Beatriz had made up her mind that their stay there should be as brief as she could make it.

Isabella turned to her friend. ‘I always feel deeply moved when I come to Arevalo,’ she said. ‘There are so many memories.’

‘Perhaps we should have delayed the journey until after the child is born.’

‘No, it is long since I have seen my mother. She may be growing anxious. It is very bad for her to be anxious.’

‘I would rather she was anxious because you were absent than that I and Ferdinand, and all who love you, should be because of your state of health.’

‘You fret too much, Beatriz. It is all in the hands of God.’

‘Who would have as little patience with us now as He had last time,’retorted Beatriz.

‘Beatriz, you blaspheme.’

Isabella was really shocked, and Beatriz seeing the horror in the Queen’s face, hastened to apologise.

‘You see, Highness,’ she murmured, ‘I am as I always was. I speak without thinking.’

A gentle smile crossed Isabella’s face. ‘It is on account of your care for me, I know. But I would hear no more of the hazards of this journey and your disapproval of our visit to my mother.’

‘I see I have offended Your Highness, and crave pardon.’

‘Not offended, Beatriz, but please say no more.’

It was an order and, as they rode on to Arevalo, Beatriz was silent for a while; and Isabella’s thoughts went back to the day when she, with her mother and young brother, had hurried away from her half-brother’s Court to live for so many years in obscurity in the castle of Arevalo.


* * *

Isabella knelt before the woman in the chair. This was her mother, also Isabella, Queen-widow of King John II of Castile.

And as Isabella knelt there she felt an urge to weep, for she remembered so well those days when she had watched her mother’s face for a sign of the madness which could be terrifying to a small daughter.

The long thin fingers stroked her hair and the woman said: ‘Who is this who has come to see me?’

‘It is Isabella.’

‘I am Isabella.’

‘It is that other Isabella, Highness. Your daughter.’

‘My daughter Isabella.’ The blank expression lifted and the eyes became more bright. ‘My little child, Isabella. Where is your brother, Isabella? Where is Alfonso?’

‘He is dead, Mother,’ answered Isabella.

‘One day he could be King of Castile. One day he shall be King of Castile.’

Isabella shook her head and the tears stung her eyes.

The old Queen put her face close to her daughter’s, but she did not seem to see her. She said in a husky whisper: ‘I must take them away while there is time. One day Alfonso could be King of Castile. And if aught should happen to him, my little Isabella would be Queen.’

Isabella took the trembling fingers and laid her lips against them.

‘Mother, so much time has passed. I am your Isabella and I am Queen of Castile. That makes you happy, does it not? Is it not what you always wanted?’

The old Queen rose in her chair, and Isabella stood up and quickly put her arms about her.

‘Queen . . .’ she murmured. ‘Queen of Castile?’

‘Yes, Mother. I . . . your little Isabella. But little no longer. Mother, I am married to Ferdinand. It was the match we always wanted, was it not? And we have a daughter . . . yet another Isabella. A sweet and lively child. And, Mother, there is another soon to be born.’

‘Queen of Castile . . .’ repeated the old Queen.

‘She stands before you now, Mother, your own daughter.’

There was a smile about the twitching lips. She had understood and she was happy.

How glad I am that I came, thought Isabella. She will be at peace now. She will remember.

‘Come, Mother,’ she said, ‘let us sit down. Let us sit side by side, and I will tell you that the war is over and there is no more danger to my crown. I will tell you how happy I am with my kingdom, with my husband and my family.’

She led her mother to her chair, and they sat side by side. They held hands while Isabella talked and the old woman nodded and from time to time said: ‘Isabella . . . my little daughter, Queen of Castile.’

‘So now, Mother, you know,’ said Isabella. ‘There is no need for you to be sad any more. As often as I can I will come to Arevalo and we will talk together. You can be happy now, Mother.’

The old Queen nodded.

‘I shall rest here for a few days,’ said Isabella, ‘then I shall go. I do not wish to stay too long at this time because of my condition. You understand, Mother?’

Old Isabella went on nodding her head.

Isabella put her lips to her mother’s forehead. ‘While I am here we shall be together often. That makes me happy. Now I shall go to my apartment and rest awhile. It is necessary, you see, because of the child.’

The old Queen put out a hand suddenly. She whispered: ‘Have a care.’

