Daughters of Spain (18 page)

Ferdinand faced his daughter-in-law. She seemed much older than the girl who only a few months before had married Juan. Her face was expressionless.

Ferdinand said gently: 'There is the child to live for, my dear.'

'Yes,' answered Margaret, 'I have the child.'

'We shall take great care of you, my dear daughter. Let us comfort each other. I have lost the best of sons; you have lost the best of husbands. Your fortitude wins my admiration. Margaret, I do not know how to send this terrible news to his mother.'

'She will wish to know the truth with all speed,' Margaret said quietly.

'The shock would kill her. She has no idea that he was suffering from anything but a mild fever. No, I must break this news gently. I am going to write to her now and tell her that Juan is ill and that you are with child. Two pieces of news, one good one bad. Then I will write again saying that Juan's condition is giving cause for anxiety. You see, I shall gradually break this terrible news to her. It is the only way she could bear it.'

'She will be heartbroken,' Margaret murmured, 'but I sometimes think she is stronger than any of us.'

'Nay. At heart she is only a woman ... a wife and mother. She loves all her children dearly, but he was her favourite. He was her son, the heir to everything we have fought for.' Ferdinand suddenly buried his face in his hands. 'I do not know how she will survive this shock.'

Margaret did not seem to be listening. She felt numb, telling herself that this had not really happened and that she was living through some hideous nightmare. She would wake soon to find herself in Juan's arms and they would rise from their bed, go to the window and look out on the sunlit
patio
. They would ride again through the cheering crowds in the streets of Salamanca. She would laugh and say: 'Juan, last night I had a bad dream. I dreamed that the worst possible thing which could befall me happened to me. And now I am awake, in the sunshine, and I am so happy to be alive because I know how singularly my life has been blessed since I have you.'

Ferdinand felt better when he was taking action. No sooner had he dispatched the two messengers than he called a secretary to him.

'Write this to Her Highness the Queen,' he commanded.

And the man began to write as the King dictated:

'A terrible calamity has occurred in Salamanca. His Highness the King has died of a fever.'

The man stopped writing and stared at Ferdinand.

'Ah, my good fellow, you look at me as though you think I am mad. No, this is not madness. It is good sense. The Queen will have to learn sooner or later of the death of the Prince. I
have been considering how best I can break this news. I fear the effect it will have on her, and in this way I think I can soften the terrible blow. She will have had my two letters telling her of our son's indisposition. Now I will ride with all speed to her. I shall send a messenger on ahead of me with the news of my death. That would be the greatest blow she could sustain. While she is overcome with the horror of this news I will stride in and confront her. She will be so overjoyed to see me that the blow of her son's death will be less severe.'

The secretary bowed his head in melancholy understanding, but he doubted the wisdom of Ferdinand's conduct.

However, it was not for him to criticise the action of his King, so he wrote the letter and, shortly afterwards, left Salamanca.

Isabella had said her last farewells to her daughter and Emanuel; the Infanta of Spain, now the Queen of Portugal, had set out with her husband and her retinue on the way to Lisbon.

How tired she was! She was becoming too old for long journeys, and taking leave of her daughter depressed her. She was extremely worried by the news of Juana which filtered through from Flanders. And now Juan was unwell.

The first of the messages arrived. Margaret was with child. The news filled her with joy; but the rest of the message said that Juan was unwell. The health of her children was a continual anxiety to her, and the two elder ones had always been delicate. Isabella's cough had caused her mother a great deal of misgiving; Juan had been almost too frail and fair for a young man. Perhaps she had been so concerned about Juana's mental condition that she had worried less about the physical
health of the two elder children than she otherwise would have done. Maria and Catalina were much stronger; perhaps because they had been born in more settled times.

The second letter came almost immediately after the first. It appeared that Juan's condition was more serious than they had at first thought.

'I will go to him,' she said. 'I should be at his side at such a time.'

While she was giving orders to the servants to make ready for the journey to Salamanca another messenger arrived.

She was bewildered as she read the letter he brought. Ferdinand ... dead! This could not be. Ferdinand was full of strength and vitality. It was Juan who was ill. She could not imagine Ferdinand anything but alive.

