She had warned Carlos, and she knew his faithful adherents had done the same. ‘Do not go to Lerida, dear Carlos,’ she had implored. ‘This is a trap.’
But Carlos had reasoned: ‘If I will not negotiate with my father, how can I ever hope for peace?’
And so he had gone to Lerida where his father had immediately ordered his arrest and incarceration, accused, falsely, of plotting against the King.
But the people of Catalonia adored their Prince and demanded to know why the King had imprisoned him; they murmured against the unnatural behaviour of a father towards his son, and they accused the Queen of vindictiveness and the scheming design to have the rightful heir disinherited in favour of her own son.
Deputations arrived from Barcelona, and as a result it was necessary for John to leave Catalonia for the safer territory of Aragon without delay, and in a manner which was far from dignified. And the result: rebellion in Catalonia.
Back in Saragossa, John had gathered together an army, but meanwhile the revolt had spread, and Henry of Castile, who now looked upon Carlos as his sister’s prospective husband, invaded Navarre on the side of Carlos against the King of Aragon. Carlos up to this time had been held prisoner, but in view of the state of the country John saw that his only course was to release his son.
The people blamed Joan for what had happened and, in order to win back their love for his beloved wife, John declared that he had released Carlos because she had begged him to do so.
Carlos, the kindest of men, bore no grudge against his stepmother, and allowed her to accompany him through Catalonia on his way to Barcelona, where John had hoped his presence would restore order; and the fact that his stepmother accompanied him led the people to believe that Carlos had returned to the heart of the family.
Blanche shook her head over these events. Now was the time for Carlos to beware as never before.
What would Joan be thinking during that ride to Barcelona, when she saw the people coming out in their thousands to cheer their Prince and having only sullen looks for his stepmother?
But Carlos seemed unable to learn from previous experience. Perhaps he was weary of strife; perhaps he wished to leave the arena and return to his books and painting, perhaps he so hated strife that he deliberately deluded himself.
He refused to listen to warnings. He preferred to believe that his father and his stepmother were genuine in their assertions that they desired his friendship. But the Queen was warned that she would be unwise to enter Barcelona, where a special welcome was being prepared for Carlos.
And now the Catalans all stood behind their Prince. Blanche had heard of the great welcome they had given him when he entered Barcelona.
‘It is Catalonia today,’ it was said; ‘tomorrow it will be Aragon. Carlos is the rightful heir to the throne and wherever he goes is loved. “We will have Carlos,” the people cry. “And the King of Aragon must either accept him as his heir or we will see that there is a new King of Aragon. King Carlos!” And King John? He has deeply offended the people of Catalonia. They will never allow him to enter their province unless he craves and obtains the permission of his people.’
Triumph for Carlos, thought Blanche. Oh, but Carlos, my brother, this is your most dangerous moment!
And so she waited, with that fearful premonition of evil.
She was even at the window watching when the messenger arrived.
‘Bring him to me immediately,’ she told her attendants. ‘I know he brings news of the Prince, my brother.’
She was right: and she saw by the messenger’s expression the nature of the news.
‘Highness,’ said the messenger, ‘I crave your pardon. I am the bearer of bad news.’
‘Please tell me without delay.’
‘The Prince of Viana has fallen ill of a malignant fever. Some say he contracted this during his stay in prison.’
She said: ‘You must tell me everything... quickly.’
‘The Prince is dead, Highness.’
Blanche turned away and went silently to her apartment; she locked her door and lay on her bed, without speaking, without weeping.
Her grief as yet was too overwhelming, too deep for outward expression.
Later she asked herself what this would mean. Little Ferdinand was now the heir of Aragon. His rival had been satisfactorily removed. Removed? It was an unpleasant word. But Blanche believed it to be the correct one to use in this case.
It was a terrifying thought. If her suspicion were true, could her father have been cognisant of a plot to murder his own son? It seemed incredible. Yet he was the blind slave of his wife, and she had coaxed him to worship, with her, the beloved Ferdinand.
‘My only true friend!’ she murmured; and she thought of her brother, who, had he been allowed to reach the throne, would have been a good ruler of Aragon – just, kindly, generous, learned.
‘Oh my dear brother!’ she cried. And later she said: ‘And what will now become of me?’
She remembered, when the first shock of her loss had diminished, that Carlos’ death left her the heiress of Navarre, and she knew that greedy hands would be waiting to snatch what was hers.
Her sister, Eleanor de Foix, would be eager to step into her shoes, and how could she do that except through the death of her elder sister? Carlos had been removed. Would the same fate fall upon her?
‘Holy Mother of God,’ she prayed, ‘let me stay here, where at least I know peace. Here in this quiet spot, where I can watch over the poor people of Olit, who look to me for the little I am able to do for them, I can, if not find happiness, be at peace. Let me stay here. Preserve me from that battlefield of envy and ambition which has destroyed my brother.’
Navarre was a dangerous possession. Joan Henriquez would want it for Ferdinand; Eleanor would want it for her son, Gaston, who had recently married a sister of Louis XI of France.
‘If my mother had known how much anxiety this possession would bring to me, she would have made a different will,’ she told herself.
So Blanche continued to wait. Nor did she have to wait long.
There arrived a letter from her father, in which he told her he had great news for her. She had been too long without a husband. Her marriage to Henry of Castile had been proved null and void; therefore she was at liberty to marry if she wished.
And it was his desire that she should marry. Moreover, he had a brilliant prospect to lay before her. Her sister Eleanor enjoyed the favour of the King of France, and she believed that a match could be arranged between Blanche and the Duc de Berri, Louis’ own brother.
‘My dear daughter,’ wrote the King, ‘this is an opportunity of which we have not dared dream.’
Blanche read and re-read the letter.
Why is it, she asked herself, that when life has treated one badly and seems scarcely worth living, one still fought to retain it?
She did not believe in this talk of marriage with the Duc de Berri. If Carlos had met his death by poison, why should not she, Blanche? And if she were dead, Eleanor would take Navarre. What a great gift that would be to her son; and since he was the husband of the French King’s sister, Blanche did not believe that Louis would raise any objection if such a crime were committed in his territory.
‘You must not go to France!’ There were warning voices within her which told her that. Her servants, who loved her, also warned her against going. So, she thought, I am not the only one who suspected the manner in which Carlos died.
‘Marriage is not for me,’ she wrote to her father. ‘I have no wish to go to France, even for this brilliant marriage. I intend to spend the rest of my days here in Olit, where I shall never cease to pray for the soul of my brother.’