‘I will take great care,’ Isabella assured her.

‘He will never get a child,’ said her mother. ‘It is the life he has led.’ She laughed suddenly. It was an echo of that wild laughter which had once terrified the young Isabella when she had first become aware of the taint of insanity in her mother. ‘He will try to foist the Queen’s child on the people, but they’ll not have it. No, they’ll not have it.’

She was talking of her stepson, King Henry IV, who had been dead for some years. She still at times lived in the past.

She gripped Isabella’s hand. ‘I must keep the children away from him. A pillow over their mouths . . . that is what it would be. Poison mixed with their food. I do not trust them . . . neither Henry nor his Queen. They are evil . . . evil, and I have my babies to protect. My little Alfonso could be King of Castile . . . my little Isabella could be Queen.’

So all that she had said had left only a momentary impression on that poor dazed mind.

Isabella felt the sobs about to choke her as she took a hurried leave of her mother.


* * *

She lay on her bed, and slowly the tears ran down her cheeks. This was weakness. She, the Queen of Castile, to be in tears! No one must see her thus.

It was so tragic. That poor woman, who cared so much, who had planned for her children, whose unbalanced state had no doubt been aggravated by her anxieties for them, might now see one of her dearest dreams realised; but her poor mind could not grasp the truth.

‘Poor sad Highness!’ murmured Isabella. ‘Dearest Mother! Is there any sickness worse than that of the mind?’

Beatriz had come into the apartment.

‘I did not send for you,’ said Isabella.

But Beatriz had thrown herself on her knees beside the bed.

‘Highness, you are unhappy. When you are so, if I could comfort you in the smallest measure, nothing would keep me from you.’

Beatriz had seen the tears; it was no use hiding the distress. Isabella put out a hand, and Beatriz took it.

‘It makes me weep; it is so sad,’ said Isabella.

‘It is not wise that you should upset yourself. ‘You were right, I think, Beatriz. I should not have come. There is no good I can do her. Or is there? I fancy she was pleased to see me.’

‘The little good you may do her by your visit might mean a lot of harm to your health.’

‘I have been thinking about the child, Beatriz. I am a little upset this day, because my thoughts are melancholy.’

‘There is nothing to fear. You are healthy. The miscarriage was due to your exertions. There will be no more miscarriages.’

‘It was not a miscarriage that I feared, Beatriz.’

‘You feared for your own health. But you are strong, Highness. You are young. You will bear many children yet.’

‘It was seeing her, Beatriz. How did she become like that? Why was she born with a mind that could plunge into darkness? I can tell you the answer, my dear friend. It is because others in her family have suffered so.’

‘What are you thinking?’ cried Beatriz aghast.

‘That she is my mother . . . even as I am the mother of this life which stirs within me now.’

‘These are morbid thoughts. It is bad for a pregnant woman to harbour such.’

‘It is a sudden fear grown up within me, Beatriz, like an evil weed in a plot of beautiful flowers. There were others before her who were afflicted thus. Beatriz, I think of my child.’

‘It is folly. Forgive me, Highness, but I must say what I think. The Princess Isabella is a beautiful child, her mind is lively and quick. This darkness has come to your mother because of the sad life she led. It has nothing to do with her blood.’

‘Is that so, Beatriz? Do you believe it?’

‘Indeed I do,’ lied Beatriz. ‘I will tell you something else. It will be a boy. I know it from the way you carry it.’

‘A boy, Beatriz. It is what Ferdinand wants. Do you know he would like our heir to be a boy? He thinks that sovereigns should be male.’

‘We ourselves have seen Castile under two kings, and we are not greatly impressed by masculine rule. Now we have a Queen, and I’ll warrant that in a very short time Castile will have good reason to be thankful for that.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Isabella, ‘I should appoint you as my Primate.’

‘Nay,’ said Beatriz, ‘I would prefer to be the power behind the throne. Do you think we could leave tomorrow?’

‘Our stay has been so short.’

‘Isabella, my dearest mistress, she does not know who you are nor why you are here. Let us leave tomorrow. It would be better for you . . . and the child.’

‘I believe you are right,’ said Isabella. ‘What good can we do by staying here? But when my child is born I shall come again and see her . . . I shall come often. There are times when her mind clears a little. Then she understands and is happy to see me.’