Isabella waited, fearful of asking another of those questions which might win a rebuke. Experience told her that if she waited attentively she could often discover as much as, or even more than, if she asked questions.
‘We may leave at a moment’s notice... a moment’s notice!’ The Queen began to laugh, and the tears were still in her eyes. Isabella prayed silently to the saints that she would not laugh so much that she could not stop.
But no, this was not to be one of those terrifying scenes, for the Queen stopped laughing and put a finger to her lips. ‘Be prepared,’ she said. ‘We will outwit him.’ Then she put her face close to the little girl’s. ‘He’ll never get a child,’ she said. ‘Never... never!’ She was close to that terrifying laughter again. ‘It is the life he has led. That is his reward. And well he deserved it. Never mind, our turn will come. My Alfonso shall mount the throne of Castile... and if by some chance he should not reach manhood, there is always my Isabella. Is there not, eh? Is there not?’
‘Yes, Highness,’ murmured the little girl.
Her mother took the plump cheek between thumb and forefinger, and pinched it so hard that it was difficult to prevent the tears coming to those blue eyes. But the little girl knew it was intended as a gesture of affection.
‘Be ready,’ said the Queen.
‘Yes, Highness.’
‘Now I must be back with him. How can one know what plots are hatched when one’s back is turned, eh? How can one?’
‘How can one, Highness,’ repeated Isabella dutifully.
‘But you will be ready, my Isabella.’
‘Yes, Highness, I will be ready.’
There was another embrace, so fierce that it was an effort not to cry out in protest against it.
‘It will not be long,’ said the Queen. ‘It cannot be long now. Be ready and do not forget.’
Isabella nodded, but her mother went on with the often repeated phrase: ‘One day you may be Queen of Castile.’
‘I will remember, Highness.’
The Queen seemed suddenly calm. She prepared to leave, and once more her little daughter gave her a sweeping curtsy.
Isabella was hoping that her mother would not go into that room where Alfonso lay in his cradle. Alfonso had cried in protest last time his mother had embraced him so fiercely. Poor Alfonso, he could not be expected to know that he must never protest, that he must not ask questions but merely listen; soon he would be old enough to hear that one day he could be King of Castile, but as yet he was only a baby.
When she was alone, young Isabella took the opportunity of slipping into the room where Alfonso lay in his cradle. He was clearly unaware of the tension in the Palace. He lay kicking joyously, and he crowed with pleasure as Isabella appeared.
‘Alfonso, baby brother,’ murmured Isabella.
The baby laughed at his sister and kicked more furiously.
‘You do not know, do you, that one day you could be King of Castile?’
Surreptitiously, Isabella bent over the cradle and kissed her brother. She looked furtively about her. No one had noticed that little weakness, and she made excuses to herself for betraying her emotion. Alfonso was such a pretty baby and she loved him very much.
The Queen of Castile was on her knees beside her husband’s bed. ‘What hour is it?’ he asked her, and as she dropped her hands from her face he went on: ‘But what matters the hour? My time has come. It is now for me to say my farewells.’
‘No!’ she cried, and he could hear the rising hysteria in her voice. ‘The time has not yet come.’
He spoke gently, pityingly. ‘Isabella, my Queen, we should not deceive ourselves. What good will it do? In a short time there will be another King of Castile, and your husband, John II, will begin to be a memory – a not very happy one for Castile, I fear.’
She had begun to beat her clenched fist lightly on the bed. ‘You must not die yet. You must not. What of the children?’
‘The children, yes,’ he murmured. ‘Do not excite yourself, Isabella. I shall arrange that good care is taken of them.’
‘Alfonso...’ muttered the Queen, ‘a baby in his cradle. Isabella... just past her fourth birthday!’
‘I have great hopes of our sturdy Isabella,’ said the King. ‘And there is Henry. He will be a good brother to them.’
‘As he has been a good son to his father?’ demanded the Queen shrilly.
‘This is no time for recriminations, my dear. It may well be that there were faults on both sides.’
‘You... you are soft with him... soft.’
‘I am a weak man and I am on my death-bed. You know that as well as I do.’
‘You were always soft with him... with everybody. Even when you were well, you allowed yourself to be governed.’
The King lifted a weak hand for silence. Then he went on: ‘I believe the people are pleased. I believe they are saying “Good riddance to John II. Welcome to Henry IV. He will be a better king than his father was.” Well, my dear, they may be right in that, for they would have to search far and wide for a worse.’
John began to cough and the Queen’s eyes widened in fear. She made an effort to control herself. ‘Rest,’ she cried. ‘For the love of the saints, rest.’
She was afraid that he would die before she had made her plans. She distrusted her stepson Henry. He might seem to be good-natured, a less intellectual, a more voluptuous replica of his father, but he would allow himself to be ruled by favourites who would not easily tolerate rivals to the throne. They would impress upon him the fact that if he displeased his subjects they would rally round young Alfonso and Isabella. Therefore he would be watchful.
She trusted no one, and she was growing more and more determined that her own son should inherit the throne.
And what shall I do? the Queen asked herself; and her fist began to beat once more upon the bed. I, a weak woman, surrounded by my enemies!
Her wild gaze rested on the dying man in the bed.
He must not die until she was ready for him to do so; he must remain King of Castile until she was prepared to whisk her little son and daughter from Madrid.
They would go to a place where they could dwell in peace, where there was no danger of a morsel of poison being slipped into their food or drink, where it would be impossible for an assassin to slip into their sleeping chamber and press a pillow over their baby mouths as they slept. They should go where they might bide their time until that moment – and the Queen was sure it would come – when Henry should be ousted from the throne and little Alfonso – or Isabella – triumphantly take it, King – or Queen – of Castile.
King John lay back on his pillows watching his wife.
Poor Isabella, he thought, what will become of her – she who was already tainted with the terrible scourge of her family? There was madness in the royal house of Portugal; at the moment it had not completely taken possession of Isabella, his Queen, but now and then there were signs that it had not passed her by.
He was by no means stupid, bad King though he had been, and he wondered whether that tendency to insanity had been inherited by their children. There was no sign of it as yet. Isabella had inherited none of the hysteria of her mother; there could rarely have been a more serene child than his sedate little daughter. Little Alfonso? It was early to say as yet, but he seemed to be a normal, happy baby.
He prayed that the terrible disease of the mind had passed them by and that Isabella had not brought its taint into the royal house of Castile to the detriment of future generations.
He should never have married Isabella. Why had he? Because he was weak; because he had allowed himself to be led.