Виктория Холт - Castile for Isabella

‘Much good would that do!’ cried Isabella. ‘If they were attempting to poison me, they would poison you. What should I do without you? No. We will not fall into their hands. We will stay out of their Madrid prison. And I think I know how.’

‘Then pray tell me, Highness, for I am in dreadful suspense.’

‘Villena would have to take me out of Ocaña, and the people of Ocaña love me... not the King. If we let it be known that I am threatened, they would rally to me and make it impossible for Villena to take me away.’

‘That is the answer,’ Beatriz agreed. ‘You may leave this to me. I shall see that it is known throughout the town that Villena is here to force you into a marriage which is distasteful to you, and that you have sworn to take as husband none other than handsome Ferdinand of Aragon.’

* * *

The streets of Ocaña were crowded. People stood outside the castle and cheered themselves hoarse.

‘Isabella for Castile!’ they cried. ‘Ferdinand for Isabella!’

The children formed into bands; they made banners which they carried high. On some of these they had drawn grotesque figures to represent the middle-aged King of Portugal, and on others the young and handsome Ferdinand.

Sly songs were sung, extolling the beauty and bravery of Ferdinand, and jeering at the decrepit and lustful old man of Portugal.

And the purposes of these processions and their songs were: ‘We support Isabella, heiress to the crowns of Castile and Leon. And where Isabella wishes to marry, there shall she marry; and we will rise in a body against any who seek to deter her.’

The Marquis of Villena, watching the processions from a window of his lodgings, ground his teeth in anger.

She had foiled him... as yet, for how could he convey her through those rebellious crowds – his prisoner? They would tear him to pieces rather than allow him to do so.

* * *

The Archbishop of Toledo and Don Frederick Henriquez were with Isabella.

The Archbishop had declared himself to be completely in favour of the Aragonese match.

For, as he explained, this would be the means of uniting Castile and Aragon, and unity was needed throughout Spain. Isabella’s dream of an all-Catholic Spain had become the Archbishop’s dream. He brought all his fire and fanaticism and laid them at her feet.

‘The embassy,’ he said, ‘must be despatched into Aragon with all speed. Depend upon it, our enemies are growing restive. They will do all in their power to further the Portuguese match; and that, Highness, would be disastrous, as would any marriage which necessitated your leaving Castile.’

‘I am in entire agreement with you,’ said Isabella.

‘Then,’ cried Don Frederick Henriquez, ‘why do we hesitate? Let the embassy set out at once, and I’ll warrant that, in a very short time, my grandson will be riding into Castile to claim his bride.’

Thus it was that when Villena and the Portuguese envoys rode disconsolately out of Ocaña, Isabella’s embassy was riding with all speed to Aragon – and Ferdinand.

A great sorrow had descended on the King of Aragon. His beloved wife was dying and he could not help but be aware of this.

Nor was Joan Henriquez ignorant of the fact. She had for several years fought against the internal disease which she knew to be a fatal one, and only her rare and intrepid spirit had kept her alive so long.

But there came a time when she could not ignore the warnings that she had but a few hours to live.

The King sat at her bedside, her hand in his. Ferdinand sat with them, and it was when the Queen’s eyes fell on her son that mingling emotions moved across her face.

There he was, her Ferdinand, this handsome boy of sixteen, with his fair hair and strong features, in her eyes as beautiful as a god. For him she had become the woman she was, and even on her death-bed she could regret nothing.

She, the strong woman, was responsible for the existing state of affairs in Aragon. She had taken her place by the side of her son and husband in the fight to quell rebellion. She was wise enough to know that they were fortunate because Aragon was still theirs. She had risked a great deal for Ferdinand.

The Catalans would never forget what they called the murder of Carlos. They had refused to admit any member of the Aragonese Cortes into Barcelona; they had elected, in place of John of Aragon, Rene le Bon of Anjou to rule over them, in spite of the fact that he was an ageing man and could not fight, as he would have to, to hold what they had bestowed upon him.

But he had a son, John, Duke of Calabria and Lorraine, a bold adventurer who, with the secret help of sly Louis XI, came to do battle against the King of Aragon. King John of Aragon was no longer young. To help him there was his energetic wife and his brave son Ferdinand; but there were times when John felt that the ghost of his murdered son, Carlos, stood between him and final victory.

