Виктория Холт: Spain for the Sovereigns

When her father had died she had heard that her aunt Isabella had been proclaimed Queen of Castile; and Isabella had said that she, Joanna, was to have her own household and an entourage worthy of a Princess of Castile. Isabella was kind, she knew; and she would be good to her as long as she did not allow anyone to say that she was the King’s legitimate daughter.

But how could a girl of twelve prevent people from saying what they wished to say?

Joanna lived in fear that one day important men would come to her, disturbing her quiet existence among her books and music; she was terrified that they would kneel at her feet, swear allegiance and tell her that they were going to serve her with their lives.

She did not want that and all it implied. She wanted to live in peace, away from these awe-inspiring men.

And now she was on her way to Madrid because her mother had sent for her.

She had heard many stories of her mother. She was very beautiful, it was said; and when she first came into Castile to be the wife of the King, although her manner had been frivolous by Castilian standards, no one had guessed that she would be responsible for one of the greatest and most dangerous controversies which had ever disturbed the succession of Castile.

And she, the Princess Joanna, was at the very heart of that controversy. It was an alarming thought.

She had often met the man who was reputed to be her father. He was tall and very handsome; a man of great importance and a brave soldier. But he was not her mother’s husband, and therein lay the root of the trouble.

When she saw her mother on this occasion she would ask her to tell her sincerely the truth; and if Beltran de la Cueva, Duke of Albuquerque, was indeed her father she would make this widely known and in future refuse to allow anyone to insist on her right to the throne.

It was a big undertaking for a twelve-year-old girl, and Joanna feared that she was not bold or very determined; but there must be some understanding if she were ever to live in peace.

And, now that she was going to her mother’s establishment in Madrid, she trembled to think what she might discover there. She had heard whispers and rumours from her servants of the life her mother led in Madrid. When she had left the King she had kept a lavishly extravagant house where, it was said, parties of a scandalous nature frequently took place.

Joanna had several brothers and sisters, she believed. They, however, were more fortunate than she was. They shared the stigma of illegitimacy, but nobody could suggest that they had even a remote claim to the throne.

She was alarmed to contemplate what sort of house this was to which she was going; and as she, with her little company, rode along the valley of the Manzanares the plain which stretched about them seemed gloomy and full of foreboding. She turned her horse away from the distant Sierras towards the town, and as they entered it they were met by a party of riders.

The man at the head of this party rode up to Joanna and, bowing his head, told her that he had been watchful for her coming.

‘I am to take you to the Queen, your mother, Princess,’ he told her. ‘She has gone to a convent in Madrid, and it would be advisable for you to join her there with all speed.’

‘My mother. . . in a convent!’ cried Joanna; for it was the last place in which she would expect to find her gay and frivolous mother.

‘She thought it wise to rest there awhile,’ was the answer. ‘You will find her changed.’

‘Why has my mother gone to this convent?’ she asked.

‘She will explain to you when you see her,’ was the answer.

They rode into the town, and eventually they reached the convent. Here Joanna was received with great respect by the Mother Superior, who immediately said: ‘You are fatigued, Princess, but it would be well if you came to see the Queen without delay.’

‘Take me to her, I pray you,’ said Joanna.

The Mother Superior led the way up a cold stone staircase to a cell, which contained little more than a bed and a crucifix on the wall; and here lay Joanna, Princess of Portugal, Queen to the late Henry IV of Castile.

Joanna knelt by her mother’s bed, and the older Joanna smiled wanly. Kneeling there, the Princess knew that it was the approach of death which had driven her mother to repentance.

Joanna sat by her mother’s bed.

‘So you see,’ said the Dowager Queen of Castile, ‘I have not long to live. Who would have thought that I should follow Henry so soon?’

‘Oh, my mother, if you live quietly, if you rest here, you may recover and live for many more years.’

‘No, my child. It is not possible. I am exhausted. I am worn out. I have lived my life fully, recklessly. Now the price is demanded for such a life. I am repentant, yet I fear that if I were young again, if I felt life stirring within me, I should find the temptation which beckoned me irresistible.’

‘You are too young to die, Mother.’

‘Yet my life has been full. I have had lovers . . . my child . . . so many lovers that I cannot recall a half of them. It was an exciting life . . . a life of pleasure. But now it ebbs away.’

‘Mother, Castile has paid dearly for your pleasure.’

Over the Dowager Queen’s face there spread a smile of amusement and mischief.

‘I shall never be forgotten. I, the wayward Queen, had a hand in shaping the future of Castile, did I not?’

Young Joanna shivered.

‘Mother, there is a question I must ask you. It is important that I know the truth. So much depends on it.’

‘I know what is on your mind, my child. You ask yourself the same question which all Castile asks. Who is your father? It is the most important question in Castile.’

‘It is the answer that is important,’ said Joanna softly. ‘I would know, Mother. If I am not the King’s daughter, I think I should like to go into a convent like this and be quiet for a very long time.’

‘A convent life! That is no life at all!’

‘Mother, I beg of you, tell me.’

‘If I told you that Henry was your father what would you do?’

‘There is only one thing I could do, Mother. I should be the rightful Queen of Castile, and it would be my duty to take the throne.’

‘What of Isabella?’

‘She would have no alternative but to relinquish the throne.’

‘And do you think she would? You do not know Isabella, nor Ferdinand . . . nor all those men who are determined to uphold her.’

‘Mother, tell me the truth.’

The Dowager Queen smiled. ‘I am weak,’ she said. ‘I will tell you later if I can. Yet, how could even I be sure? Sometimes I think you are like the King; sometimes you remind me of Beltran. Beltran was a handsome man, daughter. The handsomest at Court. And Henry . . . Oh, it seems so long ago. I look back into mists, my child. I cannot remember. I am so tired now. Sit still awhile and I will try to think. Give me your hand, Joanna. Later it will come back to me. Who . . . who is my Joanna’s father. Was it Henry? Was it Beltran?’

Joanna knelt by the bedside and her eyes were imploring. ‘I must know, Mother. I must know.’

But the Dowager Queen had closed her eyes, and her lips murmured:’ Henry, was it you? You, Beltran, was it you?’

Then she slipped into sleep; her face was so white and still that Joanna thought she was already dead.

The Dowager Queen of Castile had been laid in her tomb and Joanna remained in the convent. The bells were tolling and as she listened to their dismal notes she thought: I shall never know the answer now.

The peace of the convent seemed to close in around her, sheltering her from the outside world in which a mighty storm was rising; it was a storm which she could not escape. It was for this reason that the peace of the convent seemed doubly entrancing.