Ferdinand was a wily strategist where his own advancement was concerned. His sharp acquisitive eyes took in every salient point.
When Bajazet ignored Frederick’s cry for help, Ferdinand set in motion negotiations between France and Spain, and the result was a new treaty of Granada.
This document was a somewhat sanctimonious one. In it was stated that war was evil and it was the duty of all Christians to preserve peace. Only the Kings of France and Aragon could pretend to the throne of Naples, and as the present King had called in the help of the enemy of all Christians, Bajazet, the Turkish Sultan, there was no alternative left to the Kings of France and Aragon, but that they should take possession of the Kingdom of Naples and divide it between them. The north would be French, the south Spanish.
This was a secret treaty; and so it should remain while the Spaniards and the French prepared to take what the treaty made theirs.
‘This should not be difficult,’ Ferdinand explained to Isabella. ‘Pope Alexander will support us against Frederick. Frederick was a fool to refuse his daughter Carlotta to Cesare Borgia. Alexander will never forgive this slight to a son on whom he dotes; and the hatred of the Borgias is implacable.’
Isabella was delighted by the cunning strategy of her husband.
She said to him on the signing of the treaty: ‘I do not know what would have become of us but for you.’
These words gave Ferdinand pleasure. He often thought what an ideal wife Isabella would have been if she had not been also Queen of Castile, so determined to do her duty that she subdued everything else to that; yet it was precisely because she was Queen of Castile that he had wanted her to be his wife.
His busy mind was looking ahead. There would have to be a campaign against Naples. It was important that the friendship with England should not be broken. He would be glad when he could marry Maria into Portugal.
It would be wise to discuss the matter of England with Isabella while she was in this humble mood.
He laid his hand on Isabella’s shoulder and looked serenely into her eyes.
‘Isabella, my dear,’ he said, ‘I have been patient with you because I know of the love you bear our youngest. The time is passing. She should now begin to prepare for her journey to England.’
He saw the fear leap into Isabella’s eyes.
‘I dread to tell her this,’ she said.
‘Oh come, come, what is this folly? Our Catalina is going to be Queen of England.’
‘She is so close to me, Ferdinand, more close than any of the others. There are going to be many sad tears when we are parted. She is so alarmed by the thought of this journey that sometimes I fear she has a premonition of evil.’
‘Is this my wise Isabella talking?’
‘Yes, Ferdinand, it is. Our eldest daughter believed she was going to die in childbed, and she did. In the same way our youngest has this horror of England.’
‘It is time I was firm with you all,’ said Ferdinand. ‘There is one way to stop our Catalina’s fancies. Let her go to England, let her see for herself what a fine thing it is to be the wife of the heir to the English throne. I’ll swear that in a few months’ time we shall be having glowing letters about England. She will have forgotten Spain and us.’
‘I have a feeling that Catalina will never forget us.’
‘Break the news to her then.’
‘Oh, Ferdinand, so soon?’
‘It has been years. I marvel at the patience of the King of England. We dare not lose this match, Isabella. It is important to my schemes.’
Isabella sighed. ‘I shall give her a few more days of pleasure,’ she said. ‘Let her enjoy another week in Spain. There will not be many weeks left to her in which to enjoy her home.’
Isabella knew now that she could no longer put off the date of departure.
There was an urgent call to Granada, where little Miguel was suffering from a fever. The Queen rode into the city with Ferdinand and her two daughters. The news of Miguel’s illness had had one good result, for because of it Isabella had put off giving Catalina instructions to prepare to leave Spain.
How different the city looked on this day. There were the towers of the Alhambra, rosy in the sunlight; there were the sparkling streams; but Granada had lost its gaiety. It was a sad city since Ximenes had ridden into it and had decided that only Christians should enjoy it.
Everywhere there was evidence of those days when it had been the Moorish capital, so that it was impossible to ride through those streets without thinking of the work which was steadily going forward under the instructions of the Archbishop of Toledo.
Isabella’s heart was heavy. She was wondering now what she would find when she reached the Palace. How bad was the little boy? She read between the lines of the messages she had received and she guessed that he was very bad indeed.
She felt numbed by this news. Was it, she asked herself, that when blow followed blow, one was prepared for the next?
Ferdinand would not mourn. He would tell her that she must be grateful because they had Charles.
But she would not think of Miguel’s dying. She herself would nurse him. She would keep him with her; she would not allow even her State duties to separate her from the child. He was the son of her darling daughter Isabella who had left him to her mother when she died. No matter how many grandsons her children should give her, she would always cherish Miguel, as the first grandson, the heir, the best loved.
She reached that part of this magnificent building which had been erected about the Court of Myrtles and made her way to the apartments which opened on to the Courtyard of Lions.
Her little Miguel could not have lived his short life in more beautiful surroundings. What did he think of the gilded domes and exquisite loveliness of the stucco work? He would be too young as yet to understand the praises which were set out on the walls, praises to the Prophet.
When she went to the apartment which was his nursery, she noticed at once that his nurses wore that grave look which she had become accustomed to see on the faces of those who waited at the sick-beds of the members of her family.
‘How fares the Prince?’ she asked.
‘Highness, he is quiet today.’
Quiet today! She was filled with anguish as she leaned over his bed. There he lay, her grandson who was so like his mother, with the same patient resignation in his gentle little face.
‘Not Miguel,’ prayed Isabella. ‘Have I not suffered enough? Take Charles … if you must take from me, but leave me my little Miguel. Leave me Isabella’s son.’
What arrogance was this? Was she presuming to instruct Providence?
She crossed herself hastily: ‘Not my will but Thine.’
She sat by the bed through the day and night; she knew that Miguel was dying, that only by a miracle could he throw off this fever and grow up to inherit his grandparents’ kingdom.
He will die, she thought wearily; and on the day he dies, our heir is Juana. And the people of Aragon will not accept a woman. But they will accept that woman’s son. They will accept Charles. Charles is strong and lusty, though his mother grows wilder every day. Juana inherits her wildness from my mother. Is it possible that Charles might inherit wildness from his?
What trouble lay in store for Spain? Was there no end to the ills which could befall them? Was there some truth in the rumours that theirs was an accursed House?
She was aware of the short gurgling breaths for which the child was struggling.
She sent for the doctors, but there was nothing they could do.
This frail little life was slowly slipping away.
‘Oh God, what next? What next?’ murmured Isabella.