Виктория Холт: Daughters of Spain

The brother and sister danced together. They were well matched and there was only a year’s difference in their ages. But what a contrast they made! This thought occurred both to Isabella and Catalina. It was so marked and people often referred to it when they saw Juan and Juana together. Their names were so much alike; they were of the same height; but one would never have guessed that they were brother and sister.

Even Juana’s hair seemed to grow rebelliously from her forehead; that touch of auburn was like their mother’s yet it was more tawny in Juana’s, so that she looked like a young lioness; her great eyes were always restless; her mood could change in a second. Juana gave the impression of never being tranquil. Even in sleep she had the appearance of restlessness.

How different was Juan with his fair face which resembled that of angels. Now he danced with his sister because she asked him to, and he knew that the thoughts of marriage and the husband she might have, had excited her. The dance would calm her; her physical exertion would help to allay the excitement of her mind.

If Juan did not want to dance when he was asked to do so, he immediately changed his mind. That was characteristic of Juan. He had a rare quality in not only wishing to please others but in finding that their wishes became his own.

Catalina went back to the window-seat, and looked out once more at the plain and the mountains and the arrivals and departures.

She found her sister Isabella standing beside her. Isabella put an arm about her as Catalina turned to smile. She had felt in that moment a need to protect the child from the ills which could befall the daughters of the House of Spain. Memories of Alonso always made her feel like this. Later she would seek out her mother’s confessor and talk to him of her sorrow. She preferred to talk with him because he never gave her easy comfort, but scolded her as he would scourge himself if necessary; and the sight of his pale, emaciated face never failed to comfort her.

There were times when she longed to go into a convent and spend her life in prayer until death came to unite her with Alonso. If she were not a daughter of Spain that would have been possible.

‘Look,’ said Catalina, pointing to a gaunt figure in a Franciscan robe, ‘there is the Queen’s confessor.’

Isabella looked down at the man who with his companion was about to enter the Alcazar. She could not clearly see the emaciated features and the stern expression of the monk, but she was deeply aware of them.

‘I am glad he is here,’ she said.

‘Isabella, he … he frightens me a little.’

Isabella’s face grew sterner.’ You must never be afraid of good men, Catalina; and there is not a better man in Spain than Ximenes de Cisneros.’

In her apartments the Queen sat at her writing-table. Her expression was serene but it was no indication of her thoughts. She was about to perform an unpleasant duty and this was painful to her.

Here I am, she thought, with my family all about me. Spain is more prosperous than she has been for many a year; we now have a united Kingdom, a Christian Kingdom. In the past three years, since together Ferdinand and I conquered the last Moorish stronghold, the Christian flag has flown over every Spanish town. The explorer Christobal Colon has done good work and Spain has a growing Kingdom beyond the seas. As Queen I rejoice in my country’s prosperity. As a mother I know great happiness because at this moment I have my entire family with me under one roof. All should be well and yet …

She smiled at the man who was sitting watching her.

This was Ferdinand, her husband; a year younger than herself he was still a handsome man. If there was a certain craftiness in the eyes, Isabella had always refused to recognise it; if his features were touched with sensuality Isabella was ready to tell herself that he was indeed a man and she would not have him otherwise.

He was indeed a man – a brave soldier, a wily statesman; a man who loved little on this Earth as he loved gold and treasure. Yet he had affection to spare for his family. The children loved him. Not as they loved their mother of course. But, thought Isabella, it is the mother who bore them who is closer to them than any father could be. That was not the answer. Her children loved her because they were aware of the deeper devotion which came from her; they knew that, when their husbands were chosen, their father would rejoice at the material advantages those marriages would bring; his children’s happiness would rank only as secondary. But their mother, who would also wish grand marriages for them all, would suffer even as they did from the parting.

They loved their mother devotedly. They alone knew of the tenderness which was so often hidden beneath the serenity, for it was only for them that Queen Isabella would lift the veil with which she hid her true self from the world. Now she was staring at the document which lay on the table before her and she was deeply conscious of Ferdinand’s attention which was riveted on it.

They must speak of it. She knew that he was going to ask her outright to destroy it.

She was right. His mouth hardened and for a moment she could almost believe that he hated her. ‘So you intend to make this appointment?’ Isabella was stung by the coldness of the tone. No one could convey more hatred and contempt in his voice than Ferdinand.

‘I do, Ferdinand.’

‘There are times,’ went on Ferdinand, ‘when I wish you would listen to my advice.’

‘And how I wish that I could take it.’

Ferdinand made an impatient gesture. ‘It is simple enough. You take the document and tear it in two. That could be an end to the matter.’

He had leaned forward and would have taken it, but Isabella’s plump white hand was immediately spread across it, protecting it.

Ferdinand’s mouth was set in a stubborn line which made him look childish.

‘I am sorry, Ferdinand,’ said Isabella.

‘So once again you remind me that you are Queen of Castile. You will have your way. And so … you will give this … this upstart the highest post in Spain, when you might …’

‘Give it to one who deserves it far less,’ said the Queen gently; ‘your son … who is not my son.’

‘Isabella, you talk like some country wife. Alfonso is my son. I have never denied that fact. He was born when you and I were separated … as we were so often during those early days. I was young … hot blooded … and I found a mistress as young men will. You must understand.’

‘I have understood and forgiven, Ferdinand. But that does not mean that I can give your bastard the Archbishopric of Toledo.’

‘So you’re giving it to this half-starved monk … this simple man … this low …’

‘He is of good family, Ferdinand. It is true he is not royal. But at least he is the legitimate son of his father.’

Ferdinand brought his fist down on the table. ‘I am weary of these reproaches. It has nothing to do with Alfonso’s birth. Confess it. You wish to show me … as you have so often … that you are Queen of Castile and Castile is of greater importance to Spain than is Aragon; therefore you stand supreme.’

‘Oh Ferdinand, that has never been my wish. Castile … Aragon … what are they compared with Spain? Spain is now united. You are its King; I its Queen.’

‘But the Queen will bestow the Archbishopric of Toledo where she wishes.’

Isabella looked at him sadly.

‘Is that not so?’ he shouted.

‘Yes,’ said Isabella, ‘that is so.’

‘And this is your final decision on the matter?’

‘It is my final decision.’

‘Then I crave Your Highness’s permission to retire.’ Ferdinand’s voice was heavy with sarcasm.