Spain for the Sovereigns (8 page)

She watched the frown change to a smile on Ferdinand’s face.

‘Why, Isabella, my Queen! That is great news. When will our son be born?’

‘It is too early yet to say. But I am sure I am with child. I hope that by the time this child is born our troubles will be over and we shall have prevented this threatened rebellion from taking place.’

Ferdinand had taken her hands in his; he bent swiftly to kiss them. When he was in Isabella’s presence he could not help but admire her.

‘Come,’ he said, ‘let us examine our position. What men could be put into the field?’

She answered: ‘I have been studying these matters.’ She led him to the table. ‘Ferdinand, my husband, I pray you examine these figures and tell me what, in your opinion, is best to be done.’

She knew that Ferdinand was alert to the danger; that he would allow no friction to arise between them while it existed. She had been right to believe she could rely on him. There was not a man in Spain who was more suited to stand beside her in this fight for the crown. And if, on occasions, his desire for supremacy over her sullied their relationship, making it a little bitter, how could it be otherwise where a man as strong, as entirely masculine as Ferdinand was concerned.

While they worked a messenger arrived at the Alcazar. He came from the King of Portugal.

As soon as Isabella knew that he was in the Palace she had him brought to her. Ferdinand stood beside her and, as the man bowed and held out the dispatches, he lifted a hand to take them. But Isabella, who had anticipated this move, was anxious to take them as unobtrusively as possible – for she knew that with regard to this matter of supremacy she dared not give way even in the smallest matters. She took them before it was evident to any others that Ferdinand had attempted to do so.

She dismissed the messenger and glanced at the papers.

Then she lifted her eyes to Ferdinand’s face.

‘He asks us to resign our crowns,’ she said, ‘that the Princess Joanna may ascend the throne.’

‘He must be an imbecile,’ retorted Ferdinand.

Isabella turned to the table on which the documents were still spread out.

‘I am informed,’ she said, ‘that he could put five thousand six hundred horse and fourteen thousand foot into the field. Perhaps he would say that we were imbeciles to oppose him.’

Ferdinand’s eyes glittered. ‘Yet we
shall
oppose him, and we shall defeat him. You know that, Isabella.’

‘I do know it, Ferdinand.’

‘We have our daughter to fight for and our unborn son.’

‘And we have each other,’ she added, and smiled brilliantly. ‘I know, Ferdinand, that while we are together we cannot fail. And we must be together, Ferdinand, always. You feel that, as I do. Where is Isabella without Ferdinand? No matter what should befall, we shall always stand together.’

‘You speak truth,’ said Ferdinand, and his voice was gruff with emotion.

‘And together we shall be invincible,’ she went on.

Then solemnly they embraced. Isabella was the first to withdraw.

‘And now,’ she said, ‘to business. We shall ignore these demands; but we must decide how we, with the few resources at our disposal, can defeat the might of Portugal.’

In spite of the ceremonial robes in which her women had dressed her, Joanna looked what she was, a child of barely thirteen.

There was an expression of mingled resignation and despair on her face. She was to be affianced to a man who was thirty years older than herself, and the prospect terrified her. But this was even more than a distasteful marriage; it was a prelude to war.

Her women had chattered as they prepared her for this important ceremony.

‘Why, Alfonso is the bravest of kings. They say he is called the African because of his exploits against the Moors of Barbary. He is a great soldier.’

‘He must be quite an old man,’ said Joanna.

‘No, Princess, it is you who are so young. You will not think of his age. He is the King of Portugal and he comes here to make you his Queen.’

‘And to make himself King of Castile.’

‘Well, only because he will make you Queen.’

‘I do not wish . . .’

But what was the use of stating her wishes? Joanna had lived through so many conflicts that she had long realised the futility of words.

Her friends were imploring her to enjoy her prospects. A king was coming to claim her hand. She should be joyful, they told her; because they did not understand.

And when she was robed and made ready she was taken to meet the man who had come to this town of Placencia for the purpose of the betrothal, and to take Castile from Isabella and Ferdinand and bestow it upon herself.

All about the Palace were encamped the armies of her future husband, so that she could not be unaware of his might.

And when she stood before him and lifted her eyes to his eager ones, she saw a man in his forties; and that seemed to her very old. She was trembling, but she smiled and greeted him as though with pleasure. All the time she was aware of those two men who had determined to set her on the throne – the Duke of Arevalo and the Marquis of Villena.

