‘Beatriz, have you gone mad?’
‘I am sane, Andres. I think I am the sanest person in this Palace. As soon as the Grand Master of Calatrava approaches my mistress, I shall be there between them. I shall take my dagger and plunge it into his heart.’
‘My dearest... what are you saying! What madness is this?’
‘You do not understand. Someone must protect her. You do not know my Isabella. She, so proud, so... so pure... I think that she will kill herself rather than suffer this degradation. I shall save her by killing him before he has a chance to besmirch her with his foulness.’
‘Give me that dagger, Beatriz.’
‘No,’ said Beatriz, slipping it into the bodice of her dress.
‘I demand that you give it to me.’
‘I am sorry, Andres,’ she answered calmly. ‘There are two people in this world for whom I would give my life if necessary. You are one. She is the other. I have sworn this solemn vow. There shall be no consummation of this barbarous marriage. That is the vow I have sworn. So it is no use your asking me for this dagger. It is for him, Andres.’
‘Beatriz, I implore you... think of our life together. Think of our future!’
‘There could be no happiness for me if I did not do this thing for her.’
‘I cannot allow you to do it, Beatriz.’
‘What will you do, Andres? Inform on me? I shall die doubtless. Perhaps they will torture me first; perhaps they will say, This is a plot to assassinate Isabella’s bridegroom. So, Andres, you will inform against your wife?’
He was silent.
‘Andres, you will do no such thing. You must leave this to me. I have sworn he shall not deflower her. It is a sacred vow.’
Her eyes were brilliant and her cheeks were scarlet; she looked very beautiful; and as powerful as a young goddess – tall, handsome and full of fire.
And he loved her dearly. He knew her well enough to understand that this was no wild talk. She was bold and completely courageous. He had no doubt that she would keep her word and, when the moment came, she would lift her hand and plunge the dagger into the heart of Isabella’s bridegroom.
And when he murmured: ‘It must not be, Beatriz!’ she answered: ‘It cannot be otherwise.’
In his house at Almagro Don Pedro Giron was making preparations for his wedding. He had lost no time since the arrival of the dispensation from Rome.
He strolled about his apartment while his servants made ready his baggage. He put on the rich garments in which he would be married, and strutted before them.
‘Look!’ he cried to his servants. ‘Here you see the husband of a Princess of Castile. How does he look, eh?’
‘My lord,’ was the answer, ‘there could not be a more worthy husband of a Princess of Castile.’
‘Ah!’ laughed Don Pedro. ‘She will find me a worthy husband, I’ll promise you.’
And he continued to laugh, thinking of her – the prim young girl who had been in hiding when he had made certain proposals to her mother. He remembered her standing before them, her blue eyes scornful. He would teach her to be scornful!
He gave himself up to pleasant contemplation of his wedding night. Afterwards, he promised himself, she should be a different woman. She would never again dare show her scorn of him. Princess of Castile though she was he would show her who was her master.
He gave himself up to his sensual dreaming, to the contemplation of an orgy which would be all the more enticing because it would be shared by a prim and – oh, so sedate – Princess.
‘Come on,’ he cried. ‘You sluggards, work harder. It is time we left. It is a long journey to Madrid.’
‘Yes, my lord. Yes, my lord.’
How docile they were, how eager to please! They knew it would be the worse for them if they were not. She would soon learn also.
What a blessing it was to be the brother of a powerful man. But people must not forget that Don Pedro himself was also powerful – powerful in his own right.
One of the self-appointed tasks of Don Pedro was to assure those about him that, although he drew some of his power from his brother’s high office, he was himself a man to be reckoned with.
He scowled at his servants. He was impatient to leave. He longed for the journey to be over; he longed for the wedding celebrations to begin.
With great pomp Don Pedro set out on the journey to Madrid. All along the road people came out to greet him; graciously he accepted their homage. Never had he been so pleased with himself. Why, he reckoned, he had come farther even than his brother, the Marquis. Had the Marquis ever aspired to the hand of a Princess? What glorious good fortune that he had joined the Order of the Calatrava and thus had escaped the web of matrimony. How disconcerting it would have been if this opportunity had come along and he had been unable to take advantage of it because of a previous entanglement. But no, a little dispensation from Rome had been all that was needed.
They would stay the first night at Villarubia, a little hamlet not far from Ciudad Real. Here members of the King’s Court had come to greet him. He noticed with delight their obsequious manners. Already he had ceased to be merely the brother of the Marquis of Villena.
He had the innkeeper brought before him.
‘Now, my man,’ he shouted, as he swaggered in his dazzling garments, ‘I doubt you have ever entertained royalty before. Now’s your chance to show us what you can do. And it had better be good. If it is not, you will be a most unhappy man.’
‘Yes, my lord... yes, Highness,’ stuttered the man. ‘We have been warned of your coming and have been working all day for your pleasure.’
‘It is what I expect,’ cried Don Pedro.
He was a little haughty with the officers of the King’s Guard who had come to escort him on his way to Madrid. They must understand that in a few days’ time he would be a member of the royal family.
The innkeeper’s feast was good enough to satisfy even him; he gorged himself on the delicious meats and drank deep of the innkeeper’s wine.
Furtive eyes watched him, and there were many at the table to think sadly of the Princess Isabella.
Don Pedro was helped to his bed by his servants. He was very drunk and sleepy, and incoherently he told them what a great man he was and how he would subdue his chaste and royal bride.
It was during the night that he awoke startled. His body was covered with a cold sweat and he realised that it was a gripping pain which had awakened him.
He struggled up in his bed and shouted to his servant.
Andres Cabrera came to Isabella’s apartments and was greeted by his wife. ‘Isabella?’ he asked.
‘She lies in her bed. She grows more and more listless.’
‘Then she has not heard the news. So I am the first to bring it to her.’
Beatriz gripped her husband’s arm and her eyes dilated. ‘What news?’
‘Give me the dagger,’ he said. ‘You’ll not need it now.’
‘You mean... ?’
‘He was taken ill at Villarubia four days ago. The news has just been brought to me that he is dead. Soon all Madrid will know.’
‘Andres!’ cried Beatriz, and there was a question in her eyes.
‘Suffice it,’ he said, ‘that there will be no need for you to use your dagger.’
Beatriz swayed a little, and for a few seconds Andres thought that the excess of emotion which she was undergoing would cause her to faint.
But she recovered herself. She gazed at him, and there was pride and gratitude in her eyes – and an infinite love for him.