‘It cannot go on,’ cried the Queen. ‘I shall live to see my Alfonso crowned. Henry will do nothing. He will be powerless. His folly in showering honours on the bastard’s father will be his undoing. Did you not see the looks? Did you not hear the comments?’ The Queen had clenched her fists and had begun beating her breast.
‘Oh let them come quickly,’ prayed Isabella.
When her mother had been taken away she felt exhausted. Alfonso lingered and would have talked to her, but she was afraid to talk to Alfonso. There were so many imminent dangers, she felt certain, and in the great Palace one could never be sure who was hidden away in some secret place to listen to what was said.
It was highly dangerous, she knew very well, to discuss the displacement of kings while they still lived; and if it were true – which of course it was – that she and Alfonso had been brought to Court so that their brother might be sure that they should not be the centre of rebellion, it was certain that they were closely watched.
She put on a cloak and went out into the gardens. Those occasions when she could be alone were rare and, she knew, would become more so, for she must not expect to enjoy the same freedom here at Court as she had in the peace of Arevalo.
Still, as yet, she was regarded as but a child and she hoped that she would continue to be so regarded for some time to come. She did not want to be embroiled in the rebellious schemes which tormented her mother’s already overtaxed brain.
Isabella believed firmly in law and order. Henry was King because he was the eldest son of their father, and she thought it was wrong that any other should take his place while he lived.
She stared down at the stream of the Manzanares and then across the plain to the distant mountains; and as she did so she became aware of approaching footsteps and, turning, saw a girl coming towards her.
‘You wish to speak with me?’ called Isabella.
‘My lady Princesa, if you would be so gracious as to listen.’
This was a beautiful girl with strongly marked features; she was some four years older than Isabella and consequently seemed adult to the eleven-year-old Princess.
‘But certainly,’ said Isabella.
The other knelt and kissed Isabella’s hand, but Isabella said: ‘Please rise. Now tell me what it is you have to say to me.’
‘My lady, my name is Beatriz Fernandez de Bobadilla, and it is very bold of me to make myself known to you thus unceremoniously; but I saw you walking alone here and I thought that if my mistress could behave without convention, so might I.’
‘It is pleasant to escape from convention now and then,’ said Isabella.
‘I have news, my lady, which fills me with great joy. Shortly I am to be presented to you as your maid of honour. Since I learned this was to be I have been eagerly awaiting a glimpse of you, and when I saw you at the ceremony in the chapel I knew that I longed to serve you. When I am formally presented I shall murmur the appointed words which will convey nothing... nothing of my true feelings. Princesa Isabella, I wanted you to know how I truly felt.’
Isabella stifled the disapproval which these words aroused in her. She had been brought up to believe that the etiquette of the Court was all-important; but when the girl lifted her eyes she saw there were real tears in them, and Isabella was not proof against such a display of emotion.
She realised she was lonely. She had no companion to whom she could talk of those matters which interested her. Alfonso was the nearest to being such a companion, but he was too young and not of her own sex. She had never enjoyed real companionship with her mother, and the thought of having a maid of honour who could also be a friend was very appealing.
Moreover in spite of herself, she could not help admiring the boldness of Beatriz de Bobadilla.
She heard herself say: ‘You should have waited to be formally presented, but as long as no one sees us... as long as no one is aware of what we have done...’
This was not the way in which a Princess should behave, but Isabella was eager for this friendship which was being offered.
‘I knew you would say that, Princesa,’ cried Beatriz. ‘That is why I dared.’
She stood up and her eyes sparkled. ‘I could scarcely wait for a glimpse of you, my lady,’ she went on. ‘You are exactly as I imagined you. You will never have reason to regret that I was chosen to serve you. When we are married, I beg you let it make no difference. Let me continue to serve you.’
‘Married?’said Isabella.
‘Why yes, married. I am promised to Andres de Cabrera, even as you are promised to Prince Ferdinand of Aragon.’
Isabella flushed slightly at the mention of Ferdinand, but Beatriz hurried on: ‘I follow the adventures of Prince Ferdinand with great interest, simply because he is betrothed to you.’
Isabella caught her breath and murmured: ‘Could we walk a little?’
‘Yes, my lady. But we should be careful not to be seen. I should be scolded for daring to approach thus, if we were.’
Isabella for once did not care if they were discovered, so urgently did she desire to talk of Ferdinand.
‘What did you mean when you said you had followed the adventures of Prince Ferdinand?’
‘That I had gleaned information about him on every possible occasion, Princesa. I gathered news of the troublous state of affairs in Aragon, and the dangers which beset Ferdinand.’
‘Dangers? What dangers?’
‘There is civil war in Aragon, as you know, and that is a dangerous state of affairs. They say it is due to the Queen of Aragon, Ferdinand’s mother, who would risk all she possesses in order to ensure the advancement of her son.’
‘She must love him dearly,’ said Isabella softly.
‘Princesa, there is no one living who is more loved than young Ferdinand.’
‘It is because he is so worthy.’
‘And because he is the only son of the most ambitious woman living. It is a mercy that he has emerged alive from Gerona.’
‘What is this? I have not heard of it.’
‘But, Princesa, you know that the Catalans rose against Ferdinand’s father on account of Carlos, Ferdinand’s elder brother whom they loved so dearly. Carlos died suddenly, and there were rumours. It was said he was hastened to his death, and this had been arranged so that Ferdinand should inherit his father’s dominions.’
‘Ferdinand would have no hand in murder!’
‘Indeed no. How could he? He is only a boy. But his mother – and his father too, for she has prevailed upon him to become so – are overweeningly ambitious for him. When his mother took Ferdinand into Catalonia, to receive the oath of allegiance, the people rose in anger. They said that the ghost of Ferdinand’s half-brother, Carlos, walked the streets of Barcelona crying out that he was the victim of murder and that the people should avenge him. They say that miracles have been performed at his grave, and that he was a saint.’
‘He asked for my hand in marriage,’ said Isabella with a shudder. ‘And shortly afterwards he died.’
‘Ferdinand is intended for you.’
‘Yes, Ferdinand and no other,’ said Isabella firmly.
‘It was necessary for the Queen of Aragon and her son Ferdinand to fly from Barcelona to Gerona; and there, with Ferdinand, she took possession of the fortress. I have heard that the fierce Catalans almost captured that fortress, and only the Queen’s courage and resource saved their lives.’
‘He was in such danger, and I did not know it,’ murmured Isabella. ‘Tell me... what is happening to him now?’
Beatriz shook her head. ‘That I cannot say, but I have heard that the war persists in the dominions of the King of Aragon and that King John and Queen Joan will continue to be blamed for the murder of Carlos.’