‘I am sorry, Infanta, but if you do not agree I may be forced to make you my prisoner. The King would have you remain in the royal fortress at Madrid until you obey his command.’
Isabella’s heart beat fast with alarm. They would make her a prisoner. She knew what could happen to prisoners whom they wanted out of the way. She looked calmly at Villena, but her outward appearance belied the fear within her.
She said: ‘You must give me a little time to consider this.’
‘I will leave you and return tomorrow,’ said Villena. ‘But then you must tell me that you consent to this marriage. If not...’ He lifted his shoulders. ‘It would grieve me to make you my prisoner, but I am the King’s servant and I must obey his commands.’
With that he bowed and left her.
When he had gone she sent for Beatriz and told her all that had taken place.
‘You see,’ she said, ‘they are determined to be rid of me. And they will be rid of me in one way or another. I have been offered a choice. I may go to Portugal as the bride of Alfonso, or I must go to Madrid as the King’s prisoner. Beatriz, I have a feeling that, if I go to Madrid, one day my servants will come to me and find me as we found Alfonso.’
‘That shall not be!’ declared Beatriz hotly.
‘And the alternative... marriage with Alfonso? I swear I would prefer the Madrid prison.’
‘We have delayed too long,’ said Beatriz.
‘Yes,’ said Isabella, and her eyes began to sparkle, ‘we have delayed too long.’
‘The King,’ went on Beatriz, ‘no longer carries out the vows he made at Toros de Guisando.’
‘So why should I?’ demanded Isabella.
‘Why indeed! A messenger could be sent into Aragon. It is time you were betrothed. I will go to the Archbishop of Toledo and Ferdinand’s grandfather, Don Frederick Henriquez, and tell them you wish to see them urgently.’
‘That is right,’ said Isabella. ‘I will send an embassy into Aragon.’
‘This is no time,’ Beatriz declared, ‘for feminine modesty. This is a marriage of great importance to the state. Ferdinand’s father has asked for your hand, has he not?’
‘Yes, he has, and I shall send my embassy to tell him that I am now ready for marriage.’
‘It is time Ferdinand came to Castile. But, Isabella, Villena is here, and he is a determined man. It may well be that, before we have news from Ferdinand, he will have carried out his threat and you will be in that Madrid prison.’ Beatriz shuddered. ‘They will have to take me with you. I will taste everything before it touches your lips.’
‘Much good would that do!’ cried Isabella. ‘If they were attempting to poison me, they would poison you. What should I do without you? No. We will not fall into their hands. We will stay out of their Madrid prison. And I think I know how.’
‘Then pray tell me, Highness, for I am in dreadful suspense.’
‘Villena would have to take me out of Ocaña, and the people of Ocaña love me... not the King. If we let it be known that I am threatened, they would rally to me and make it impossible for Villena to take me away.’
‘That is the answer,’ Beatriz agreed. ‘You may leave this to me. I shall see that it is known throughout the town that Villena is here to force you into a marriage which is distasteful to you, and that you have sworn to take as husband none other than handsome Ferdinand of Aragon.’
The streets of Ocaña were crowded. People stood outside the castle and cheered themselves hoarse.
‘Isabella for Castile!’ they cried. ‘Ferdinand for Isabella!’
The children formed into bands; they made banners which they carried high. On some of these they had drawn grotesque figures to represent the middle-aged King of Portugal, and on others the young and handsome Ferdinand.
Sly songs were sung, extolling the beauty and bravery of Ferdinand, and jeering at the decrepit and lustful old man of Portugal.
And the purposes of these processions and their songs were: ‘We support Isabella, heiress to the crowns of Castile and Leon. And where Isabella wishes to marry, there shall she marry; and we will rise in a body against any who seek to deter her.’
The Marquis of Villena, watching the processions from a window of his lodgings, ground his teeth in anger.
She had foiled him... as yet, for how could he convey her through those rebellious crowds – his prisoner? They would tear him to pieces rather than allow him to do so.
The Archbishop of Toledo and Don Frederick Henriquez were with Isabella.
The Archbishop had declared himself to be completely in favour of the Aragonese match.
For, as he explained, this would be the means of uniting Castile and Aragon, and unity was needed throughout Spain. Isabella’s dream of an all-Catholic Spain had become the Archbishop’s dream. He brought all his fire and fanaticism and laid them at her feet.
‘The embassy,’ he said, ‘must be despatched into Aragon with all speed. Depend upon it, our enemies are growing restive. They will do all in their power to further the Portuguese match; and that, Highness, would be disastrous, as would any marriage which necessitated your leaving Castile.’
‘I am in entire agreement with you,’ said Isabella.
‘Then,’ cried Don Frederick Henriquez, ‘why do we hesitate? Let the embassy set out at once, and I’ll warrant that, in a very short time, my grandson will be riding into Castile to claim his bride.’
Thus it was that when Villena and the Portuguese envoys rode disconsolately out of Ocaña, Isabella’s embassy was riding with all speed to Aragon – and Ferdinand.
CHAPTER XII
FERDINAND IN CASTILE
A great sorrow had descended on the King of Aragon. His beloved wife was dying and he could not help but be aware of this.
Nor was Joan Henriquez ignorant of the fact. She had for several years fought against the internal disease which she knew to be a fatal one, and only her rare and intrepid spirit had kept her alive so long.
But there came a time when she could not ignore the warnings that she had but a few hours to live.
The King sat at her bedside, her hand in his. Ferdinand sat with them, and it was when the Queen’s eyes fell on her son that mingling emotions moved across her face.
There he was, her Ferdinand, this handsome boy of sixteen, with his fair hair and strong features, in her eyes as beautiful as a god. For him she had become the woman she was, and even on her death-bed she could regret nothing.
She, the strong woman, was responsible for the existing state of affairs in Aragon. She had taken her place by the side of her son and husband in the fight to quell rebellion. She was wise enough to know that they were fortunate because Aragon was still theirs. She had risked a great deal for Ferdinand.
The Catalans would never forget what they called the murder of Carlos. They had refused to admit any member of the Aragonese Cortes into Barcelona; they had elected, in place of John of Aragon, Rene le Bon of Anjou to rule over them, in spite of the fact that he was an ageing man and could not fight, as he would have to, to hold what they had bestowed upon him.
But he had a son, John, Duke of Calabria and Lorraine, a bold adventurer who, with the secret help of sly Louis XI, came to do battle against the King of Aragon. King John of Aragon was no longer young. To help him there was his energetic wife and his brave son Ferdinand; but there were times when John felt that the ghost of his murdered son, Carlos, stood between him and final victory.
For some years John’s eyesight had been failing him, and he lived in daily terror of going completely blind.
Now, beside his wife’s bed, he could say to himself: ‘She will be taken from me, even as my eyesight. But the loss of her will mean more than the loss of my sight.’