Виктория Холт: Castile for Isabella

Here she felt safe. Henry was her unfaithful husband; she had failed to give him children, which was the whole purpose of marriages such as theirs; yet Henry was kind to her. Indolent, lecherous, shallow, he might be, but he would never use physical violence against her. And how could she know what would befall her if she returned to her father’s Court?

Now he was smiling at her almost tenderly.

Surely, she thought, he could not smile at me like that unless he had some affection for me. Perhaps, like myself, he remembers the days when we were first married; that must be why he smiles at me so kindly.

But Henry, although he continued to smile, was scarcely aware of her. He was thinking of the new wife he would have when he had rid himself of poor, useless Blanche; she would naturally be young, this new wife, someone whom he could mould to his own sensual pleasure.

Once my father is dead, he told himself, I shall have my freedom.

He took Blanche’s hand and led her to the window. They looked out and saw that he had been right when he had said the people were beginning to gather down there. They were waiting impatiently. They longed to hear that the old King was dead and that a new era had begun.

The King asked his physician, Cibdareal, to come closer.

‘My friend,’ he whispered, ‘it cannot be much longer.’

‘Preserve your strength, Highness,’ begged the physician.

‘Of what use? That I may live a few minutes more? Ah, Cibdareal, I should have lived a happier life, I should be a happier man now if I had been born the son of a mechanic, instead of the son of the King of Castile. Send for the Queen. Send for my son Henry.’

They were brought to his bedside and he looked at them quizzically.

The Queen’s eyes were wild. She does not regret the passing of her husband, thought the King; she regrets only the passing of power. ‘Holy Mother,’ he prayed, ‘keep her sane. Then she will be a good mother to our little ones. She will look after their rights. Let not the cares, which will now be hers, drive her the way her ancestors have gone... before her children are of age to care for themselves.’

And Henry? Henry was looking at him with the utmost compassion, but Henry’s fingers he knew were itching to seize the power which would shortly be his.

‘Henry, my son,’ said John, ‘we have not always been the best of friends. I regret that.’

‘I too regret, Father.’

‘But let us not brood on an unhappy past. I think of the future. I leave two young children, Henry.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Never forget that they are your brother and sister.’

‘I will not forget.’

‘Look after them well. I have made provision for them, but they will need your protection.’

‘They shall have it, Father.’

‘You have given me your sacred promise and I can now go to my rest content. Respect my children’s mother.’

‘I will’

The King said that he was tired, and his son and second wife moved away from the bed while the priests came forward.

Within half an hour the news was spreading through the Palace:

‘King John II is dead. Henry IV is now King of Castile.’

The Queen was ready to leave the Palace.

Her women were clustered about her; one carried the baby in her arms; another grasped the hand of Isabella.

Muffled in her black cloak the little girl waited – listening, watching.

The Queen was in a mood of suppressed excitement, which caused Isabella great anxiety.

She listened to her mother’s shrill voice. ‘Everything must appear to be normal. No one must guess that we are going away. I have my children to protect.’

‘Yes, Highness,’ was the answer.

But Isabella had heard the women talking: ‘Why should we go as though we are fugitives? Why should we run from the new King? Is she mad... already? King Henry knows we are leaving. He makes no effort to detain us. It is of no consequence to him whether we stay here or go away. But we must go as though the armies of Castile are in pursuit of us.’

‘Hush... hush... . She will hear.’ And then, the whispers: ‘The little Isabella is all ears. Do not be deceived because she stands so quietly.’

So he would not hurt us, thought Isabella. Of course dear Henry would never hurt us. But why does my mother think he would?

She was lifted in the arms of a groom and set upon a horse. The journey had begun.

So the Queen and her children left Madrid for the lonely castle of Arevalo.

Isabella remembered little of the journey; the movement of the horse and the warm arms of the groom lulled her to sleep, and when she awoke it was to find herself in her new home.

Early next day her mother came into that apartment in which Isabella had slept, and in her arms she carried the sleeping Alfonso, and with her were two of her trusted attendants.

The Queen set Alfonso on the bed beside his sister. Then she clenched her fists together in the well-remembered gesture and raised her arms above her head as though she were invoking the saints.

Isabella saw her lips move and realised that she was praying. It seemed wrong to be lying in bed while her mother prayed, and Isabella wondered what to do. She half rose, but one of the women shook her head vigorously to warn her to remain where she was.

Now the Queen was speaking so that Isabella could hear her.

‘Here I shall care for them. Here I shall bring them up so that when the time comes they will be ready to meet their destiny. It will come. It will surely come. He will never beget a child. It is God’s punishment for the evil life he has led.’

Alfonso’s little fingers had curled themselves about Isabella’s. She wanted to cry because she was afraid; but she lay still, watching her mother, her blue eyes never betraying for a second that this lonely place which was now to be her home, and the rising hysteria in her mother, terrified her and filled her with a foreboding which she was too young to understand.

John Pacheco, Marquis of Villena, was on his way to answer a summons from the King.

He was delighted with the turn of events. From the time he had come to Court – his family had sent him to serve with Alvaro de Luna and he had entered the household of that influential man as one of his pages – he had attracted the notice of the young Henry, heir to the throne, who was now King of Castile.

Henry had delighted in the friendship of Villena, and John, Henry’s father, had honoured him for his service to the Prince. He had been clever and was in possession of great territories in the districts of Toledo, Valencia and Murcia. And now that his friend Henry was King he foresaw greater glories.

On his way to the council chamber he met his uncle, Alfonso Carillo, Archbishop of Toledo, and they greeted each other affectionately. They were both aware that together they made a formidable pair.

‘Good day to you, Marquis,’ said the Archbishop. ‘I believe we are set for the same destination.’

‘Henry requested me to attend him at this hour,’ answered Villena. ‘There is a matter of the greatest importance which he desires to discuss before making his wishes publicly known.’

The Archbishop nodded. ‘He wants to ask our advice, nephew, before taking a certain step.’

‘You know what it is?’

‘I can guess. He has long been weary of her.’

‘It is time she returned to Aragon.’

‘I am sure,’ said the Archbishop, ‘that you, my wise nephew, would wish to see an alliance in a certain quarter.’

‘Portugal?’

‘Exactly. The lady is a sister of Alfonso V, and I have heard nothing but praise of her personal charms. And let us not dismiss these assets as frivolous. We know our Henry. He will welcome a beautiful bride; and it is very necessary that he should welcome her with enthusiasm. That is the best way to ensure a fruitful union.’