She wondered now whether she should tell Ferdinand that she hoped she was pregnant once more. It was early yet, and perhaps it would be unwise to raise his hopes. He would begin to plan for another son. And of her four children only one was a boy, so perhaps her fifth would also be a girl.

No, she would keep this little matter to herself. She would watch him ride away with Torquemada into Aragon, whence reports had come that heretics abounded; Torquemada had been denouncing them and was eager that the methods which were being used in Castile should be put into force in Aragon. Away with the old easy-going tribunals! Torquemada’s Inquisition should be taken to Aragon.

‘It may well be,’ she told Ferdinand, ‘that God wishes to see how we bring tormented souls back to His kingdom, before He helps us to take possession of those of the Moors.’

‘It may be so,’ agreed Ferdinand. ‘Farewell, my Queen and wife.’

Once more he embraced her, but even as he did so she wondered whether, when he reached Aragon, he would make his way to the mother of that illegitimate son, of whom he had been so besottedly fond that he had made him an Archbishop at the age of six.


* * *

During that summer Isabella found time to be with Beatriz de Bobadilla.

‘It would seem,’ she said to her friend, ‘that it is only when I am about to have a child that I have an opportunity of being with my family and friends.’

‘Highness, when the Holy War is over, when the Moors have been driven from Spain, then you will have a little more time for us. It will be a great joy and pleasure to us all.’

‘To me also. And, Beatriz, I believe that day is not so far off as I once feared it might be. Now that the Inquisition is working so zealously throughout Castile, I feel that one part of our plan is succeeding. Beatriz, bring the altar-cloth I am working on. I will not waste time while we talk.’

Beatriz sent a woman for the needlework and, when it was brought, they settled down to it.

Isabella worked busily with the coloured threads. She found the work very soothing.

‘How do matters go in Aragon?’ asked Beatriz.

Isabella frowned down at her work. ‘I hear that there is opposition there to the Inquisition, but Ferdinand and Torquemada are determined that it shall be established and that it shall become as effective as it is here in Castile.’

‘There are many New Christians in Aragon.’

‘Yes, and I believe they have been practising Jewish rites in private. Otherwise why should they fear the coming of the Inquisition?’

Beatriz murmured: ‘They fear that accusations may be brought against them, and that they may not be able to prove their innocence.’

‘But,’ said Isabella mildly, ‘if they are innocent, why should they not be able to prove it?’

‘Perhaps torture might force a victim to confess not only what is true but what is completely untrue. Perhaps it is this they fear.’

‘If they tell the truth immediately, and name those who have shared their sins, the torture will not be applied. I expect we shall have a little trouble in Aragon, although I do not doubt that it will be promptly quelled, as the Susan affair was in Seville.’

‘Let us hope so,’ said Beatriz.

‘My dear friend, Tomás de Torquemada, has sent two excellent men into Aragon. I know he has the utmost confidence in Arbues and Juglar.’

‘Let us hope that they are not over-stern – at first,’ said Beatrix quietly. ‘It is the sudden change from lethargy to iron discipline that seems to terrify the people.’

‘They cannot be too stern in the service of the Faith.’ Isabella spoke firmly.

Beatriz thought it might be wise to change the subject, and after a slight pause asked after the health of the Infanta Isabella.

The Queen frowned slightly. ‘Her health does give me cause for anxiety. She is not as strong, I fear, as the other three. In fact, our baby, young Maria, seems to be the healthiest member of the family. Do you think so, Beatriz?’

‘I think that Maria has perfect health, but so have Juan and Juana. As for Isabella, she certainly has this tendency to catch cold. But I think that will pass as she grows older.’

‘Oh, Beatriz,’ said Isabella suddenly, ‘I do hope this one will be a boy.’

‘Because Ferdinand wishes it?’ asked Beatriz.

‘Yes, perhaps that is so. For myself, I would be content with another girl. Ferdinand wants sons.’

‘He has one.’

‘He has more than one,’ said Isabella after some hesitation. ‘And that is a great sorrow to me. I know of one illegitimate son. It is the Archbishop who succeeded to the See of Saragossa when he was but six years old. Ferdinand dotes on him. I have heard it whispered that there is another son. And I know there are daughters.’