'Hasten,' she cried. 'There is not a moment to lose. I must go with all speed to Salamanca to see what is really happening there.'

Ferdinand! Her heart was filled with strangely mingling feelings. There were so many memories of a marriage which had lasted for nearly thirty years.

She was bewildered and found it difficult to collect her thoughts.

Was it possible that there had been some mistake? Should she read Juan for Ferdinand?

She was sick with anxiety. If Juan were dead she would no longer wish to live. He was her darling whom she wished to keep by her side for as long as she lived. He was her only son, her beloved Angel. He could not be dead. It would be too cruel.

She read the message again. It clearly said the King.

Juan ... Ferdinand. If she had lost her husband she would
be sad indeed. She was devoted to him. If that great love which she had borne in the beginning had become a little battered by the years, he was still her husband and she could not imagine life without him.

But if Juan were spared to her she could rebuild her life. She would have her children, whose affairs would be entirely hers to manage as she would. She was experienced enough to rule alone.

'Not Juan ...' she whispered.

And then Ferdinand strode into the room.

She stared at him as though he were a ghost. Then she ran to him and clasped his hands, pressing them in her own as though she wished to reassure herself that they were flesh and blood.

'It is I,' said Ferdinand.

'But this ...' she stammered. 'Someone has played a cruel trick. This says ...'

'Isabella, my dearest wife, tell me you are glad to know that paper lied.'

'I am so happy to see you well.'

'It is as I hoped. Oh, Isabella, fortunate we are indeed to be alive and together. We have had our differences, but what should we be without each other?'

She put her head against his chest and he embraced her. There were tears in his eyes.

'Isabella,' he continued. 'Now that you are happy to see me restored to you I have some sad news which I must break to you.'

She drew away from him. Her face had grown deathly pale and her eyes were wide and looked black with fear.

'Our son is dead,' he said.

Isabella did not speak. She shook her head from side to side.

'It is true, Isabella. He died of a malignant fever. The physicians could do nothing for him.'

'Then why ... why ... was I not told?'

'I thought to protect you. I have tried to prepare you for this shock. My dearest Isabella, I know how you suffer. Do I not suffer with you?'

'My son,' she whispered. 'My angel.'

'Our son,' he answered. 'But there will be a child.'

She did not seem to hear. She was thinking of that hot day in Seville when he had been born. She remembered holding him in her arms and the feeling of wild exultation which had come to her. Her son. The heir of Ferdinand and Isabella. She had been deeply concerned about the state of her country then; anarchy was in full spate, and there was the chaos which had followed on the disastrous reigns preceding her own; she had been setting up the Santa Hermandad in every town and village. And in her arms had lain that blessed child, so that at that time in spite of all her trials, she had been the happiest woman in Spain.

She could not believe that he was dead.

'Isabella,' said Ferdinand gently, 'you have forgotten. There is to be a child.'

'I have lost my son,' she said slowly. 'I have lost my angel child.'

'There will be grandsons to take his place.'

'No one will ever take his place.'

'Isabella, you and I have no time for looking backwards. We must look forward. This tragedy has overcome us. We must be brave. We must say: This was the will of God. But
God is merciful. He has taken our son, but not before he has left his fertile seed behind him.'

Isabella did not answer. She swayed a little and Ferdinand put his arm about her.

'You should rest for a while,' he said. 'This shock has been too much for you.'

'Rest!' she retorted. 'There is little rest left for me. He was my only son and I shall never see him smile again.'

She was fighting the impulse to rail against this cruel fate.

Is it not enough that two daughters have gone from me, and even my little Catalina will not long remain? she was demanding. Why should I suffer so? Juan was the one I thought to keep with me for ever.

Perhaps she should send for her confessor. Perhaps she was in need of prayer.

She sought to control herself. This cruel day had to be faced; life had to go on.

She lifted her face to Ferdinand and he saw that the wildness had gone from it.

She said in a clear voice which was as firm as ever: 'The Lord hath given, and the Lord hath taken away. Blessed be His Name.'

Chapter VI