Виктория Холт - Castile for Isabella

He gave himself up to his sensual dreaming, to the contemplation of an orgy which would be all the more enticing because it would be shared by a prim and – oh, so sedate – Princess.

‘Come on,’ he cried. ‘You sluggards, work harder. It is time we left. It is a long journey to Madrid.’

‘Yes, my lord. Yes, my lord.’

How docile they were, how eager to please! They knew it would be the worse for them if they were not. She would soon learn also.

What a blessing it was to be the brother of a powerful man. But people must not forget that Don Pedro himself was also powerful – powerful in his own right.

One of the self-appointed tasks of Don Pedro was to assure those about him that, although he drew some of his power from his brother’s high office, he was himself a man to be reckoned with.

He scowled at his servants. He was impatient to leave. He longed for the journey to be over; he longed for the wedding celebrations to begin.

* * *

With great pomp Don Pedro set out on the journey to Madrid. All along the road people came out to greet him; graciously he accepted their homage. Never had he been so pleased with himself. Why, he reckoned, he had come farther even than his brother, the Marquis. Had the Marquis ever aspired to the hand of a Princess? What glorious good fortune that he had joined the Order of the Calatrava and thus had escaped the web of matrimony. How disconcerting it would have been if this opportunity had come along and he had been unable to take advantage of it because of a previous entanglement. But no, a little dispensation from Rome had been all that was needed.

They would stay the first night at Villarubia, a little hamlet not far from Ciudad Real. Here members of the King’s Court had come to greet him. He noticed with delight their obsequious manners. Already he had ceased to be merely the brother of the Marquis of Villena.

He had the innkeeper brought before him.

‘Now, my man,’ he shouted, as he swaggered in his dazzling garments, ‘I doubt you have ever entertained royalty before. Now’s your chance to show us what you can do. And it had better be good. If it is not, you will be a most unhappy man.’

‘Yes, my lord... yes, Highness,’ stuttered the man. ‘We have been warned of your coming and have been working all day for your pleasure.’

‘It is what I expect,’ cried Don Pedro.

He was a little haughty with the officers of the King’s Guard who had come to escort him on his way to Madrid. They must understand that in a few days’ time he would be a member of the royal family.

The innkeeper’s feast was good enough to satisfy even him; he gorged himself on the delicious meats and drank deep of the innkeeper’s wine.

Furtive eyes watched him, and there were many at the table to think sadly of the Princess Isabella.

Don Pedro was helped to his bed by his servants. He was very drunk and sleepy, and incoherently he told them what a great man he was and how he would subdue his chaste and royal bride.

It was during the night that he awoke startled. His body was covered with a cold sweat and he realised that it was a gripping pain which had awakened him.

He struggled up in his bed and shouted to his servant.

* * *

Andres Cabrera came to Isabella’s apartments and was greeted by his wife. ‘Isabella?’ he asked.

‘She lies in her bed. She grows more and more listless.’

‘Then she has not heard the news. So I am the first to bring it to her.’

Beatriz gripped her husband’s arm and her eyes dilated. ‘What news?’

‘Give me the dagger,’ he said. ‘You’ll not need it now.’

‘You mean... ?’

‘He was taken ill at Villarubia four days ago. The news has just been brought to me that he is dead. Soon all Madrid will know.’

‘Andres!’ cried Beatriz, and there was a question in her eyes.

‘Suffice it,’ he said, ‘that there will be no need for you to use your dagger.’

Beatriz swayed a little, and for a few seconds Andres thought that the excess of emotion which she was undergoing would cause her to faint.

But she recovered herself. She gazed at him, and there was pride and gratitude in her eyes – and an infinite love for him.

‘It is an act of God,’ she cried.

Andres answered: ‘We can call it that.’

Beatriz took his hand and kissed it; then she laughed aloud and ran into Isabella’s bedchamber.

She stood by the bed, looking down on her mistress. Andres had come to stand beside her.

‘Great news!’ cried Beatriz. ‘The best news that you could hear. There will be no marriage. Our prayers have been answered; he is dead.’

Isabella sat up in bed and looked from Beatriz to Andres.

