* * *

The procession was ready to set out from Lisbon, but the Princess Joanna felt no pangs at leaving her home; she was eager to reach Castile, where she believed she was going to enjoy her new life.

Etiquette at the Court of Castile would be solemn, after the manner of the Castilians, but she had heard that her future husband entertained lavishly and that he lived in the midst of splendour. He was a man devoted to feminine society and, if he had many mistresses, Joanna assured herself that that was due to the fact that Blanche of Aragon was so dull and unattractive.

But she had no intention of putting too strong a curb upon him. She was not herself averse to a little amorous adventuring; and if Henry strayed now and then from the marriage bed she would not dream of reproaching him, for if she were lenient with him so must he be with her, and she foresaw an exciting life in Castile.

Here in Lisbon she was, in her opinion, too well guarded.

Therefore it was with few regrets that she prepared to leave. She could look from the windows of the castle of São Jorge on to the town and say goodbye quite happily. She had little love for the town, with its old cathedral, close to which it was said that St Anthony was born. The saints of Lisbon meant little to her. What cared she if after his martyrdom Saint Vicente’s body was brought to Lisbon along the Tagus in a boat which was guided by two black crows? What did she care if the spirit of St Anthony was supposed to live on and help those who had lost something dear to them to recover it? These were merely legends to her.

So she turned away from the window and the view of olive and fig trees, of the Alcaçova where the Arab rulers had once lived, of the mossy tiles of the Alfama district and the glistening stream of the Tagus.

Gladly would she say farewell to all that had been home, for in the new land to which she was going she would be a Queen – Queen of Castile.

Soon they would depart, travelling eastwards to the border.

Her eyes were glistening as she took the mirror which was held to her by her maid of honour; she looked over her shoulder at the girl, whose eyes danced as merrily as her own.

‘So, Alegre, you too are happy to go to Castile?’

‘I am happy, my lady,’ answered the girl.

‘You will have to behave with decorum there, you know.’

Alegre smiled mischievously. She was a bold creature, and Joanna, who herself was bold and fond of gaiety, had chosen her for this reason. Her nickname, Alegre, had been given her some years before by one of the Spanish attendants: the gay one.

Alegre had had adventures: some she recounted; some she did not.

Joanna grimaced at the girl. ‘When I am Queen I must become very severe.’

‘You will never be that with me, my lady. How could you be severe with one who is as like yourself in her ways as that reflection is like your own face?’

‘I may have to change my ways.’

‘They say the King, your husband, is very gay...’

‘That is because he has never had a wife to satisfy him.’

Alegre smiled secretly. ‘Let us hope that, when he has a wife who satisfies him, he will still be gay.’

‘I shall watch you, Alegre, and if you are wicked I shall send you home.’

Alegre put her head on one side. ‘Well, there are some charming gentlemen at your brother’s Court, my lady.’

‘Come,’ said Joanna. ‘It is time we left. They are waiting for us down there.’

Alegre curtsied and stood aside for Joanna to pass through the apartment.

Then she followed her down to the courtyard, where the gaily-caparisoned horses and the loads of baggage were ready to begin the journey from Lisbon to Castile.


* * *

Before Joanna began the journey Blanche had set out for Aragon.

It seemed to her that the nightmare had become a reality, for in her dreams she had feared exactly this.

It was twelve years since she had left her home to be the bride of Henry; then she had been fearful, even as she was now. But she had left Aragon as the bride of the heir to Castile; her family had approved of the match, and she had seen no reason why her life should end in failure.

But how different it had been, making that journey as a bride, from returning as a repudiated wife, one who had failed to provide the necessary heir to a throne.

She thought now of that moment when she had been no longer able to hide the truth from herself, when the Archbishop had stood before her and announced that her marriage was annulled por impotencia respectiva.

She had wanted to protest bitterly. She had wanted to cry out: ‘What use to throw me aside? It will be the same with any other woman. Henry cannot beget children.’

