Виктория Холт: Spain for the Sovereigns

‘What could happen to him?’ demanded Ferdinand suddenly fierce.

‘Oh, it is nothing, merely the anxieties of a mother.’ She had risen and put her robe about her. ‘Come, we will take a peep at him while he sleeps.’

She picked up a candlestick and beckoned to Ferdinand, who threw on a few clothes and followed her to a door which she opened quietly.

In a small cot a boy of about three years was sleeping. One plump hand gripped the bedclothes, and the hair which curled about the well-shaped head had a gleam of chestnut in its brown.

This was a very beautiful little boy, and Ferdinand felt an immense pride as he looked down on him.

He and Isabella had a daughter, but this was his son, his first-born son; and the chubby charm and the resemblance to himself filled Ferdinand with an emotion which was rare to him.

‘How soundly he sleeps!’ he whispered; and he could not resist stooping over the bed and placing his lips against that soft head.

In that moment an impulse came to him to pick up the sleeping child and to take him from his mother, to take him into Castile, to present him to Isabella and say to her: ‘This is my son, my first-born son. The sight of him fills me with joy, and I will have him brought up here at Court with any children you and I may have.’

He could never do such a thing. He imagined Isabella’s reactions; and one thing he had learned since his marriage was the necessity of respecting Isabella in all her queenly dignity.

What a foolish thought when what he had to do was prevent Isabella’s ever hearing of this child’s existence.

The little boy awakened suddenly. He stared up at the man and woman by his bedside. Then he knew who the man was. He leaped up and a pair of small hot arms were about Ferdinand’s neck.

‘And what is the meaning of this?’ cried Ferdinand in mock anger.

‘It means my father is come,’ said the child.

‘Then who are you?’ asked Ferdinand.

‘I am Alonso of Aragon,’ was the answer, and spoken like a Prince. ‘And you are Ferdinand of Aragon.’ The boy put his face close to Ferdinand’s and peered into it; with his forefinger he traced the line of Ferdinand’s nose.

‘I will tell you something,’ he said.

‘Well, what will you tell me?’

‘We are something else too.’

‘What is that?’

‘You are my father. I am your boy.’

Ferdinand crushed the child in his arms. ‘It is true,’ he said. ‘It is true.’

‘You are holding me too tightly.’

‘It is unforgivable,’ answered Ferdinand.

‘I will show you how I am a soldier now,’ the boy told him.

‘But it is night and you should be asleep.’

‘Not when my father has come.’

‘There is the morning.’

The boy looked shrewd and at that moment was poignantly like Ferdinand. ‘Then he may be gone,’ he said.

Ferdinand’s hand stroked the glossy hair.

‘It is his sorrow that he is not with you often. But tonight I am here and we shall be together.’

The boy’s eyes were round with wonder. ‘All through the night,’ he said.

‘Yes, and tomorrow you will sleep.’

‘Tomorrow I will sleep.’

The boy leaped out of bed. He was pulling open a trunk. He wanted to show his toys to his father. And Ferdinand knelt by the trunk and listened to the boy’s chatter while his mother looked on and ambition gleamed in her eyes.

After a while the boy said: ‘Now tell me a story, Father. Tell me of when you were a soldier. Tell me about battles . . . and fighting and killing.’

Ferdinand laughed. He sat down and nursed the boy in his arms.

And Ferdinand began to tell a story of his adventures, but before he was halfway through his son was asleep.

Ferdinand laid him gently in his bed, then with the boy’s mother he tiptoed out of the room.

She said with a sudden fierceness: ‘You may have legitimate sons, princes born to be kings, but you will never have a child whom you can love as you love that one.’

‘I fear you may be right,’ said Ferdinand.

The door between the two rooms was fast shut, and Ferdinand leaned against it, looking at his mistress in the candlelight; she was no less beautiful when her eyes shone with ambition for her son.

‘You may forget the love you once had for me,’ she went on, ‘but you will never forget me as the mother of your son.’

‘No,’ answered Ferdinand, ‘I shall never forget either of you.’

He drew her to him and kissed her.

She said: ‘In the morning you will have gone. When shall I see you again?’

‘Soon I shall be passing this way.’

‘And you will come,’ she answered, ‘to see the boy?’

‘To see you both.’ He feigned a passion he did not altogether feel, for his thoughts were still with the child. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘there is little time left to us.’

She took his hand and kissed it.’ You will do something for him, Ferdinand. You will look after him. You will give him estates . . . titles.’

‘You may trust me to look after our son.’

He led her to the bed and deliberately turned his thoughts from the child to his passion for the mother.

Later she said: ‘The Queen of Castile might not wish our son to receive the honours which you as his father would be ready to bestow upon him.’

‘Have no fear,’ said Ferdinand a little harshly. ‘I shall bestow them nevertheless.’

‘But the Queen of Castile . . .’

A sudden anger against Isabella came to Ferdinand. Were they already talking in Catalonia about his subservience to his wife? The Queen’s Consort! It was not an easy position for a proud man to find himself in.

‘You do not imagine that I will allow anything or anyone to come between me and my wishes for the boy!’ he exclaimed. ‘I will make a promise now. When the Archbishopric of Saragossa falls vacant it shall be bestowed upon him . . . for a beginning.’

The Viscountess of Eboli lay back, her eyes closed; she was the satisfied mistress, the triumphant mother.

Early next morning, Ferdinand took a hurried leave of the Viscountess of Eboli and kissed their sleeping son; then he sent one of his attendants back to the inn to tell his men who had slept there that he had gone on ahead of them and that they should overtake him before he crossed the Segre and passed into Aragon.

And as he rode on with his few attendants he tried to forget the son from whom he must part, and concentrate on the task ahead of him.

He called one of his men to ride beside him.

‘What have you heard of this Ximenes Gordo who, it seems, rules Saragossa?’

‘That he is a man of great cunning, Highness, and, in spite of his many crimes, has won the support of the people.’

Ferdinand was grave. ‘I am determined,’ he said, ‘to countenance no other rulers but my Father and myself in Saragossa. And if this man thinks to set himself against me, he will discover that he is foolish.’

They rode on in silence and were shortly joined by the rest of the party. Ferdinand believed that none of them was aware of the visit he had paid to the Viscountess of Eboli. Yet, he thought, when it is necessary to bestow honours on the boy there will be speculation.

He felt angry. Why should he have to pay secret calls on a woman? Why should he demean himself by subterfuge? He had never been ashamed of his virility before his marriage. Was he – Ferdinand of Aragon – allowing himself to be overawed by Isabella of Castile?

It was an impossible situation; and Isabella was like no other woman he had ever known. It was strange that when they had first met he had been most struck by her gentleness.

Isabella had two qualities which were strange companions – gendeness and determination.