Виктория Холт: Spain for the Sovereigns

Ferdinand’s manner had changed. His eyes glittered as he addressed Gordo in stern tones. ‘Don Ximenes Gordo, you have not long to make your peace, and you have many sins on your conscience.’

Gordo, the bully, had suddenly lost all his swaggering arrogance.

‘This cannot be . . .’ he cried.

‘It is to be,’ Ferdinand told him.

‘That rope is for . . . for . . .’

‘You have guessed right. It is for you.’

‘But to condemn me thus . . . without trial! Is this justice?’

‘It is my justice,’ said Ferdinand coolly. ‘And in my father’s absence I rule Aragon.’

‘I demand a trial.’

‘You would be better advised to concern yourself with the salvation of your soul. Your time is short.’

‘I will not submit . . .’

Ferdinand signed to the guards, two of whom came forward to seize Gordo.

‘I beg of you . . . have mercy,’ he implored.

‘Pleasant as it is to hear you beg,’ said Ferdinand, ‘there will be no mercy for you. You are to die, and that without delay. This is the reward for your crimes.’ Ferdinand signed to the priest. ‘He has urgent need of you and the time is passing.’

‘There have been occasions,’ said Gordo, ‘when I have served your father well.’

‘That was before you became puffed up by your arrogance,’ answered Ferdinand, ‘but it shall not be forgotten. Your wife and children shall receive my protection as reward for the service you once gave my father. Now, say your prayers or you will leave this earth with your manifold sins upon you.’

Gordo had fallen to his knees; the priest knelt with him.

Ferdinand watched them.

And after an interval he signed to the hangman to do his work.

There was silence in the streets of Saragossa. The news was being circulated in the great houses and those haunts frequented by the rabble. There had been arrests, and those who had been seized were the more prominent of Gordo’s supporters.

Then in the market-place the body of a man was hung that all might see what befell those who flouted the authority of the rulers of Aragon.

Gordo! It seemed incredible. There was the man who a few days before had been so sure of his ability to rule Saragossa. And now he was nothing but a rotting corpse.

The young Prince of Aragon rode through the streets of Saragossa; there were some who averted their eyes, but there were many to cheer him. They had been mistaken in him. They had thought him a young boy who could not even take first place in Castile. They had been mistaken. Whatever happened in Castile, he was, in the absence of his father, master of Aragon.

The volume of the cheers began to increase.

‘Don Ferdinand for Aragon!’

Ferdinand began to believe that he would successfully complete the task which he had come to Saragossa to perform. He had been ruthless; he had ignored justice; but, he assured himself, the times were harsh and, when dealing with men such as Gordo, one could only attack with weapons similar to their own.

So far he had succeeded; and success was all that mattered.

The money so desperately needed was coming in, and if it was less than he and his father had hoped for that was due to the poverty of the people, not to their unwillingness to provide it.

Soon he would rejoin his father; and on the way he would call and see his little Alonso.

Messengers from Castile came riding into Saragossa. They had come in great haste, fearing that they might arrive to find Ferdinand had already left.

Ferdinand had them brought to him immediately.

He was thoughtful as he read what his wife had written. It was all the more effective because Isabella was by nature so calm.

She was asking him to return without delay. There was trouble about to break in Castile. An army was gathering to march against her, and many powerful nobles of Castile had gone over to the enemies’ camp.

These men were insisting that she was not the rightful heir to the crown. It was true she was the late King Henry’s half-sister, and he had no son. But he had a daughter – whom many believed to be illegitimate, and who was even known as La Beltraneja because her father was almost certainly Beltran de la Cueva, Duke of Albuquerque.

Those who had set themselves against Isabella now sought to place La Beltraneja on the throne of Castile.

There was a possibility that Portugal was giving support to their enemies.

Castile was in danger. Isabella was in danger. And at such a time she needed the military skill and experience of her husband.

‘It may well be,’ wrote Isabella, ‘that my need of you at this time is greater than that of your father.’

Ferdinand thought of her, kneeling at her prie-Dieu or with her advisers carefully weighing the situation. She would not have said that, had she not meant it with all her heart.

He shouted to his attendants.

‘Prepare to leave Saragossa at once. I shall need messengers to go to my father and let him know that what he needs is on its way to him. As for myself and the rest of us, we must leave for Castile without delay.’

Isabella, Queen of Castile, looked up from the table at which she sat writing. There was a quiet pleasure in her serene blue eyes, and those who knew her very well wondered if what they suspected was true. She had been, these last weeks, a little more placid than usual, and through that placidity shone a certain joy. The Queen of Castile could be keeping a secret to herself; and it might be one which she would wish to remain unknown until she could share it with her husband.

The ladies-in-waiting whispered together. ‘Do you think it can be true? Is the Queen pregnant?’

They put their heads together and made calculations. It was only a few weeks since Ferdinand had ridden away to join his father.

‘Let us pray that it is true,’ said these ladies, ‘and that this time it will be a son.’

Even as she dealt with the papers on her table, Isabella too was saying to herself: ‘This time let it be a son.’

She was very happy.

That destiny for which she had been prepared was being fulfilled; she was married to Ferdinand after years of waiting, after continual hazards and fears that the marriage which had been planned in their childhood might not take place.

But, largely due to her own determination – and that of Ferdinand and his family – the marriage had taken place; and on the death of Ferdinand’s father, when Ferdinand would be King of Aragon, the crowns of Aragon and Castile would be united; and, apart from that small province still occupied by the Moors, Isabella and Ferdinand could then be said to rule over Spain.

It was certainly the realisation of a dream.

And Ferdinand, her husband, a year younger than herself, handsome, virile, was all that she had hoped for in a husband – or almost. She had to admit that he did not accept with a very good grace the fact that she was Queen of Castile and he her Consort. But he would in time, for she had no intention of letting a rift grow between them. Theirs was to be a marriage, perfect in all respects. She was going to ask his advice in all matters; and if it should ever be necessary for her to make a decision with which he did not agree she would employ the utmost tact and try to persuade him in time to agree with her.

She smiled fondly.

Dear Ferdinand. He would hate this separation as much as she did. But it was his duty to go to his father’s help when he was called upon to do so. And as her good confessor, Tomas de Torquemada, used to tell her – in those days when he had undertaken her religious instruction – no matter what the rank, duty came first.