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He was particularly noticeable, standing close to Henry, for he was almost as tall as the King; and, thought Isabella, if one did not know who was the real King and was asked to pick him out from all those assembled, one would pick Beltran de la Cueva, who had recently been made Count of Ledesma.

The Count was another of those people who were attracting so much attention, and as he watched the baby under the canopy, many watched him.

Unaccustomed though she was to such ceremonies, Isabella gave no sign of the excitement which she was feeling; and, if it appeared that there was a certain watchfulness directed at those three – the King, the Queen and the new Count of Ledesma – Alfonso and Isabella also had their share of this attention.

The thought was in many minds on that day that, if the rumours which were beginning to be spread through the Court were true – and there seemed every reason that they should be – these two children were of the utmost significance. And the fact that the boy was so handsome, and clearly showed he was eager to do what was expected of him, was noted. And so, also, was the decorous behaviour of the young girl, as she stood with the other sponsors, rather tall for her eleven years, her abundant hair – with the reddish tinge inherited from her Plantagenet ancestors – making a charming frame for her placid face.

* * *

In a small ante-chamber adjoining the chapel, the Archbishop of Toledo, whilst divesting himself of his ceremonial robes, was in deep conversation with his nephew, the Marquis of Villena.

The Archbishop, a fiery man, who would have been more suited to a military than an ecclesiastical career, was almost shouting: ‘It is an impossible situation. I never imagined anything so fantastic, so farcical in all my life. That man... standing there looking on...’

Villena, the wily statesman, had more control over his feelings than his uncle had over his. He lifted a hand and signed towards the door.

‘Why, nephew,’ said the Archbishop testily, ‘the whole Court talks of it, jeers at it, and the question is asked: “How long will those who want to see justice done endure such a situation?”’

Villena sat on one of the tapestry-covered stools and sardonically contemplated the tips of his shoes. Then he said: ‘The Queen is a harlot; the child is a bastard; the King is a fool; and the people in the streets cannot long be kept in ignorance of all that. Perhaps there have been wanton Queens who have foisted bastards on foolish kings before this. What I find impossible to endure is the favour shown to this man. Count of Ledesma! It is too much.’

‘Henry listens to him on all occasions. Why, in the name of God and all His saints, does he behave with such stupidity?’

‘Perhaps, Uncle, because he is grateful to their Beltran.’

‘Grateful to his wife’s lover, to the father of the child who is to be foisted on the nation as his own!’

‘Grateful indeed,’ said Villena. ‘I fancy our Henry did not care to see himself as one who cannot beget a child. Beltran is so obliging: he serves the King in every way... even to providing the Queen with his bastard to set upon the throne. We know Henry is incapable of begetting children. None of his mistresses has produced a child. After twelve years he was divorced from Blanche on the grounds that both were impotent. And he has been married to Joanna for eight years. It is surprising that Beltran and his mistress have taken so long.’

‘We must not allow the child to be foisted on the nation.’

‘We must go carefully, Uncle. There is time in plenty. If the King continues to shower honours on Beltran de la Cueva, he will turn more and more from us. Very well then, we will turn more and more from him.’

‘And lose our places at Court, lose all that we have worked for?’

Villena smiled. ‘Did you notice the children in chapel? What a pleasant pair!’

The Archbishop was alert. He said: ‘It would never do. You could never set up young Alfonso while Henry is alive.’

‘Why not... if the people are so disgusted with him and his bastard?’

‘Civil war?’

‘It might be arranged more simply. But, Uncle, as I said, there is no need to act immediately. Keep your eyes on those two... Alfonso and Isabella. They made a good impression on all who beheld them. Such pleasant manners. I declare our mad Dowager Queen has made an excellent job of their upbringing.

They already have all the dignity of heirs to the throne. Depend upon it, their mother would raise no objection to our schemes. And what struck you most about them, Uncle? Was it the same as that which struck me? They were so docile, both of them, so... malleable.’

‘Nephew, this is dangerous talk.’

‘Dangerous indeed! That is why we will not be hasty. Rumour is a very good ally. I am going to send for your servant now to help you dress. Listen to what I say in his hearing.’

Villena went to the door and, opening it, signed to a page.

In a few moments the Archbishop’s servant entered. As he did so, Villena was saying in a whisper which could easily be heard by anyone in the room: ‘It is to be hoped the child resembles her father in some way. What amusement that is going to cause throughout the Court. La Beltraneja should be beautiful, for her true father, I believe, is far more handsome than our poor deluded King; and the Queen has beauty also.’

‘La Beltraneja,’ mused the Archbishop, and he was smiling as the servant took his robe.

Within a few days the baby was being referred to throughout the Palace and beyond as La Beltraneja.

* * *

In the apartments of the Dowager Queen her two children stood before her, as they had been summoned. Isabella wondered whether Alfonso was as deeply aware as she was of the glazed look in their mother’s eyes, of the rising note in her voice.

The christening ceremony had greatly excited her.

‘My children,’ she cried; then she embraced Alfonso and over his head surveyed Isabella. ‘You were there. You saw the looks directed at that... at that child... and at yourselves. I told you... did I not. I told you. I knew it was impossible. An heir to the throne of Castile! Let me tell you this: I have the heir of Castile here, in my arms. There is no other. There can be no other.’

‘Highness,’ said Isabella, ‘the ceremony has been exhausting for you... and to us. Could you not rest and talk to us of this matter later?’

Isabella trembled at her temerity, but her mother did not seem to hear her.

‘Here!’ she cried, raising her eyes to the ceiling as though she were addressing some celestial audience, ‘here is the heir to Castile.’

Alfonso had released himself from the suffocating embrace. ‘Highness,’ he said, ‘there may be some who listen at our door.’

‘It matters little, my son. The same words are being spoken all over the Court. They are saying the child is the bastard daughter of Beltran de la Cueva. And who can doubt it? Tell me that... tell me that, if you can! But why should you? You will be ready to accept the power and the glory when it is bestowed on you. That is the day I long for. The day I see my own Alfonso King of Castile!’

‘Alfonso,’ said Isabella, quietly, authoritatively, ‘go and call the Queen’s women. Go quickly.’

‘It will not be long,’ went on the Dowager Queen, who had not noticed that Isabella had spoken, nor that her son had slipped from the room. ‘Soon the people will rise. Did you not sense it in the chapel? The feeling... the anger! It would not have surprised me if the bastard had been snatched from under her silken canopy. Nothing... nothing would have surprised me...’

‘Holy Mother,’ prayed Isabella, ‘let them come quickly. Let them take her to her apartment. Let them quieten her before I have to see her held down by the doctors and forcibly drugged to quieten her.’