So, gravely, they listened to what was told to them; and it seemed to them both that the years at Arevalo were the waiting years.
Isabella sat thoughtfully over her needlework.
At any moment, she thought, there may be change. At any moment the people may decide that they will have no more of Henry; then they will march to Arevalo and take away Alfonso to make him King.
She had heard that the debasing of the coinage had caused chaos among certain sections of the community; and the result was that robbery had increased.
Some of the noblest families in Castile, declaring themselves to be on the verge of bankruptcy, lost all sense of decency and took to robbery on the roads. Travelling was less safe than it had been for centuries; and castles, which had once been the homes of noble families, were now little less than robbers’ dens. Some of these nobles even attempted to put right their reverses by selling Christian men and women, whom they seized during raids on villages, as slaves to the Moors.
Such conduct was quite deplorable, and it was clear that anarchy reigned in Castile.
Much reform was needed; but all the King seemed to care about was his fancy-dress parades and the pleasure of his Favourites.
Isabella prayed for the well-being of her country. ‘Ah,’ she told herself, ‘how different we shall be – Ferdinand and I – when we rule together!’
One day her mother came to her in a mood of great excitement, and Isabella was reminded of the night when she had been called from her bed to give thanks because the King of Aragon had asked that she might be given in marriage to his son Ferdinand.
‘Isabella daughter, here is wonderful news. The Prince of Viana is asking for your hand in marriage. This is a brilliant offer. Not only is Carlos heir to Aragon, but Navarre is his also. My dear Isabella, why do you stare at me so blankly? You should rejoice.’
Isabella had grown pale; she lifted her head and held herself at her full height, for once losing her sense of decorum. ‘You have forgotten, Highness,’ she said. ‘I am already betrothed to Ferdinand.’
The Dowager Queen laughed. ‘That... oh, we will forget it. Ferdinand of Aragon? A very good match, but he is only a younger brother. Carlos, the heir of Aragon, the ruler of Navarre, is asking for your hand. I do not see why the marriage should be long delayed.’
On one of the few occasions in her young life Isabella lost control. She knelt and, seizing her mother’s skirts, looked up at her imploringly. ‘But, Highness,’ she cried, ‘I have been promised to Ferdinand.’
‘The promise was not binding, my child. This is a more suitable match. You must allow your elders to know what is good for you.’
‘Highness, the King of Aragon will be angry. Does he not love the fingernails of Ferdinand better than the whole body of his elder son?’
That made the Dowager Queen smile. ‘Carlos has quarrelled with his father, but the people of Aragon love Carlos, and he is the one whom they will make their King. The territories of Navarre are also his. Why, there could not be a better match.’
Isabella stood rigid and for the first time showed distinct signs of a stubborn nature.
‘It is a point of honour that I marry Ferdinand.’ Her mother laughed, not wildly nor excitedly, merely with faintly amused tolerance; but now Isabella was past caring about the state of her mother’s emotions.
The Dowager Queen said once more: ‘Leave these matters to your elders, Isabella. Now you should go on your knees and give thanks to God and his saints for the great good fortune which is to be yours.’
Wild protests rose to Isabella’s lips, but the discipline of years prevailed, and she said nothing.
She allowed herself to be led to her prie-Dieu and, while her mother prayed for the speedy union of her daughter and the Prince of Viana, heir to the throne of Aragon, she could only murmur: ‘Ferdinand! Oh Ferdinand! It must be Ferdinand. Holy Mother of God, do not desert me now. Let anything happen to me or the Prince of Viana or the whole world, but give me Ferdinand.’
CHAPTER IV
SCANDAL AT THE COURT OF CASTILE
In the Palace at Saragossa Joan Henriquez, Queen of Aragon, was discussing the effrontery of Carlos with her husband, John.
‘This,’ declared Joan, ‘is meant to insult you, to show you how little this son of yours cares for your authority. He knows it is a favourite project of ours that Ferdinand shall mate with Isabella. So what does he do but offer himself!’
‘It shall not come to pass,’ said the King. ‘Do not distress yourself, my dear. Isabella is for Ferdinand, and we shall find some means of outwitting Carlos... as we have in the past.’
He smiled fondly at his wife. She was much younger than he was, and from the date of their marriage he had become so enamoured of her that his great desire was to give her all she wished. She was, he was sure, unique. Handsome, bold, shrewd – where was there another woman in the world to compare with her? His first wife, Blanche of Navarre, had been the widow of Martin of Sicily when he had married her. She had been a good woman, possessed of a far from insignificant dowry, and he had been well pleased with the match. She had given him three children: Carlos, Blanche and Eleanor, and he had been delighted at the time; now, having married the incomparable Joan Henriquez and having had issue by her in the also incomparable Ferdinand, he could wish – because Joan wished this – that he had no other children, so that Ferdinand would be heir to everything he possessed.
It was small wonder, he assured himself, that he should dote on Ferdinand. What of his other children? He was in continual conflict with Carlos; Blanche had been repudiated by her husband, Henry of Castile, and was now living in retirement on her estates at Olit, where, so Joan insisted, she gave assistance to her brother Carlos in his disagreements with his father; and there was Eleanor, Comtesse de Foix, who had left home many years before when she married Gaston de Foix, and was a domineering woman of great ambitions.
As for Joan, she doted on Ferdinand with all the force of a strong nature, and was resentful of any favours which fell to the lot of the other children.
In the first days of their union she had been gentle and loving, but from that day – it was the 10th March in the year 1452, some eight years ago – when her Ferdinand had been born in the little town of Sos, she had changed. She had become as a tigress fighting for her cub: and John, being so devoted to her, had become involved in this battle for the rights of the adored son of his second wife against the family of his first.
It was a sad state of affairs in any family when there was discord between its members; in a royal family this could be disastrous.
John of Aragon, however, could only see through the eyes of the wife on whom he doted, and therefore to him his son Carlos was a scoundrel.
This was not the truth. Carlos was a man of great charm and integrity. He was good-natured, gentle, honourable, and in the eyes of many people a perfect Prince. He was intellectual and artistic; he loved music; he could paint and was a poet; he was something of a philosopher and historian, and would have preferred to live quietly and study; it was the great tragedy of his life that he found himself drawn, against his will, into a bloody conflict with his own father.
The trouble had begun when Joan had asked that she might share the government of Navarre with Carlos, who had inherited this territory on the death of his mother, the daughter of Charles III of Navarre.
Joan’s intention was to oust Carlos from Navarre that she might preserve it for her darling Ferdinand, who was only a baby as yet but for whom her ambitions had begun to grow from the day of his birth. Joan’s manner was arrogant, and her policy was to create disturbance, so that the people would become dissatisfied with the rule of Carlos.