‘Dead! Is it possible? But... but how?’

‘At Villarubia,’ said Beatriz. ‘He was taken ill four days ago. I told you, did I not, that our prayers would be answered. Dearest Isabella, you see our fears were all for something which cannot happen.’

‘I cannot believe it,’ whispered Isabella. ‘It is miraculous. He was so strong... it seems impossible that he could... die. And you say he was taken ill. Of what... ? And... how?’

‘Let us say,’ Beatriz answered, ‘that it was an Act of God. That is the happiest way of looking at this. We prayed for a miracle, Princesa; and our prayers have been granted.’

Isabella rose from her bed and went to her prie-Dieu.

She knelt and gave thanks for her deliverance; and behind her stood Beatriz and Andres.

The Archbishop of Toledo and his nephew the Marquis of Viliena were closeted together, it was said, deep in mourning for Don Pedro.

The chief emotion of these ambitious men was however not sorrow but anger.

‘There are spies among us,’ cried the militant Archbishop. ‘Worse than spies... assassins!’

‘It is deplorable,’ agreed Villena sarcastically, ‘that they should have their spies and assassins, and that they should be as effective as our own.’

‘The whole of Castile is laughing at us,’ declared the Archbishop. ‘They are jeering because we presumed to ally our family with the royal one.’

‘And to think that we have been foiled in this!’

‘I would have his servants seized, tortured. I would discover who had formulated this plot against us.’

‘Useless, Uncle. Servants under torture will tell any tale. And do we need to be led to the murderers of my brother? Do we not know that they are – our enemies? The trail would doubtless lead us to the royal Palace. That could be awkward.’

‘Nephew, are you suggesting that we should meekly accept this... this murder?’

‘Meekly, no. But we should say to ourselves: Pedro, who could have linked our family with the royal one, has been murdered; therefore that little plan has failed. Well, we will show our enemies that it is dangerous to interfere with our plans. The marriage was accepted by Henry as an alternative to civil war. Very well, he has declined one, let him have the other.’

The Archbishop’s eyes were gleaming. He was ready now to play the part for which he had always longed.

He said: ‘Young Alfonso shall ride into battle by my side.’

‘It is the only way,’ said Villena. ‘We offered them peace and they retaliated by the murder of my brother. Very well, they have chosen. Now they shall have war.’

* * *

On the plains of Almedo the rival forces were waiting.

The Archbishop, clad in armour, wore a scarlet cloak on which had been embroidered the white cross of the Church. He looked a magnificent figure, and his squadrons were ready to follow him into battle.

Alfonso, who was not quite fourteen years old at this time, could not help but be thrilled by the enthusiasm of the Archbishop. The boy Alfonso was dressed in glittering mail, and this would be his first taste of battle.

The Archbishop called Alfonso to him while they waited in the grey dawn light.

‘My son,’ he said, ‘my Prince, this could be the most important day of your life. On these plains our enemies are gathered. What happens this day may decide your future, my future and, what is more important, the future of Castile. It may well be that after this day there will be one King of Castile, and that King will be yourself. Castile must become great. There must be an end to the anarchy which is spreading over our land. Remember that, when we go into battle. Come, let us pray for victory.’

Alfonso pressed the palms of his hands together; he lowered his eyes; and with the Archbishop, in that camp on the plains of Almedo, he prayed for victory over his half-brother Henry.

* * *

In the opposing camp Henry waited with his men.

‘How long the day seems in coming,’ said the Duke of Albuquerque.

Henry shivered; it seemed to him that the day came all too quickly.

Henry looked at this man who had played such a big part in his life. Beltran seemed as eager for the battle as he was for the revelries of the Court. Henry could not help feeling a great admiration for this man, who had all the bearing of a King and could contemplate going into battle without a trace of fear, although he must know that he would be considered one of the greatest prizes that could fall into the enemy’s hands.

It was small wonder that Joanna had loved him.

Henry wished that there was some means of preventing the battle from taking place. He would be ready to listen to their terms; he would be ready to meet them. It seemed so senseless to fight and make terms afterwards. What could war mean but misery for those who took part in it?