‘These things will happen, Highness. They have always been so.’

‘I am foolish to think too much of them. We are often apart, and Ferdinand is not a man who could remain faithful to one woman.’

Beatriz laid her hand on that of the Queen.

‘Highness, may an old friend speak frankly?’

‘You know you may.’

‘My thoughts are taken back to the days before your marriage. You made an ideal of Ferdinand. You made an image – a man who had all the virtues of a great soldier, king and statesman, and yet was as austere in his nature as you are yourself. You made an impossible ideal, Highness.’

‘You are right, Beatriz.’

‘Such a person as you conjured up is not to be found in Christendom.’

‘Then I should be content with what I have.’

‘Highness, you should be content indeed. You have a partner who has many qualities to bring to this governing of your country; you have children. Think of the kings who long for children and cannot get them.’

‘Beatriz, my dear, you have done me much good. I will be thankful for what I have. I will not ask for more. If God sees fit to give me another girl, I shall be happy. I shall forget that I longed for a son.’

Isabella was smiling. She had decided that for the next few months she would give herself up to the enjoyment of her family; she would spend much time in the nurseries with her children; and it would be as though she were not Queen of Castile but merely the mother of a boy and three girls, awaiting the arrival of a new baby.


* * *

Ferdinand had returned from Aragon, reluctantly, Isabella believed.

It was natural, Isabella told herself, that his first thoughts should have been for Aragon, and she believed his presence had been needed there.

When he returned to her after a long absence he was always the passionate lover: a state of affairs which had delighted her in their earlier relationship, but which she now knew to be due to Ferdinand’s love of change.

He was an adventurer in all respects. And she accepted him not as the embodiment of an ideal, but as the man he was.

He had risen from their bed, although only the first streaks of dawn were in the sky. He was restless, she saw, and found it difficult to lie still.

He sat on the bed, his embroidered robe about him, while she sat up and studied him gravely.

‘Ferdinand,’ she said, ‘do you not think it would be better if you confided your troubles to me?’

He smiled at her ruefully. ‘Ours is a troublous realm, Isabella,’ he said. ‘We are sovereigns of two states, and it would seem that in order to serve one we must neglect the other.’

Isabella said firmly: ‘Events in Castile are moving towards a climax. Since the capture of Boabdil we have made such great strides towards victory that surely it cannot be long delayed.’

‘Granada is a mighty kingdom which I have likened to a pomegranate. I have sworn to pluck the pomegranate dry, but there are still more juicy seeds to be taken. And meanwhile the French hold my provinces of Rousillon and Cerdagne.’

Isabella was startled. ‘Ferdinand, we cannot face a war on two fronts.’

‘A war against the French would be a just one,’ urged Ferdinand.

‘The war against the Moors is a holy one,’ Isabella replied.

Ferdinand was a little sullen. ‘My presence is needed in Aragon,’ he said.

She wondered then whether it was herself whom he wanted to leave for some other woman, whether he longed to be with another family, not the one he had through her. She felt sick at heart to contemplate his infidelity; yet as she looked at him, so handsome, so virile, she remembered Beatrix’s words. She had greatly desired marriage with him. Young and handsome, he had appealed to her so strongly when she compared him with other suitors who had been selected for her.

No, she thought, it is not some other woman, some other family which calls him: it is Aragon. He is too firm a ruler, too clever a diplomatist ever to allow his personal emotions to interfere with his ambitions.

Not another woman, not the mother of the Archbishop of Saragossa, nor the Archbishop himself, nor any of those other mistresses whom he had doubtless found more to his taste than his chaste wife Isabella – it was Aragon.

As for herself, she longed to please him. There were times when she almost wished that she could have changed her nature, that she could have been more like what she imagined the others to be – voluptuously beautiful, as brimming over with sensual passion as he was himself. But she would suppress such thoughts.

Such a life was not for her. She was a queen – the Queen of Castile – and her duty came before any such carnal pleasure, the safety of her kingdom before a contented life.

She resisted an impulse to put out a hand and take his, to say to him: ‘Ferdinand, love me . . . me only; you may have anything in exchange that I could give you.’