Alfonso took her hand and led her to two ornate chairs which had been set side by side. As they took their seats he said: ‘My dear Princess, you must not be afraid of me.’

‘I am so young for marriage,’ Joanna answered.

‘Youth is a blessing, compared with which the experience which comes with age is but a small compensation. Do not deplore your youth, my dear one, for I do not.’

‘Thank you, Highness,’ she whispered.

‘You look uneasy. Do you so fear me?’

‘We are very closely related. You are my mother’s brother.’

‘Have no fear, my dear. A messenger is being dispatched to the Pope. He will send us a dispensation without delay.’

She could not endure his inquiring tender gaze, and she feigned relief.

Alfonso felt happy. He was a man who must for ever pursue some cause, and he preferred it to be a romantic one. He had had great success against the Moors, but fighting the Moors was a commonplace occupation in the Iberian Peninsula. Now here was a young girl – his own niece – in need of a champion. To some she was the rightful heiress to the throne; to others the late Queen’s bastard. Her cause appealed to him because she was young and he, a widower, could make her his bride. This was the most romantic cause in which he had ever fought, and it delighted him – particularly as victory could bring such benefit to him.

He was not a man to bear a grudge, but he could not forget his meeting with the proud Isabella, who had shown so openly her distaste for marriage with him – King though he was.

It was not unpleasant therefore to contemplate the discomfiture of the haughty Isabella when she found herself ousted from the throne by the man whom once she had so recklessly refused.

He was smiling as he took Joanna’s hand, and those assembled, led by Villena and Arevalo, proceeded to declare Alfonso and Joanna Sovereigns of Castile.

As soon as the dispensation from the Pope arrived they would be married. Joanna prayed that the dispensation might be delayed.

In the meantime, the betrothal was celebrated, and on this and all occasions she must sit side by side with Alfonso and accept his tender attentions.

After some days Alfonso and his army, Joanna travelling with them, left Placencia for Arevalo.

Being aware of the sad state of the Castilian armies and that Isabella and Ferdinand had inherited a bankrupt state, Alfonso anticipated a victory which would be easy to complete.

At Arevalo he paused in his journey, and it seemed as though he halted there to prepare himself for the attack.

Isabella and Ferdinand were together when news was brought to them of Alfonso’s arrival at Placencia and of his betrothal to Joanna.

Ferdinand received the news gloomily. ‘This means he is prepared to risk his armies in her cause,’ he said.

‘She is his niece,’ cried Isabella, ‘and but a child.’

‘What cares he for either fact! He thinks she will bring him Castile and, if he is successful, depend upon it the Pope will not long deny him the dispensation he needs.’

‘
If
he is successful. He shall not be successful! I promise you that.’

‘Isabella, what do you know of war? And how can we prevent him?’

‘I know,’ she said, her eyes flashing, ‘that I was born to be Queen of Castile.’

‘Well, you have had your brief glory.’

‘I have done nothing of what I intend to do. I know I shall succeed.’

Ferdinand took her gently by the arm and led her to a table on which a map was spread.

He pointed to South Castile. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘the friends of Alfonso are waiting. They are numerous and they have men and arms at their disposal. Arevalo, Villena, Cadiz . . . they are his men. They will give all they have to drive us from the throne and set up Joanna and Alfonso. He has only to turn south tomorrow and there traitors will be ready for him. Town after town will freely give itself into his hands. And we . . . we shall find ourselves unable to attack, for on his march through Castile he will grow richer and richer as important towns pass into his possession.’

Ferdinand,’ Isabella reproved him, ‘I do not understand you. Have we not
our
friends?’

‘There are waverers.’

‘Then they shall cease to be waverers.’

‘They will cease to be when they see the might of Alfonso’s army!’

‘They must be converted to our cause.’

‘But who shall convert them?’

‘I shall. I . . . their Queen.’

Ferdinand looked at her with mild surprise; there were times when he felt that even now he did not know Isabella. She seemed so dedicated to her cause, so certain of her ability to fight and win in this unequal struggle, that Ferdinand believed her.

It was at times like this that he forgave her for insisting on her supremacy, when he was glad that he had not returned to Aragon in a fit of pique because she had been determined to be supreme in Castile.

‘You forget, Isabella,’ he said gently, ‘you are in no fit state to conduct a campaign. You have our unborn son to think of.’

‘It is because of our unborn son that I must be doubly sure that none shall rob me of the throne,’ she told him.