And he covered his face with his hands and wept for the folly of men determined to go to war.
Meanwhile the young Alfonso rode into battle side by side with the warlike Archbishop.
It was long, and the slaughter was great. Nor was it effective in forcing a decision. The courage of the Archbishop of Toledo was only matched by that of the Duke of Albuquerque, and after three hours of carnage such as had rarely been known before in Castile, the forces led by the Archbishop and Alfonso were forced to leave the battlefield in the possession of the King’s men.
But Henry was not eager to take advantage of the fact that his army had not been routed; and Beltran, brave soldier that he was, was no strategist; and thus that which could have been called a victory was treated as a defeat.
Now Castile was a country divided. Each King ruled in that territory over which he held sway.
And following the advantage they had won on account of the King’s refusal to regard the battle of Almedo as his victory, the Archbishop and the Marquis, with Alfonso as their figurehead, decided to march on Segovia.
Isabella, with Beatriz and Mencia, was eager for every item of news of Alfonso’s progress.
‘What is happening to our country?’ she said one day as she sat with her friends. ‘In every town of Castile men of the same blood are fighting one another.’
‘What can be expected when our country is plunged in civil war!’ Beatriz added.
‘I dream of peace for Castile,’ murmured Isabella. ‘Here we sit stitching at our needlework, but, Beatriz, do you not think that if we were called upon to rule this land we could do it better than those in whose hands its government now rests?’
‘Think!’ cried Beatriz. ‘I am sure of it.’
‘If Castile could be ruled by you, Infanta, with Beatriz as your first minister,’ declared Mencia, ‘then I verily believe all our troubles would quickly be brought to an end.’
‘I shudder,’ said Isabella, ‘to think of my brother. It is long since I saw him. Do you remember the day the Archbishop called and told him he would be put under his care? I wonder... has all that has happened to him changed Alfonso?’
‘It is hard to conjecture,’ Beatriz murmured. ‘In these last months he has become King.’
‘There can only be one King of Castile,’ Isabella reminded her, ‘And that is my half-brother Henry. Oh, how I wish that there was not this strife. Alfonso should be heir to the throne, because there is no doubt that the Queen’s daughter is not the King’s, but he should never have been proclaimed King. And to ride into battle against Henry... ! Oh, how I wish he had not done that.’
‘It was no fault of his,’ said Mencia.
‘No,’ Beatriz agreed. ‘He is but a boy. He is only fourteen. How can he be blamed because they have caught him up in their fight for power!’
‘Poor Alfonso. I tremble for him,’ murmured Isabella.
‘All will be well,’ Beatriz soothed her. ‘Dearest Princesa, remember how on other occasions we have despaired, and how all has come right.’
‘Yes,’ said Isabella. ‘I was saved from a terrible fate. But is it not alarming to consider how a man... or a woman... can be alive and well one day and dead the next?’
‘It has always been so,’ said the practical Beatriz. And she added significantly: ‘And sometimes it has proved a blessing.’
‘Listen!’ cried Mencia. ‘I hear shouts from below. What can it be?’
‘Go and see,’ said Beatriz.
Mencia got up to go, but before she had reached the door one of the men-at-arms rushed into the room.
‘Princesa, ladies, the rebels are marching on the castle.’
There was little resistance, for how could Isabella demand that resistance be shown against those at whose head rode her own brother.
As they stormed into the castle, she heard Alfonso’s voice; it had changed since she had last heard it and grown deep, authoritative.
‘Have a care. Remember, my sister, the Princess Isabella, is in the castle.’
And then the door was flung open and there stood Alfonso – her little brother, seeming little no longer – not a boy but a soldier, a King, even though she would maintain he had no right to wear the crown.
‘Isabella!’ he cried; and he was young again. His face seemed to pucker childishly, and it was as though he were begging for her approval as he used to when he took his first tottering steps about the nursery.
‘Brother... little brother!’ Isabella was in his arms and for some seconds they clung together.
Then she took his face in her hands. ‘You are well, Alfonso, you are well?’
‘Indeed yes. And you, dearest sister?’
‘Yes... and so glad to see you once more, brother. Oh, Alfonso... Alfonso!’
‘Isabella, we are together now. Let us stay together. I have rescued you from Henry. Henceforth it shall be you and I... brother and sister... together.’
‘Yes,’ she cried. ‘Yes...’ And she lost her calm and was laughing in his arms.
And so she stayed with him, and on several occasions travelled with him through that territory which now considered him its King.
But she was perturbed. Her love of justice would not allow her to blind herself to the fact that he had usurped the throne, however unwillingly.
During those troublous months news came to Isabella of the disturbances which were rife throughout Castile. Old quarrels between certain noble families were renewed; nowhere was it safe for men or women to journey unescorted. Even men of the highest nobility took advantage of the situation to rob and pillage, and the Hermandad found itself almost useless against this tide of anarchy.
Alfonso’s headquarters were at Avila, which had remained loyal to him since the occasion of that strange ‘coronation’ outside its walls. On the Archbishop and Villena, to whom he owed his position, he bestowed the honours and favours they demanded.
Isabella remonstrated with him.
‘While Henry lives you cannot be King of Castile, Alfonso,’ she told him, ‘for Henry is our father’s eldest son and the only true King of Castile.’
Alfonso had changed since those days when he had been afraid because he knew himself to be the tool of ambitious men. Alfonso had tasted the pleasures of kingship, and he was by no means prepared to relinquish them.
‘But, Isabella,’ he pointed out, ‘a King rules by the will of his people. If he fails to please his people then he has no right to the crown.’
‘There are many in Castile who are still pleased to call Henry King,’ Isabella answered.
‘Dear Isabella,’ replied her brother, ‘you are so good and so just. Henry has not been kind to you; he has tried to force you to a distasteful marriage – yet you would seem to support him.’
‘But it is not a question of kindness, brother. It is a matter of what is right. And Henry is King of Castile. It is you who are the impostor.’
Alfonso smiled at her. ‘We must agree to differ,’ he said. ‘I am glad that, although you consider me an impostor, you still love me.’
‘You are my brother. Nothing can alter that. But one day I hope there will be a settlement and that you will be proclaimed heir to the throne. That is what I wish.’
‘The nobles would never agree.’
‘It is because they are seeking power rather than what is just and right, and they still use us, Alfonso, as puppets in their schemes. In supporting you they support that which they believe to be best for themselves, and those who support Henry do so for selfish reasons. It is only through what is just that good can come.’