia to her bedside she saw from the blank expression on their faces that they had heard all, and that now even they had lost all hope.


* * *

Preparations for the wedding were going on at great speed.

Villena and the Archbishop had brought their tremendous energy to the event. Henry was as eager. Once the marriage had taken place, the leaders of his enemies would become his friends.

Henry had always said that gifts should be bestowed on one’s enemies to turn them into friends; he was following that policy now, for there was not a greater gift he could bestow, and on a more dangerous enemy, than the hand of his half-sister on Don Pedro.

There was murmuring in certain quarters. Some said that now Villena and his uncle would be more powerful than ever, and that was scarcely desirable; a few even deplored the fact that an innocent young girl was being given to a voluptuary of such evil reputation. But many declared that this was a way to put an end to civil war, and that such conflicts could only bring disaster to Castile.

Once the marriage had taken place and Villena and his uncle had transferred their allegiance from the rebels to the King’s party, the revolt would collapse; Alfonso would be relegated to his position of heir to the throne, and there would no longer be this dangerous situation of two Kings ‘reigning’ at the same time.

As for Isabella, she felt numb with grief and fear as the days passed. She had lost a great deal of weight, for she could eat little. She had grown pale and drawn because she could not sleep.

She spent the days in her own apartments, lying on her bed, scarcely speaking; she prayed for long periods.

‘Let me die,’ she implored, ‘rather than suffer this fate. Holy Mother of God, kill one of us... either him or myself. Save me from this impending dishonour and kill me that I may not be tempted to kill myself.’

Somewhere in Spain was Ferdinand; had he heard of the fate which was about to fall upon her? Did he care? What had Ferdinand been thinking, all these years, of their betrothal? Perhaps he had not seen their possible union as she had, and to him she had been merely a match which would be advantageous to him. If he heard that he had lost her, perhaps he would shrug his shoulders, and look about him for another bride.

Ferdinand, fighting side by side with his father in his own turbulent Aragon, would have other matters with which to occupy himself.

She liked to imagine that he might come to save her from this terrible marriage. That was because she was a fanciful girl who had dreamed romantic dreams. She could not in her more reasonable moments hope that Ferdinand – a year younger than herself and as powerless as she was – could do anything to help her.

Her great comfort during these days of terror was Beatriz, who never left her. At night Beatriz would lie at the foot of her bed and, during the early hours of morning when sleep was quite impossible, they would talk together and Beatriz would make the wildest plans, such as flight from the Palace. This was impossible, they both knew, but there was a little comfort to be derived from such talk – or at least so it seemed in the dreary hours before dawn.

Beatriz would say: ‘It shall not be. We will find some means of preventing it. I swear it! I swear it!’

Her deep vibrating voice would shake the bed and, such was the power of her personality, she made Isabella almost believe her.

There was great strength in Beatriz; she had not the same love of law and order which was Isabella’s main characteristic. There had been times in the past when Isabella had warned Beatriz against her rebellious attitude to life; now she was glad of it, glad of any mite of comfort which could come her way.

With the coming of each day, Isabella felt her load of misery growing.

‘No escape,’ she murmured to herself. ‘No escape. And each day it comes nearer.’

Andres de Cabrera came to visit his wife. He had scarcely seen her since Isabella had heard that she was to marry Don Pedro.

‘I cannot leave her,’ Beatriz had told him, ‘no... not even for you. I must be with her all through the night, for I fear she might be tempted to do herself some injury.’

Isabella received Andres with as much pleasure as she could show to anyone. He was very shocked to see the change in her. Gone was the serene Isabella. He felt saddened to see such a change; and he was doubly alarmed to see that Beatriz was almost equally affected.

‘You cannot go on in this way,’ he remonstrated. ‘Highness, you must accept your fate. It is an evil one, I know, but you are a Princess of Castile. You will be able to extract obedience from this man.’

