Виктория Холт: Castile for Isabella

‘I do not,’ said Henry. ‘I do not believe Isabella would allow any harm to befall me.’

Villena looked with scorn on the King and, as he did so, he placed his hand to his throat.

‘What ails you?’ asked Henry. ‘You look as sick as I do myself.’

‘It is nothing. A certain dryness of the throat. A certain discomfort, nothing more.’

‘You have not the same colour that you had.’

‘I have scarcely slept since I heard the news that Your Highness was here at Segovia in the midst of your enemies.’

‘Ah, if I had but known who were my friends and who my enemies I should have had a happier life.’

Villena looked startled. ‘You talk as though you had come to the end of it. No, Your Highness, you will recover from this attempt on your life. And it shall not be forgotten. Let us make certain of that.’

‘Well,’ said Henry, ‘if Isabella was behind a plot to poison me, she deserves imprisonment.’

In the town of Cuellar, whither Villena had taken the King, plans were made for the capture of Isabella.

‘Forces shall enter the town,’ said Villena. ‘Explosives will be thrown at the Alcazar; the inhabitants will be terror-stricken, and then it will be no difficult matter to secure the person of Isabella.’

Several months had passed since the King’s illness, but he had never fully recovered and was subject to attacks of vomiting.

As for Villena himself, that great energy which had sustained him seemed to be spent. He still planned; he still had ambitious schemes, but the pain in his throat persisted and he found it impossible to eat certain foods.

In the Alcazar at Segovia, Beatriz and her husband were aware of the plot to capture Isabella, and they doubled the guards at all vital points; thus when Villena’s troops tried to make a stealthy entry into the town they were discovered and the plan was frustrated.

Villena received the news almost with indifference.

And the next day even his spirit broke and he accepted the advice of his servants and stayed in his bed. Within a few days he was suffering great pain, and was unable to swallow food. He knew that he had not long to live.

He lay back, considering all the ambitions of his life and wondering whether it had been worth while. He had achieved great power; he had been at times the ruler of Castile; and now it was over and he must lie on his bed, the victim of a malignant growth in his throat which would destroy him, as his enemies had not been able to do.

Isabella remained at large. The people were rallying about her. And he, Villena, who had sworn that she should never come to the throne, was dying helplessly.

Henry could not accept the fact when the news was brought to him. Villena... dead!

‘But what shall I do?’ he said. ‘What shall I do now?’

He prayed for his friend; he wept for his friend. He had always believed that he would die long before Villena. He had lost his master and his servant, and he was bewildered.

His secretary Oviedo came to him.

‘Highness,’ said Oviedo, ‘there is a very important matter of which I must speak to you.’

Henry nodded for him to proceed.

‘On his death-bed the Marquis of Villena put this paper into my hand. It is your will, of which he was to be executor. I have glanced at it, Highness, and see it to be a document of the utmost importance, since it names the Princess Joanna as your heir.’

‘Take it away,’ said Henry. ‘How can I think of such matters when my dear friend has died and I am all alone?’

‘Highness, what shall I do with it?’

‘I care not what you do with it. I only wish to be left in peace.’

Oviedo bowed and went away.

He looked at the will. He knew the explosive power of its contents if they became known; they were capable of plunging Castile into civil war.

He could not decide what to do with it, so as a temporary measure he put it in a box, which he locked.

Henry went back to Madrid. He felt not only ill but very weary. He knew that Villena had been self-seeking, a man of immense ambitions, yet without him the King felt lost. He believed that the most unhappy time of his life had been when Villena had sided with his enemies and given his support to young Alfonso. He remembered his delight when Villena had returned to him.

‘And now,’ murmured Henry, ‘I am alone. He has gone before me, and I am sick and tired out with all the troubles about me.’

He was often ill; there was a return of that sickness which had attacked him in Segovia. Indeed he had never fully recovered from it.

Tears of self-pity often filled Henry’s eyes, and his doctors sought to rouse him from his lethargy. But there was nothing now which could give him the desire to live. His mistresses no longer interested him. There was nothing in life to sustain his flagging spirits.

It became clear to all in the immediate Court circle that Henry had not long to live. Ambitious noblemen began to court Isabella. The Cardinal Mendoza and the Count Benavente, who had supported first Alfonso and then turned to La Beltraneja, now began to turn again – this time towards Isabella.

Isabella was the natural successor. Her character had aroused admiration. She was of a nature to make a good Queen, and she had a strong husband in Ferdinand.

So, among others, Mendoza and Benavente came to Court, there to await the passing of the old sovereign and the nomination of the new.

On a cold December night in the year 1474, Henry lay on his death-bed.

Ranged round his bed were the men who had come to see him die, and among them was the Cardinal Mendoza and the Count Benavente. In the background hovered the King’s secretary, Oviedo. He was uneasy, for he had something on his mind.

Mendoza whispered to Benavente: ‘He cannot last long. That was the death-rattle in his throat.’

‘He cannot have more than an hour to live. It is time he received the last rites.’

‘One moment. He is trying to say something.’

The Cardinal and the Count exchanged glances. It might well be that what the King had to say had better not be heard by any but themselves.

The Cardinal bent over the bed. ‘Your Highness, your servants await your orders.’

‘Little Joanna,’ murmured the King. ‘She is but a child. What will become of her?’

‘She will be taken care of, Highness. Do not fret on her account.’

‘But I do. We were so careless... her mother and I. She is my heiress... Little Joanna. Who will care for her? My sister Isabella is strong. She can look after herself... but little Joanna... she is my heiress, I tell you. She is my heiress.’

The Cardinal said quickly: ‘The King’s mind wanders.’ The Count nodded in agreement.

‘I have left a will,’ went on Henry. ‘In it I proclaim her my heir.’

‘A will!’ The Cardinal was startled, for this was an alarming piece of information. He and the Count were only waiting for the end of Henry that they might go and pay their homage to the new Queen Isabella. A will could complicate matters considerably.

‘It is with Villena...’ murmured the King. ‘I gave it to Viilena.’

‘There is no doubt that the King’s mind wanders,’ whispered the Count.

‘It is with Villena,’ muttered Henry. ‘He will look after her. He will save the throne for Joanna.’

One of the attendants came to the two men who stood by the bed, and asked if he should call the King’s Confessor.

‘The King’s mind wanders,’ the Cardinal told him. ‘He believes the Marquis of Villena to be here in the Palace.’

The King’s eyes had closed and his head had fallen a little to one side. His breathing was stertorous. Suddenly he opened his eyes and looked at the men about the bed. He obviously did not recognise them. Then he said, and the words came thickly through his furred lips: ‘Villena, where are you, my friend? Villena, come nearer.’