For some years John’s eyesight had been failing him, and he lived in daily terror of going completely blind.

Now, beside his wife’s bed, he could say to himself: ‘She will be taken from me, even as my eyesight. But the loss of her will mean more than the loss of my sight.’

Was ever a man so broken? And he believed he knew why good fortune had forsaken him. The ghost of Carlos knew the answer too.

And so he sat by his wife’s bed. He could not see her clearly, yet he remembered every detail of that well-loved face. He could not see the handsome boy kneeling there, yet the memory of that eager young face would never leave him.

‘John,’ said Joan, and her fingers tightened on his, ‘it cannot be long now.’

For answer he pressed her hand. He knew it was useless to deny the truth.

‘I shall go,’ went on Joan, ‘with many sins on my conscience.’

John kissed her hand. ‘You are the bravest and best woman who has ever lived in Aragon... or anywhere else.’

‘The most ambitious wife and mother,’ murmured Joan. ‘I lived for you two. All I did was for you. I remember that now. Perhaps because of that I may in some measure be forgiven.’

‘There will be no need of forgiveness.’

‘John... I sense a presence here. It is not you. It is not Ferdinand. It is another.’

‘There is no one here but ourselves, Mother,’ Ferdinand reassured her.

‘Is there not? Then my mind wanders. I thought I saw Carlos at the foot of my bed.’

‘It could not be, my dearest,’ whispered John, ‘for he is long since dead.’

‘Dead... but perhaps not resting in his tomb.’

Ferdinand raised his eyes and looked at his dying mother, at his aged and blind father. He thought: The end of the old life is near. She is going, and he will not live long after her.

It was as though Joan sensed his thoughts, as though she saw her beloved Ferdinand still but a boy. He was sixteen. It was not old enough to wage a war against Lorraine, against sly Louis. John must not die. If she had committed crimes – which she would commit again for Ferdinand – they must not have been committed in vain.

‘John,’ she said, ‘are you there, John?’

‘Yes, my dearest.’

‘Your eyes, John. Your eyes... You cannot see, can you?’

‘Each day they grow more dim.’

‘There is a Hebrew doctor in Lerida. I have heard he can perform miracles. He has, it is said, restored sight to blind men. He must do that for you, John.’

‘My eyes are too far gone for that, my love. Do not think of me. Are you comfortable? Is there anything we can do to make you happier?’

‘You must allow this man to perform the operation, John. It is necessary. Ferdinand...’

‘I am here, my mother.’

‘Ah, Ferdinand, my son, my own son. I was speaking to your father. I would not forget that, though you be brave as a lion, you are young yet. You must be there, John, until he is a little older. You must not be blind. You must see this Jew. Promise me.’

‘I promise, my dearest.’

She seemed contented now. She lay back on her pillows.

‘Ferdinand,’ she whispered, ‘you will be King of Aragon. It is what I always intended for you, my darling.’

‘Yes, Mother.’

‘You will be a great King, Ferdinand. You will always remember what obstacles were in the way of your greatness and how I and your father removed them... one by one.’

‘I will remember, Mother.’

‘Oh Ferdinand, my son... Oh, John my husband, we are not alone, are we?’

‘Yes, Mother, we are alone.’

‘Only the three of us here together, my love,’ whispered John.

‘You are wrong,’ said Joan; ‘there is another. There is a presence here. Can you not see him? No, you cannot. It is because of your eyes. You must see that Jew, husband. You have promised. It is a sacred promise given on my death-bed. Ferdinand, you cannot see either for you are too young to see. But there is another here. He stares at me from the end of the bed. It is my stepson, Carlos. He comes to remind me. He is here that I may not forget my sins.’

‘She rambles,’ said Ferdinand. ‘Father, should I call the priests?’

‘Yes, my son, call the priests. There is little time left, I fear.’

‘Ferdinand, you are leaving me.’

‘I will be back soon, Mother.’

‘Ferdinand, come close to me. Ferdinand, my son, my life, never forget me. I loved you, Ferdinand, as few are loved. Oh my son, how dear you have cost your mother.’

‘It is time to call the priests,’ said the King. ‘Ferdinand, delay no longer. There is so little time left. There is only time for repentance and departure.’