Виктория Холт - Spain for the Sovereigns

He called for pen and paper.

‘I have a very important letter to write,’ he said.

‘My son, [he wrote] I have decided to retire from the world. All earthly vanities which were once within me are dead. I propose to go on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and after that devote myself to God in the monastic life.

‘It is for you to hear this news as though it were of my death, for dead I am to the world. You will assume the sovereignty of Portugal. When you receive this letter Alfonso is no longer King of Portugal. I salute King John . . .’

Isabella lay in her bed awaiting the birth of her child. It would not be long now, and she was glad that Beatriz was with her.

The Queen’s journeyings had brought her to Seville. It was the month of June, the heat was intense and the sweat was on Isabella’s brow as the intermittent pain tortured her body.

‘Beatrix,’ she murmured, ‘are you there, Beatriz?’

‘Beside you, my dearest.’

‘There is no need to worry, Beatriz. All will be well.’

‘Indeed all will be well!’

‘The child will be born in the most beautiful of my towns. Seville, La Tierra de Maria Santisima. One understands why it is so called, Beatriz. Last night I sat at my window and looked out on the fertile vineyards. But how hot it is!’

Beatriz leaned over Isabella, moving the big fan back and forth.

‘Is that better, my dearest?’

‘Better, Beatriz. I am happy to have you with me.’

A frown had puckered Isabella’s brow, and Beatriz asked herself: ‘Is she thinking of the woman in the castle of Arevalo? Oh, not now, my dearest, not at this time. It would be wrong. It might work some evil. Not now . . . Isabella, my Queen, when the child is about to come into the world.’

‘It is the pain,’ said Isabella. ‘I should be able to endure it better than this.’

‘You are the bravest woman in Castile.’

‘When you think what it means! Our child is about to be born . . . mine and Ferdinand’s. This child could be King or Queen of Castile. That was what my mother used to say to us . . .’

Isabella had caught her breath, and Beatriz, fanning more vigorously, said quickly: ‘The people are already gathering outside. They crowd into the patios and in the glare of the sun. They await news of the birth of your child.’

‘I must not disappoint them, Beatriz.’

‘You will never disappoint your people, Isabella.’

* * *

Beatriz held the child in her arms. She laughed exultantly. Then she handed it to a nurse and went to kneel by Isabella’s bed.

‘The child?’ said Isabella.

‘Your Highness has borne a perfect child.’

‘I would see the child.’

‘Can you hear the cries? Loud . . . healthy . . . just as they should be. Oh, this is a happy day! Oh, my dearest mistress, your son is born.’

Isabella lay back on her pillows and smiled.

‘So it is a son.’

‘A Prince for Castile!’ cried Beatriz.

‘And he is well . . . quite well . . . in all ways?’

‘He is perfect. I know it.’

‘But . . .’

She was thinking that, when her mother had been born, doubtless there had been no sign of the terrible affliction which was to come to her.

‘Put unhappy thoughts from your mind, Highness. They are doubly bad at such a time. All is well. This is a beautiful child, a fine heir for Castile. Here he is.’ She took him from the nurse and laid him in Isabella’s arms.

And as she looked at her son, Isabella forgot her fears.

He was born at last – the son for whom she and Ferdinand had longed.

‘He shall be John . . . Juan,’ she said, ‘after Ferdinand’s father. That will delight my husband.’

She kissed the baby’s brow and whispered: ‘Juan . . . my little son, born in the most beautiful of my towns, welcome . . . welcome to Castile.’

Alfonso gave himself up to dreaming. He would sit in the room overlooking the inn yard, dreaming of the life he would lead in the monastery of his choosing. He had decided that he would become a Franciscan because their simple way of life best fitted his present mood. How different would existence at a Franciscan monastery be compared with that of a royal Court!

First, there would be his pilgrimage. He closed his eyes and saw himself, pack on back, simply clad in a flowing garment, the sun beating upon him, suffering a hundred discomforts. Imaginary discomforts were so comforting.

And as he sat dreaming there he heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs in the lane and started out of his world of imagination to see that several members of his retinue, whom he had left behind at the Court of France, had arrived at the inn.

