‘Too late,’ whispered Isabella to herself. ‘How foolish I was to think I could help him, to think I could save him. How could I save him except by keeping him by my side day and night, by tasting every morsel of food before it touched his lips?’
Beatriz was crying: ‘But... how... how... ?’
That was a question they could not answer.
Isabella understood why she had heard the rumours in Avila. The planners had not been working in unison; something may have gone wrong at the inn while the carriers of the news went on and announced it in accordance with some preconceived plot.
Thus the news of Alfonso’s death had been circulated before it happened.
How could Alfonso have died so suddenly unless someone had deliberately cut short his life? A few hours ago he had been full of life and health; and now he was dead.
Dear Alfonso, dear innocent Alfonso, this was what he had feared in those early days when he had talked so much of the fate of others. And it had come to him... even as he had feared it would.
She trusted that he had not suffered much. It was incredible that she should have been close by, and that he should have awakened in his need while she was sleeping peacefully unaware.
She saw Beatrix’s smouldering eyes upon her. Beatriz would want to find those who had done this. She would want revenge.
But what would be the use? That would not bring Alfonso back to her.
CHAPTER XI
THE HEIRESS TO THE THRONE
In the Convent of Santa Clara Isabella gave herself up to mourning.
She would sit thinking of the past when she and her mother had retired to Arevalo with little Alfonso. Now her mother lived, but could one call that existence living? And she, Isabella, was left to face a turbulent world.
There were times when she envied the young nuns who were about to take the veil and shut themselves off for ever from the world.
‘I wish,’ she told Beatrix, ‘that I could so resign myself.’
But Beatrix, who was always outspoken, shook her head. ‘No, my Infanta, you do not wish this. You know that a great future awaits you, and you would never turn your back on your destiny. Not for you the life of the cloistered nun. One day you will be a Queen. Your name will be honoured and remembered in the generations to come.’
‘Who can say?’ murmured Isabella. ‘Might you not have made the same prophecy for my poor Alfonso?’
She had not been long at the convent when she had a visitor. The Archbishop of Toledo himself, representing the confederacy which was in revolt against the King, had travelled to the convent to see her. She received him with reserve and he was unusually humble.
‘Condolences, Highness,’ said the Archbishop. ‘I know how you suffer through our great loss. I and my friends mourn with you.’
‘Yet,’ said Isabella, ‘had Alfonso never been acclaimed King of Castile he might be alive at this hour.’
‘It is true that he would not have been in Cardeñosa, and perhaps would not have contracted the plague.’
‘Or eaten trout!’ said Isabella.
‘Ah, these are dangerous times,’ murmured the Archbishop. ‘That is why we need a firm government, a royal leader of integrity.’
‘The times must be dangerous in a country where two rulers are set up. I think that my brother might not have died if he had had God’s blessing on his enterprise.’
‘But if, as you hint, Highness, his death was due to trout, that is the result of the criminality of man surely, not the justice of God.’
‘It may be,’ said Isabella, ‘that if God had looked with favour on Alfonso’s accession, he would have prevented his death.’
‘Who shall say,’ said the Archbishop. ‘I come to remind Your Highness of the evil state of Castile and of the need for reform.’
‘There is no need to remind me of that,’ said Isabella, ‘for I have heard reports of the state of our country which fill me with such dismay that I could not forget them if I tried.’
The Archbishop bowed his head. ‘Highness,’ he said, ‘we desire to proclaim you Queen of Castile and Leon.’
‘I thank you,’ said Isabella, ‘but while my brother Henry lives no one else has a right to wear the crown. Too long has there been conflict in Castile, which was largely due to the fact that it has two sovereigns.’
‘Highness, you cannot mean that you refuse to be proclaimed Queen!’
‘That is exactly what I mean.’
‘But... this is incredible.’
‘I know it to be right.’
‘Why, Highness, were you Queen you could immediately begin to set right all that is wrong in Castile. My nephew and myself would be beside you. It could be the beginning of a new era for Castile.’
Isabella was silent. She visualised all that she longed to do for her country. She had often planned how she would strengthen the Hermandad; how she would attempt to bring her people back to a more religious life, how she would establish a Court which would be in direct opposition to that of her brother.
‘Our present Queen,’ murmured the Archbishop, ‘is becoming notorious on account of the lecherous life she leads. There was a time when she was content with one lover; now there must be many. Do you not see, Highness, what a bad example this sets our people?’
‘Indeed I see,’ said Isabella.
‘Then why do you hesitate?’
‘Because, however good one’s intentions, they will fail unless built on a foundation which is just. Were I to take what you offer me, I know I should be doing what is wrong. Therefore, I reject your offer.’
The Archbishop was stunned; he had not believed in the true piety of Isabella, and he did not think she would be proof against this offer of the crown.
‘What would please me,’ she went on, ‘would be to achieve reconciliation with my half-brother. It is the strife between two warring factions which is responsible for our troubles. Let us have peace and, since you believe the Queen’s daughter to be illegitimate, I am next in the order of succession.’
The Archbishop lifted his head.
‘You agree with this?’ she asked.
‘Indeed I agree, Highness. It is at the root of all our troubles.’
‘Then, since you are assured of the Queen’s adultery, I should be proclaimed heiress to the throne. Then there would be an end to this war, and matters would stand as it is proper that they should.’
‘But Highness, it is the throne itself that we are offering you.’
‘I shall never take it,’ Isabella told him firmly, ‘while my half-brother Henry lives.’
And the astonished Archbishop was at length made to realise that she meant what she said.
His sister wanted to see him, mused Henry. Well, she had changed from the quiet little girl whose sedate manners had put a barrier of reserve between them.
She was an important person now. Villena and the Archbishop wanted to make her Queen – and it seemed that only Isabella’s firm resolve that this should not be had prevented their crowning her as they had Alfonso.
Isabella had declared that she wanted peace.
Peace! thought Henry. None could want that more than I do.
He was ready to barter any of his possessions, ready to agree to whatever was suggested, for the sweet sake of peace.
He wanted Villena to be his friend again; he had great faith in Villena. The Cardinal Mendoza, who, from the time of that ceremony outside the walls of Avila, had supported Henry’s cause with all the vigour of a strong nature, was not his friend as Villena had once been; he stood in awe of the Cardinal. As for Beltran de la Cueva, Duke of Albuquerque, he was more Joanna’s friend than Henry’s; they supported each other, those two; and often Henry felt they were not with him.