Spain for the Sovereigns - Plaidy Jean - Страница 14

There was one riding furiously towards the enemy, who cared not for the old cry of Castile. The Archbishop of Toledo enjoyed battle, and he was determined to exploit this opportunity to the full.

The battle had begun, and furiously it raged; it was as though every soldier in those armies knew what depended upon its issue.

Ferdinand shouted to his men. They must fight. In the name of Isabella, they must fight. Their future and the future of their Queen, the future of Castile, depended on them.

There were many who remembered the Queen; they thought of the pregnant woman who had endured great discomfort to come to them that she might move them with her eloquence, that she might remind them of their duty to Castile. They remembered that these men who fought against them were their old enemies, the Portuguese, and those Castilians who had seen fit to fight against their own Queen.

Lances were shattered, and swords were drawn; and men grappled hand to hand with one another in the melee.

And Ferdinand’s heart leaped with joy, for he knew that the outcome of this day’s battle would be victory for him.

But there were a few men in the Portuguese Army who were determined that it should not be so. Edward de Almeyda, the Portuguese flag bearer, was an example to all. He had snatched the Portuguese Emblem from Castilian soldiers who were about to trample it in the dust and, with a shout of triumph, held it aloft, a sign to all Portuguese that the day was not lost for Alfonso.

But even as he rode away a Castilian soldier had lifted his sword and cut off the right arm which held the flag. But as it would have fallen, Almeyda, ignoring the loss of his right arm, had caught it in his left hand.

‘Joanna and Alfonso!’ he shouted as swords hacked at the arm which now held the flag aloft.

With both arms shattered and bleeding he managed to transfer the standard to his mouth; and he was seen riding among his defeated fellow countrymen, armless, the standard in his mouth, for some minutes before he was unhorsed.

Even such heroism could not save the day. Prince John was missing. Alfonso had also disappeared.

Ferdinand found himself master of the field.

In the castle of Castro Nufio, some miles from the battlefield, the young Joanna waited in apprehension. She knew that this battle would prove decisive, and she believed that her affianced husband would be the victor.

Then all hope of a peaceful existence for her would be over. She did not believe that Isabella would ever quietly stand aside and allow her to take the throne.

What would happen to her if Isabella’s armies were victorious she could not imagine; all she knew was that neither solution could bring her much joy; and she greatly wished that she could have been allowed to stay in the Madrid convent, living a life which was governed by bells.

All day she had waited for news. She had placed herself at a window in the fortified castle where she could command a good view of the surrounding country.

Soon, she knew, a rider would appear, perhaps several; she would know then whether the result of the conflict was defeat or victory for Alfonso.

It was almost dusk when her vigil was rewarded, and she saw a party of riders coming towards the castle. She stood alert, her eyes strained, and as they came nearer she recognised the leader of the party. It was Alfonso, and with him were four of his men.

She knew what this must mean; for Alfonso did not come riding to Castro Nuno as a victor; it was obvious from his demeanour that he came as a fugitive.

She hurried down, calling as she went: ‘The King is riding to the castle. He will be here in a few minutes.’

From all over the castle men and women came hurrying into the hall, and Joanna was in the courtyard when Alfonso and his party rode in.

Poor Alfonso! Indeed, he looked an old man today. He was dishevelled and dirty, his face grey; and for the first time she felt tender towards him.

He leaped from his horse and threw the reins to a groom, crying: ‘The army is routed. We must leave almost immediately for Portugal.’

‘I am to go to Portugal?’ stammered Joanna.

Alfonso put a hand on her shoulder. His eyes were suddenly alight with that quixotic expression which was not unendearing.

‘Do not despair,’ he said. ‘It is a defeat. A temporary defeat. I will win your kingdom for you yet.’

Then he took her hand and they went into the castle.

A few hours later, when Alfonso and his party had refreshed themselves, they left Castro Nuno and rode westward over the border into Portugal; and Joanna went with them.

Isabella was at Tordesillas when the news was brought to her. Ferdinand triumphant! The King of Portugal and his son John in flight! Through great endeavour and fervent prayer she had overcome yet another ordeal which in the beginning had seemed impassable.

Never before had Isabella been so sure of her destiny as now.

At the Convent of Santa Clara she gave thanks to God for this further proof of His favour. There in that beautiful building which had once been the palace of a king’s mistress she remained in her cell, on her knees, while she reminded herself that she owed this victory to the intervention of God. The atmosphere of the Convent of Santa Clara suited her mood. She, the triumphant Queen of Castile, was prostrated in humility, in that beautiful building with its Moorish baths which had once been the delight of Dona Maria de Padilla, who herself had delighted Pedro the Cruel; these walls, which must once have been the scene of voluptuous entertainments, now enclosed the refuge of silent-footed nuns.

Isabella wanted all to know that the victory was due to Divine guidance. All her subjects must understand that she was now the undoubted ruler of Castile.

The next day, in a loose and simple gown, her feet bare, Isabella led a procession to the Church of St Paul, where, in the greatest humility, she gave thanks to God for this victory which could leave no doubt that she, and she alone, was Queen of Castile.

Although the battle which had been fought between Toro and Zamora was decisive, it did not bring complete peace to Castile.

Louis XI of France, who had come to the aid of Alfonso, was still giving trouble, and Ferdinand could not disband his army; and when Isabella studied the effect of the war, following on the disastrous reigns of her half-brother and her father, she knew that her task had hardly begun.

It was September before she was able to spend a few days in Ferdinand’s company.

She was in residence at the Madrid Alcazar and, when messengers brought her news that he was on the way, she set her cooks to prepare a banquet worthy of the victor.

Isabella was not by nature extravagant and she knew that Ferdinand was not. How could they be when they considered the state of the exchequer; when they had had to work so hard to get together the means to fight their enemies? But although Isabella was cautious in spending money, she knew that there were times when she must put aside that caution.

Those about her must understand the importance of this victory. They must not whisper among themselves that the Queen of Castile and her Consort were a parsimonious pair who did not know how to live like royalty.

This would be the first real celebration she and Ferdinand together had had since the Battle of Toro, and everyone must be aware of its importance.

Ferdinand came riding in triumph to the Alcazar, and Isabella was waiting to receive him.

As she stood, surrounded by her ministers and attendants, and Ferdinand came towards her, her heart beat faster at the sight of him. He had aged a little; the lines were more deeply marked on his face; that alertness of his eyes was accentuated. But even in those first few seconds the rivalry was there between them. Ferdinand in battle was the supreme leader. Here in the Alcazar he was merely the Queen’s Consort. He had to adjust himself, and the adjustment was somewhat distasteful.