He went down to greet them.

They bowed before him. ‘God be praised, Highness,’ said their leader, ‘that we have found you.’

‘Call me Highness no more,’ said the King. ‘I have relinquished my rank. Very soon I shall be nothing more than the humblest friar.’

His followers looked aghast, but he saw that they were already aware of his intended abdication; and it was for this reason that they, discovering his hiding-place, had come to him with all haste.

‘Highness,’ said one, ‘it is imperative that you return to Portugal with all speed. If there is any delay it may well be that the Prince, your son, will have become King.’

‘It is what I intended.’

‘There is also the Princess Joanna, who expects to be your bride.’

Alfonso looked pained. He had allowed the thought of Joanna to slip from his mind. But she was so young, so helpless. She would be a charmingly innocent bride.

The Franciscan robe lost some of its charm then; thinking of the soft body of the Princess Joanna, he was reminded of the hardship of the hair shirt.

A princess in distress, and he was sworn to rescue her! How could he desert her?

He remembered the Court – its balls and banquets, its fetes, all its pleasures. The life of a king was his life; he had been brought up to expect it.

‘It is too late,’ he said. ‘I have already written to my son. When he receives my letter he will make ready for his coronation. Once he is crowned King of Portugal, there will be no place there for me.’

‘Highness, it is not too late. Louis has offered a fleet of ships to carry you back to Portugal. We should leave without delay. And if we are fortunate we may reach Portugal before the coronation of Prince John.’

Alfonso shook his head. ‘But no,’ he said. ‘I have decided.’ He smiled. This would be the most quixotic adventure of them all. The charms of Joanna were appealing; the court life had its attractions; but he could not abandon the Franciscan habit as easily as this.

‘Highness,’ went on the chief of his advisers, ‘you cannot give up your crown. The Princess Joanna awaits you. She will be longing for your return. All Portugal will wish to see their King again. You cannot abandon the Princess Joanna. You cannot abandon your people.’

He told himself they were right.

My beautiful Joanna, my little niece-bride. Of course I could not abandon you.

Yet he remained aloof from their argument, for his dignity would not allow him to give way too easily.

They knew that; they also knew that in time they would persuade him to give up this dream of retirement; they would make him see it as the chimera it was.

* * *

Ferdinand faced Isabella in that apartment where they were alone with their children. Ferdinand was dressed for a long journey.

‘It grieves me to leave you,’ he was saying, ‘but you understand that it must be so.’

‘Indeed I understand. You must always go to your father when he needs you . . . as I must to my mother.’

Ferdinand thought that the one was not to be compared with the other. His father, the great warrior statesman, and Isabella’s mother, the insane creature of the Castle of Arevalo! But he did not comment on this. Isabella was, of course, referring to their duty.

‘At least,’ she said, ‘you have happier news for him than when you were last with him. Although we must not forget that we are not yet completely safe.’

‘I shall always be wary of Alfonso,’ he said. ‘How can one know what mad scheme he will think of next? The idea of giving up his throne to his son! He talks of going into a monastery!’

Isabella smiled. ‘He has been humiliated by Louis, and he cannot face his countrymen. Poor Alfonso! He is unfit to wear a crown.’

‘You will take care of yourself and our children while I am away.’

Isabella smiled at him fondly. ‘You can trust me to do so, Ferdinand.’

‘Care for them as assiduously as you care for Castile.’

‘I will, Ferdinand.’

‘There is a large enough force on the frontier to withstand an attack from Portugal should it come.’

‘Have no fear.’

‘You are a wise woman, Isabella. I regret I must leave my family. But the time is passing.’

‘You must say goodbye to the children,’ Isabella reminded him. She called to her daughter. ‘Isabella, my dear. Come. Your father has to leave us now.’

The eight-year-old Infanta Isabella came running at her mother’s call. She was a pretty though delicate child, and in her abundant hair was that hint of red which she had inherited from her Plantagenet ancestors. Even at eight she lacked the serenity of her mother.

She knelt before Ferdinand and Isabella, but Ferdinand swing her up in his arms and, holding her tightly against him, kissed her.