Виктория Холт: Spain for the Sovereigns

It was growing dark as the cavalcade rode into the silent city of Barcelona on its way to the Palace of the Kings of Aragon. On it went, through streets so narrow that the tall grey houses – to which the smell of sea and harbour clung – seemed to meet over the cobbles.

At the head of this company of horsemen rode a young man of medium height and of kingly bearing. His complexion was fresh and tanned by exposure to the wind and sun; his features were well formed, his teeth exceptionally white, and the hair, which grew far back from his forehead, was light brown with a gleam of chestnut.

When any of his companions addressed him, it was with the utmost respect. He was some twenty-two years old, already a warrior and a man of experience, and only in the determination that all should respect his dignity did he betray his youth.

He turned to the man who rode beside him. ‘How she suffered, this city!’ he said.

‘It is true, Highness. I heard from the lips of the King, your father, that when he entered after the siege he could scarce refrain from weeping – such terrible sights met his eyes.’

Ferdinand of Aragon nodded grimly. ‘A warning,’ he murmured, ‘to subjects who seek to defy their rightful King.’

His companion replied: ‘It is so, Highness.’ He dared not remind Ferdinand that the civil war which had recently come to an end had been fought because of the murder of the rightful heir – Ferdinand’s half-brother Carlos, his father’s son by his first wife. It was a matter best forgotten, for now Ferdinand was very ready to take and defend all that his ambitious father, all that his doting mother, had procured for him.

The little cavalcade had drawn up before the Palace in which John of Aragon had his headquarters, and Ferdinand cried in his deep resonant voice: ‘What ails you all? I am here. I, Ferdinand, have come!’

There was immediate bustle within. Doors were flung open and grooms ran forward surrounding the party. Ferdinand leaped from his horse and ran into the Palace, where his father, who had heard his arrival, came to meet him, arms outstretched.

‘Ferdinand! Ferdinand!’ he cried, and his eyes filled with tears as he embraced his son. ‘Ah, I knew you would not delay your coming. I knew you would be with me. I am singularly blessed. I was given the best of wives, and although she has now been taken from me, she has left me the best of sons.’

The seventy-eight-year-old King of Aragon showed no signs of failing. Still strong and energetic – in spite of recent operations which had restored the sight of both eyes – he rarely permitted himself to show any weakness. But there was one emotion which he always failed to hide; that was the love he had for his dead wife and his son by her: Ferdinand.

His arm about Ferdinand’s shoulder, John led his son into a small apartment and called for refreshment. When it was brought and they were alone Ferdinand said: ‘You sent for me, Father; that was enough to bring me hastening to your side.’

John smiled. ‘But such a newly married husband, and such a charming wife!’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Ferdinand, with a complacent smile. ‘Isabella was loth to lose me, but she is deeply conscious of duty, and when she heard of your need, she was certain that I should not fail you.’

John nodded. ‘And all is well . . . in Castile, my son?’

‘All is well, Father.’

‘And the child?’

‘Healthy and strong.’

‘I would your little Isabella had been a boy!’

‘There will be boys,’ said Ferdinand.

‘Indeed there will be. And I will say this, Ferdinand. When you have a son, may he be so like yourself that all will say: “Here is another Ferdinand come among us.” I cannot wish you better than that.’

‘Father, you think too highly of your son.’ But the young man’s expression belied the charge.

John shook his head. ‘King of Castile! And one day . . . perhaps not far distant, King of Aragon.’

‘For the second title I would be content to wait all my life,’ said Ferdinand. ‘As for the first . . . as yet it is little more than a courtesy title.’

‘So Isabella is the Queen and you the Consort . . . for a time . . . for a time. I doubt not that very soon you will have brought her to understanding.’

‘Mayhap,’ agreed Ferdinand. ‘It is regrettable that the Salic law is not in force in Castile as in Aragon.’

‘Then, my son, you would be undoubted King and Isabella your Consort. Castile should be yours through your grandfather and namesake but for the fact that females are not excluded from the Castilian throne. But Isabella, the female heir, is your wife, my dearest son, and I am sure that this little difficulty is only a temporary one.’

‘Isabella is very loving,’ Ferdinand replied with a smile.

‘There! Then soon all will be as we could wish.’

‘But let us talk of your affairs, Father. They are of greater moment, and it is for this purpose that I have come to you.’

King John looked grave. ‘As you know,’ he said, ‘during the revolt of the Catalans it was necessary for me to ask help of Louis of France. He gave it to me, but Louis, as you know, never gives something for nothing.’

‘I know that the provinces of Roussillon and Cerdagne were placed in his custody as security, and that now they have risen in revolt against this foreign yoke.’

‘And have called to me for succour. Alas, the Seigneur du Lude has now invaded Roussillon with ten thousand infantry and nine hundred lances. Moreover, he has brought supplies that will keep his armies happy for months. The civil war has been long. You know how it has drained the exchequer.’

‘We must raise money, Father, in some way.’

‘That is why I have called you. I want you to go to Saragossa and by some means raise the money for our needs. Defeat at the hands of France would be disastrous.’

Ferdinand was silent for a few seconds. ‘I am wondering,’ he said at length, ‘how it will be possible to wring the necessary funds from the estates of Aragon. How do matters stand in Saragossa?’

‘There is much lawlessness in Aragon.’

‘Even as in Castile,’ answered Ferdinand. ‘There has been such strife for so long that civil affairs are neglected and rogues and robbers spring up all around us.’

‘It would seem,’ John told him, ‘that a certain Ximenes Gordo has become King of Saragossa.’

‘How can that be?’

‘You know the family. It is a noble one. Ximenes Gordo has cast aside his nobility. He has taken municipal office and has put himself into a position of such influence that it is not easy, from this distance, to deal with him. All the important posts have been given to his friends and relations and those who offer a big enough bribe. He is a colourful rogue and has in some manner managed to win the popular esteem. He makes a travesty of justice and I have evidence that he is guilty of numerous crimes.’

‘His trial and execution should be ordered.’

‘My dear son, to do so might bring civil strife to Saragossa. I have too much on my hands. But if you are going to raise funds for our needs a great deal will depend on Ximenes Gordo.’

‘The King of Aragon dependent on a subject!’ cried Ferdinand. ‘That seems impossible.’

‘Does it not, my son. But I am in dire need, and far from Saragossa.’

Ferdinand smiled. ‘You must leave this matter to me, Father. I will go to Saragossa. You may depend upon it, I will find some means of raising the money you need.’

‘You will do it, I know,’ said John. ‘It is your destiny always to succeed.’