Was it her fancy, or did he hold his head a little higher? Was he a little more proud, a little more masterful than before?
In the midst of his passion he whispered to her: ‘First you are my wife, Isabella. Do not forget that. Only second, Queen of Castile.’
She did not contradict him, for he did not expect an answer. He had spoken as though he made a statement of fact. It was not true. If she had never known it before, it had become clear to her after the ceremony in the square and the Cathedral.
But she loved him tenderly and with passion. She was a wife and a mother, but the crown was her spouse, and the people of Castile – the suffering and the ignorant – they were her children.
She would not tell him now. But in time he must come to understand. He would, for he too had his duty. He was younger than she was, and for all his experience he was perhaps not so wise, though not for all the world would she tell him so.
He will understand, she assured herself, but he is younger than I – not only in years – and perhaps I am more serious by nature. It will take a little time before he understands as I do.
His grandfather, the Admiral Henriquez, was delighted at the turn of events.
He placed himself at the service of his grandson.
The day after Ferdinand’s return he presented himself and embraced the young husband with tears in his eyes.
‘This is the proudest moment of my life. You will be King of Aragon. You are already King of Castile.’
Ferdinand looked a little sulky. ‘One hears much talk of the Queen of Castile, little of its King.’
‘That is a matter which should be set right,’ went on the Admiral. ‘Isabella has inherited Castile, but that is because the Salic law does not exist in Castile as it does in Aragon. If it were accepted here, you, as the nearest male claimant to the throne, through your grandfather Ferdinand, would be King of Castile – and Isabella merely your consort.’
‘That is so,’ agreed Ferdinand, ‘and it is what I would wish. But everywhere we go it is Isabella... Isabella... and they never forget to remind me that she is the reina proprietaria. It is almost as though they accept me on sufferance.’
‘It shall be changed,’ said the Admiral. ‘Isabella will do all that you ask of her.’
Ferdinand smiled smugly. He was remembering her passionate reception of him, and he believed it to be true.
‘It shall be done. She adores me. She can deny me nothing.’
Isabella listened in dismay.
He was laughing, his arm about her, his lips against her hair. ‘So, my love, this shall be done. The King and his beloved consort, eh? It is better so. You, who are so reasonable, will see this.’
Isabella felt dismay smite her, but her voice was firm, though sad, when she replied: ‘No, Ferdinand, I do not see it.’
He released her, and his frown was ugly.
‘But surely, Isabella...’
She wanted to cry out: Do not use that cold tone when you speak to me. But she said nothing. Instead she saw again the people in the square... the people who had suffered during the evil reign of her half-brother. And still she said nothing.
He went on: ‘So you hold me in such little esteem!’
‘I hold you in the greatest esteem,’ she told him. ‘Are you not my husband and the father of my child?’
Ferdinand laughed bitterly. ‘Brought here as a stallion! Is that what I mean to you? Let him do what he has been brought for – after that he is of little account.’
‘But how can you say this, Ferdinand? Do I not ask your advice? Do I not listen? Do we not rule these kingdoms together?’
Ferdinand stood up to his full height. For the first time she noticed the lights of cupidity in his eyes, the arrogance of his mouth; yet these faults in him did not make her love him less, although they confirmed her belief that she herself must rule Castile and Leon.
‘I am your husband,’ he said. ‘It is you who should listen to my advice.’
‘In some matters, yes,’ she answered gently. ‘But have you forgotten that I am the Queen of Castile?’
‘Forget it! How can I! You will not allow me to do that, I can see that I demean myself by staying here. I can see that I am of no account whatsoever. Madam, Highness, I no longer wish to remain. Is it necessary for me to ask permission of the Queen of Castile to retire?’
‘Oh Ferdinand... Ferdinand...’ she cried; and the tears started to her eyes.
But he had bowed abruptly and left her.
It was the first quarrel, but she realised how easily there might have been others.
He had believed until this moment that he would have no difficulty in relegating her to second place.
She wanted to go and find him, to tell him that all that she possessed was his. She wanted to say: What do I care for power, if in gaining it I lose your love?
But she remembered his face as he had stood there. Ferdinand, a little vain, a little greedy. Handsome, virile Ferdinand who lacked the modesty, the dedicated desire to serve which were Isabella’s.
There would only be one ruler of Castile from this moment until the end of her days; and that must be Isabella.
So she waited, fighting back her tears, trying to soothe her anguish.
It is not pleasure that is important; it is not happiness, she reminded herself. It is doing one’s duty in that state of life to which God has called one.
The Court knew of the quarrel between Isabella and Ferdinand.
The Archbishop of Toledo smiled slyly and shrewdly. Here was a situation after his own heart. The Admiral had put these ideas into the head of that young bantam, and the Archbishop was going to vanquish the Admiral; and if it meant Ferdinand’s retirement to Aragon in a sulk, that could not be helped.
The Archbishop was delighted at the prospect of dousing the arrogance of master Ferdinand.
‘There is no law in Castile,’ he told the council, ‘to prevent a woman from inheriting the crown. Therefore there can be no question of Isabella’s becoming merely the consort of King Ferdinand. It is Ferdinand who is the consort of Queen Isabella.’
Ferdinand was furious.
‘I shall not stay here to be so insulted,’ he declared. ‘I shall return to Aragon.’
The news spread through the Palace, and reached Isabella.
‘Ferdinand is preparing to return to Aragon... for ever.’
Ferdinand was somewhat alarmed by the storm he had raised.
He was piqued and humiliated, but his father would call him a fool if he returned to Aragon. And a fool he would be.
He was hot-tempered and impulsive. He should never have declared his intention of returning. Now he would either have to go or make his position even more humiliating by remaining.
Already the news was spreading beyond the Palace. A rift between Isabella and Ferdinand, because Ferdinand wishes to take precedence and Isabella refuses to allow it!
He felt bewildered, for the first time realising that he was after all only a very young man.
Outside the Palace little groups of people had gathered. They were waiting for the news that the marriage, which had seemed so ideal, was broken and that Ferdinand was to go back to Aragon.
He had seen them from the windows. He had seen the sneers on their faces. They would boo him out of Castile, for they were all firmly behind Isabella.
But what could he do?
His servants were waiting for orders.
‘I shall return to Aragon,’ he had cried before them all. ‘I cannot wait to shake the dust of Castile from my shoes!’