‘You can talk like that!’ stormed Beatriz. ‘You can tell us to accept this fate! Look at her... look at my Isabella, and think of him... that... that... But I will not speak his name. Is it not enough that we are aware of him every hour of the day and night!’

Andres put his arm about his wife’s shoulders. ‘Beatriz, my dearest, you must be reasonable.’

‘He tells me to be reasonable!’ cried Beatriz ‘It seems, Andres, that you do not know me if you can imagine I am going to stand aside and be reasonable while my beloved mistress is handed over to that coarse brute.’

‘Beatriz... Beatriz...’ He drew her to him and was aware of something hard in the bodice of her gown.

She laughed suddenly. Then she put her hand into her bodice and drew out a dagger.

‘What is this?’ cried Andres growing pale as her flashing eyes rested upon him.

‘I will tell you,’ said Beatriz. ‘I have made a vow, husband. I have promised Isabella that she shall never fall into the hands of that crude monster. That is why I carry this dagger with me day and night.’

‘Beatriz, have you gone mad?’

‘I am sane, Andres. I think I am the sanest person in this Palace. As soon as the Grand Master of Calatrava approaches my mistress, I shall be there between them. I shall take my dagger and plunge it into his heart.’

‘My dearest... what are you saying! What madness is this?’

‘You do not understand. Someone must protect her. You do not know my Isabella. She, so proud, so... so pure... I think that she will kill herself rather than suffer this degradation. I shall save her by killing him before he has a chance to besmirch her with his foulness.’

‘Give me that dagger, Beatriz.’

‘No,’ said Beatriz, slipping it into the bodice of her dress.

‘I demand that you give it to me.’

‘I am sorry, Andres,’ she answered calmly. ‘There are two people in this world for whom I would give my life if necessary. You are one. She is the other. I have sworn this solemn vow. There shall be no consummation of this barbarous marriage. That is the vow I have sworn. So it is no use your asking me for this dagger. It is for him, Andres.’

‘Beatriz, I implore you... think of our life together. Think of our future!’

‘There could be no happiness for me if I did not do this thing for her.’

‘I cannot allow you to do it, Beatriz.’

‘What will you do, Andres? Inform on me? I shall die doubtless. Perhaps they will torture me first; perhaps they will say, This is a plot to assassinate Isabella’s bridegroom. So, Andres, you will inform against your wife?’

He was silent.

‘Andres, you will do no such thing. You must leave this to me. I have sworn he shall not deflower her. It is a sacred vow.’

Her eyes were brilliant and her cheeks were scarlet; she looked very beautiful; and as powerful as a young goddess – tall, handsome and full of fire.

And he loved her dearly. He knew her well enough to understand that this was no wild talk. She was bold and completely courageous. He had no doubt that she would keep her word and, when the moment came, she would lift her hand and plunge the dagger into the heart of Isabella’s bridegroom.

And when he murmured: ‘It must not be, Beatriz!’ she answered: ‘It cannot be otherwise.’


* * *

In his house at Almagro Don Pedro Giron was making preparations for his wedding. He had lost no time since the arrival of the dispensation from Rome.

He strolled about his apartment while his servants made ready his baggage. He put on the rich garments in which he would be married, and strutted before them.

‘Look!’ he cried to his servants. ‘Here you see the husband of a Princess of Castile. How does he look, eh?’

‘My lord,’ was the answer, ‘there could not be a more worthy husband of a Princess of Castile.’

‘Ah!’ laughed Don Pedro. ‘She will find me a worthy husband, I’ll promise you.’

And he continued to laugh, thinking of her – the prim young girl who had been in hiding when he had made certain proposals to her mother. He remembered her standing before them, her blue eyes scornful. He would teach her to be scornful!

He gave himself up to pleasant contemplation of his wedding night. Afterwards, he promised himself, she should be a different woman. She would never again dare show her scorn of him. Princess of Castile though she was he would show her who was her master.