They would not have listened to her, and she could have done her cause no good. What was the use of protesting? She could only listen dully and, when she was alone, throw herself upon her bed and stare at the ceiling, recalling the perfidy of Henry who, at the very time when he was planning to be rid of her, had implied that they would always be together.

She was to return to her family, who would have no use for her. Her father had changed since his second marriage; he was completely under the spell of her stepmother. All they cared for was the advancement of little Ferdinand.

And what would happen to her... she who would have no friend in the world but her brother Carlos? And what was happening to Carlos now? He was at odds with his father, and that was due to the jealousy of his stepmother.

What will become of me at my father’s Court? she asked herself as she made the long and tedious journey to the home of her childhood; and it seemed to her then that the nightmares she had suffered had been no dreams; when she had been tortured by them she had been given a glimpse of the future.


* * *

Life in the Palace of Arevalo had been going smoothly.

We are happier here, thought young Isabella, than we were in Madrid. Everybody here seems serene and not afraid any more.

It was true. There had been none of those frightening interludes when the Queen lost control of her feelings. There was even laughter in the Palace.

Lessons were regular, of course, but Isabella was quite happy to receive lessons. She knew she had to learn if she were to be ready for her great destiny. Life ran to a set of rules. She rose early and retired early. There were many prayers during the day, and Isabella had heard some of the women complaining that to live at Arevalo was to live in a nunnery.

Isabella was contented with her nunnery. As long as they could live like this and her mother was quietly happy and not frightened, Isabella could be happy.

Alfonso was developing a personality of his own. He was no longer a gurgling, kicking baby. It was a great pleasure to watch him take his first steps, Isabella holding out her arms to catch him should he stumble. Sometimes they played these games with one of the women; sometimes with the Dowager Queen herself, who occasionally would pick up the little boy and hug him tightly. Then the ever alert Isabella would watch her mother for the tell-tale twitching of the mouth. But Alfonso would utter lusty protests at being held too tightly, and often an emotional scene was avoided in this way.

Isabella missed her father; she missed her brother Henry; but she could be happy like this if only she could keep her mother quiet and contented.

One day she said: ‘Let us stay like this... always...’

But the Dowager Queen’s lips had tightened and begun to twitch, so that Isabella realised her mistake.

‘You have a great destiny,’ began the Dowager Queen. ‘Why, this baby here...’

That was when she picked up Alfonso and held him so tightly that he protested, and so, fortunately, his protests diverted the Queen from what she was about to say.

This was a lesson. It showed how easily one could stumble into pitfalls. Isabella was aghast on realising that she, whose great desire was to avoid hysterical scenes, had almost, by a thoughtless remark, precipitated one of them.

She must never cease to be watchful and must not be deceived by the apparent peace of Arevalo.

There came a terrifying day when their mother visited the two children in the nursery.

Isabella knew at once that something unfortunate had occurred, and her heart began to hammer in an uncomfortable way. Alfonso was, of course, unaware that anything was wrong.

He threw himself at his mother and was picked up in her arms. The Queen stood holding him strained against her, and when Alfonso began to wriggle she did not release him.

‘Highness...’ he cried, and because he was proud to be able to say the word he repeated it. ‘Highness... Highness...’

It seemed to Isabella that Alfonso was shouting. That was because everything was so quiet in the apartment.

‘My son,’ said the Queen, ‘one day you will be King of Castile. There is no doubt of it.’

‘Highness... you hurt me...’ whimpered Alfonso.

Isabella wanted to run to her mother and explain that she was holding Alfonso too tightly, and to remind her how much happier they were when they did not talk about the future King or Queen of Castile.

To Isabella it seemed that the Queen stood there a long time, staring into the future, but it could not have been more than a few seconds, or Alfonso’s whimper would have become a loud protest.

Meanwhile the Queen said nothing; she stared before her, looking angry and determined, as Isabella remembered so well to have seen her in the past.