Spain for the Sovereigns (14 page)

And one day, after he had been a year in Louis’s dominions, one of his retinue asked to speak to Alfonso privately; and when they were alone he said to the King: ‘Highness, we are being deceived. Louis has no intention of helping us. I have proof that he is at this time negotiating with Ferdinand and Isabella, and seeking a treaty of friendship with them.’

‘It is impossible!’ cried Alfonso.

‘There is proof, Highness.’

When he was assured that he had been told the truth Alfonso was overcome with mortification.

What can I do? he asked himself. Return to Portugal? There he would become the object of ridicule. Louis was not to be trusted, and he, Alfonso, had been a fool to think he could bargain with such a man. Louis had never intended to help him; and it was obvious that, since he sought the friendship of Isabella and Ferdinand, he believed them to be secure on the throne of Castile.

He called to three of his most trusted servants.

‘Prepare,’ he said, ‘to leave the Court immediately.’

‘We are returning home, Highness?’ asked one eagerly.

‘Home,’ murmured the King. ‘We can never go home again. I could never face my son, nor my people.’

‘Then where shall we go, Highness?’

Alfonso looked in a bewildered fashion at his servants.

‘There is a little village in Normandy. We will make for that place, and there we shall live in obscurity until I have made up my mind what I had best do.’

Alfonso stared out of the window of the inn at the fowls which scrabbled in the yard.

I, he mourned, a King of Portugal to come to this!

For several days he had lived here, like a fugitive, incognito, afraid to proclaim his identity lest even these humble people should be laughing at him.

At the Court of France his retinue would be asking themselves what had become of him; he did not care. All he wanted now was to hide from the world.

In Portugal Joanna would hear of his humiliation; and what would become of her? Poor child! A sad life hers, for what hope had she now of ever attaining the throne of Castile?

He had dreamed of a romantic enterprise. A fair young girl in distress, a gallant king to her rescue, who should become her bridegroom; and here he was, an ageing man in hiding, perhaps already known to the world as a fighter of lost causes.

What is left to me? he asked himself. What is left to Joanna? A convent for her. And for me?

He saw himself in coarse robe and hair shirt. He saw himself barefoot before some shrine. Why not a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and, after that, return home to the monastic life? Thus if he could not procure the crown of Castile he could make sure of his place in heaven.

He did not pause long to consider. When had he ever done so?

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.’

Chapter IV

A
lfonso 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.’