Perhaps the mention of her brother angered her father. How much, she wondered, was there on his conscience? He wrote in extreme irritation that she was foolish to dream of casting aside such a wonderful opportunity.
‘Nevertheless,’ was her reply, ‘I shall stay at Olit.’
But she was wrong.
Late one night there was a clattering of horses’ hoofs in the courtyard, followed by a hammering on the door.
‘Who goes there?’ called the guards.
‘Open up! Open up! We come in the name of King John of Aragon.’
There was nothing to be done but let them in. Their leader, when he was taken to Blanche, bowed low with a deference which contained a hint of authority.
‘I crave your pardon, Highness, but the King’s orders are that you prepare to leave Olit at once.’
‘For what destination?’ she asked.
‘For Béarn, Madam, where your noble sister eagerly awaits you.’
So Eleanor eagerly awaited her – yes, with a burning ambition for her son Gaston which equalled that of Joan Henriquez for the young Ferdinand!
‘I have decided to stay in Olit,’ she told him.
‘I am sorry to hear you say that,’ was the answer, ‘for the King’s orders are, Highness, that, if you will not consent to go, you must go by force.’
‘So,’ she cried, ‘it has come to that!’
‘These are the King’s orders.’
She said: ‘Allow me to go to my women that I may make my preparations.
‘Holy Mother of God,’ she prayed, ‘why should there be this desire to cling to a life which is scarcely worth the living?’
But the desire was there.
She said to her most trusted women: ‘Prepare. We have to leave Olit. We must escape. It is imperative that we are not taken to Béarn.’
But where could she go? she asked herself. To Castile? Henry would befriend her. He had repudiated her, but he had never been actively unkind. For all his faults she did not believe Henry would connive at murder. She would explain to him her suspicions of Carlos’ end; she would implore him to save her from a like fate.
To Castile... and Henry. It was the answer.
If she could slip out of the Palace by some secret way... if a horse could be ready for her... .
She whispered instructions. ‘We must be swift. My father’s men are already in the Palace. Have the horses ready. I will slip out, and my head groom and one of my ladies will accompany me. Quick... there is not a moment to lose.’
As she was being dressed for the ride she could hear the sound of voices outside her door, and the tramp of her father’s soldiers’ feet in her Palace.
With madly beating heart she left the Palace by a secret door. The groom was waiting, and silently he helped her into the saddle. Her favourite woman attendant was with her.
‘Come,’ she cried.
Lightly she touched her horse’s flank, but before he could spring into action, his bridle was caught in a pair of strong hands.
‘Our grateful thanks, Highness,’ said a triumphant voice at her side. ‘You have dressed with great speed. Now we will not delay. We will leave at once for the border.’
And through the night they rode. It was dark, but not darker than the sense of foreboding in Blanche’s heart as she rode towards Béarn.
A great event had burst upon the Court of Castile. That which most Castilians had begun to believe would never happen was about to come to pass.
The Queen was pregnant.
‘It cannot be by the King,’ was the comment. ‘That is an impossibility.’
‘Then by whom?’
There was only one answer. Joanna’s faithful lover was Beltran de la Cueva, who was also a friend of the King.
He was clever, this brilliant and handsome young man. He knew how to entertain the King, how to be his witty and adventurous companion while at the same time he was the Queen’s devoted and passionate lover.
There were many to laugh at the audacity of this man, some to admire it; but there were also those whom it angered and who felt themselves neglected.
Two of these were the Marquis of Villena and his uncle, Alfonso Carillo, Archbishop of Toledo.
‘This,’ said Villena to his uncle, ‘is a ridiculous state of affairs. If the Queen is pregnant it is certainly not with Henry’s child. What shall we do? Allow an illegitimate child to be heir to the throne?’
‘We must do everything to prevent it,’ said the Archbishop righteously.
They were both determined to bring about the fall of Beltran de la Cueva, who was gradually ousting them from the positions of authority over the King which they had held for so long.
It was not that Beltran alone was politically ambitious, but about him, as about all favourites, there gathered the hangers-on, the seekers after power; and these, naturally enough, were in opposition to Villena and the Archbishop and desired to snatch from them the power they had held.
‘If this child is born and lives,’ said Villena to his uncle, ‘we shall know what to do.’
‘In the meantime,’ added the Archbishop, ‘we must make sure everyone bears in mind that the child cannot possibly be the King’s, and that without a doubt Beltran de la Cueva is its father.’
Henry was delighted that at last, after eight years of marriage, the Queen had become pregnant.
He knew that there were rumours, not only of his sterility, but of his impotence. It was said that it was for this reason that unnatural and lascivious orgies had to be arranged for him. Therefore the fact of Joanna’s pregnancy delighted him. It would, he hoped, quash the rumours.
Did he believe himself to have been the cause of it? He could delude himself. He had come to depend more and more on delusions.
So he gave balls and banquets in honour of the unborn child. He was seen in public more often with his Queen than hitherto. Of course Beltran de la Cueva was often their companion – dear friend of both King and Queen.
When Henry raised Beltran to the rank of Count of Ledesma, the Court raised cynical eyebrows.
‘Are there now to be honours for obliging lovers who supply that which impotent husbands cannot?’
Henry cared not for the whispers, and pretended not to hear them.
As for Joanna she laughed at them, but she constantly referred to the child as hers and the King’s, and in spite of the whispers there were some who believed her.
Now the Court was tense, waiting for the birth. A boy? A girl?
Would the child resemble its mother or its father?
‘Let us hope,’ said cynical courtiers, ‘that it resembles somebody in some way which can be recognised. Mysteries that cannot be solved are so wearying.’
Change came to Arevalo on that March day, such change as Isabella would never forget, because there came with it the end of childhood.
Isabella had been living in a state of exultation since she had heard of the death of Carlos. It seemed to her then that her prayers had been answered; she had prayed that there should be a miracle to save her for Ferdinand, and behold, the man who was to have taken his place had been removed from this world.
It was her mother who brought the news, as she always did bring news of the first magnitude.
There was the wildness in her eyes once more, but Isabella was less afraid than she had been as a child. One could grow accustomed to those outbursts, which almost amounted to frenzy. On more than one occasion she had seen the physicians, holding her mother down while she laughed and cried and waved her arms frantically.
Isabella accepted the fact that her mother could not always be relied upon to show a sane front to the world. She had heard it whispered that one day the Dowager Queen would have to retire into solitude, as other members of her family had before her.