Spain for the Sovereigns (38 page)

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.’

She thought then of Christ’s temptation in the wilderness, and she said coldly: ‘The Holy War must be continued at the expense of all else.’

And Ferdinand rose from the bed. He walked to the window and looked out, watching the dawn encroach on the darkness.

His back was towards her, but she saw that there was an angry gesture in the way he held his head.

It was a scene which had been repeated so many times in their life together. It was the Queen of Castile in command, not only of her own nature, but of the lesser ruler of Aragon.

The children, with the exception perhaps of Juana, were delighted to have their mother with them. Juana was the wild one, the one who could not conform to the high standard set by her mother, the one who fidgeted during church services, who refused to confess
all
her sins to her confessor, the one who struck a certain cold fear into her mother’s heart on many occasions.

Isabella was six months pregnant, and it was during her pregnancies that she relaxed her stern hold upon herself to some extent.

I am, after all, a mother, she excused herself, and these children of mine will one day be rulers of some part of this earth. I must treat them as a very important part of my life.

If at this time it had been possible to continue with the war against the Moors with vigour, she would have neglected everything to do so. But it was not possible; it would take several years to build up the army they needed. There was nothing she could do at present to speed up matters in that direction. What she must think of was having a healthy pregnancy and recovering her strength as soon as possible. So for these few months she gave herself to domesticity more wholeheartedly than she usually could.

She loved her children devotedly. She wanted to make sure that they were receiving the best education which could be provided for them – remembering how she herself had missed it. At the same time their spiritual education must not be neglected. She wanted the girls to be both good rulers and good wives and parents; she insisted that they sit with her and learn to embroider; and there was nothing which made her more contented than to have her children with her while she and the girls worked on an altar-cloth, and Juan sat on a stool close by and read aloud to them.

This they were now doing, and again and again her eyes would stray from her work to rest on one or other of her children. Her pale and lovely daughter, Isabella, her firstborn, who still coughed a little too frequently for her mother’s comfort, was beautiful, bending over her work. They would have to find a husband for her soon.

It will be more than I can bear, to lose her, thought Isabella.

And there was Juan – perhaps the best loved of them all. Who could help loving Juan? He was the perfect child. Not only was he the boy for whom Ferdinand had longed, he had the sweetest nature of all the children; he was docile, yet excelled in all those sports in which Ferdinand wished to see him excel. His tutors discovered in him a desire to please, which meant that he learned his lessons quickly and well. He was beautiful – at least in the eyes of his mother. She felt her love overflowing as she looked at him. In her thoughts she had long called him Angel. She had even done so openly, and consequently he was beginning to be known in the family circle by that name.

There was Juana – little Suegra. Almost defiantly Isabella insisted on the nickname. It was as though she wished to emphasise the resemblance between this child and her grandmother, Ferdinand’s sprightly and clever mother. Isabella tried not to see a subtler resemblance, that between her own sad mother and this child.

It was difficult to avoid this comparison. If there was trouble Juana would be in it. She had charm; it was in her very wildness. The others were serene children; perhaps they took after their mother. Yet little Juana, though she might have the features of Ferdinand’s mother, had that in her – at least, so Isabella often told herself – which bore a terrifying similarity to the frailty of the poor sick lady at Arevalo.

And little Maria, the plain one, stolid, reliable, good little Maria! She would give her parents little concern, Isabella guessed. Strangely enough – for this very reason – she did not give her mother the same delight as did the others.

Isabella wondered whether she herself, when a child, had been rather like Maria – quiet, serene, docile . . . and not very attractive.

She saw that Juana was not working, and that her part of the altar-cloth was not as neat as that of the others.

Isabella leaned forward and tapped the child on her knee.

‘Come, Suegra,’ she said, ‘there is work to be done.’

‘I do not like needlework,’ said Juana, which made young Isabella catch her breath in horror. Juana went on: ‘It is no use scowling at me, sister. I do not like needlework.’

‘This, my child,’ said the Queen, ‘is for the altar. Do you not wish to work for a holy purpose?’

‘No, Highness,’ said Juana promptly.

‘That is very wrong,’ said the Queen sternly.

‘But Your Highness asked me what I wanted,’ Juana pointed out. ‘I must tell the truth, for if I did not that would be a lie, and I should have to confess it, and do a penance. It is very wrong to tell lies.’

‘Come here,’ said Isabella; and Juana came to her. Isabella held the child by her shoulders and drew her close to her. ‘It is true,’ she went on, ‘that you must not tell lies. But it is true also that you must discipline yourself. You must learn to like doing what is good.’

Juana’s eyes, which now bore a strong resemblance to those of Ferdinand, flashed in rebellion. ‘But Highness, if you do not like . . .’ she began.

‘That is enough,’ said Isabella. ‘Now you will work on this cloth tomorrow until you have completed your share of it, and if it is badly done you will unpick your stitches and do them again until it is well done.’

Juana’s lower lip protruded and she said defiantly: ‘I shall not be able to go to Mass if I must sit over my needlework.’

The Queen was aware of a tension among the children, and she said: ‘What has been happening here?’

Her eldest daughter looked uncomfortable; so did Juan.

‘Come,’ said Isabella, ‘I must know the truth. You, Angel, you tell me.’

‘Highness, I do not know of what you speak.’

‘I think you do, my son. Your sister Juana has been wicked in some way. I pray you tell me what she has done.’

‘I . . . I could not say, Highness,’ said Juan; but his beautiful face had turned a shade paler and he was afraid that he was going to be forced to say something which he would rather not.

Isabella could not bear to hurt him. His kindly nature would not allow him to betray his sister; and at the same time he was anxious not to disobey his mother.

She turned to Isabella; Isabella also did not wish to betray her sister.

The Queen was faintly irritated and yet proud of them. She would not have them tellers of tales against each other. She respected this family loyalty.

And fortunately she was saved from forcing an answer, by Juana herself – bold, fearless Juana, with the wild light in her eyes.

‘I will tell you, Highness,’ she said. ‘I often do not go to church. I run away and hide, so that they cannot find me. I do not like to go to church. I like to dance and sing. So I hide . . . and they cannot find me, and so they go without me.’

Isabella surveyed this defiant child with a stern expression which would have filled the others with terror. But Juana merely stood her ground, her handsome little head held high, her eyes brilliant.

‘So,’ said Isabella slowly, ‘you have been guilty of this wickedness. I am ashamed that a child of mine could behave thus. You, the daughter of the Sovereigns of Castile and Aragon! You whose father is the greatest soldier in the world and who has brought peace within these kingdoms! You are a Princess of the royal house. You would seem to forget this.’

‘I do not forget,’ said Juana, ‘but it does not make me want to go to church.’

‘Juan,’ said the Queen to her son, ‘go and bring to me your sister’s governess.’