Spain for the Sovereigns - Plaidy Jean - Страница 15

He took Isabella’s hand, bowed over it and put his lips against it.

‘Welcome, my husband,’ she said, and her voice had lost its habitual calm. ‘Welcome, my dearest husband.’

The heralds blew a few triumphant notes on their trompas and the drummers beat their baldosas.

Then Isabella laid Ferdinand’s hand on her arm, and this was the signal for them to enter the castle.

There was feasting and music, and Isabella was happier than she had been for a very long time.

Ferdinand did not leave her side during the banquet and the ball which followed, and she believed that he had such an affection for her that he ceased to fret because in Castile she was supreme.

Isabella almost wished that she were not a queen on that night, and that she and Ferdinand could have retired in peace from their guests and spent an hour or so with their little seven-year-old Isabella.

When the ball was at last over and they had retired to their apartments she reminded him that it was eight years almost to the month since they had married.

‘It is difficult to believe it is so long,’ said Isabella, ‘for in that eight years we have seen far too little of each other.’

‘When the kingdom is at peace,’ Ferdinand answered, ‘there will not be these separations.’

‘I shall be so much happier then. Oh, Ferdinand, what should I have done without you? You have brought victory to Castile.’

‘It is only my duty,’ he said. She saw the faintly sullen lines beginning to form about his mouth, and she went swiftly to him and put an arm about his shoulders.

‘We have a great task before us, Ferdinand,’ she said, ‘but I thank God that we are together.’

He was a little mollified. ‘Now it is our task to deal with the French,’ he told her.

‘You think it will be difficult, Ferdinand?’

‘No, I do not think so. Louis has his hands full with the trouble between himself and Burgundy, and now that we have driven Alfonso back where he belongs he’ll have little heart for this fight.’

‘Soon, then, we shall have peace, and then, Ferdinand, begins our real task.’

‘I have news for you. Arevalo has made advances. I think he is prepared to forget the claims of Joanna and offer his allegiance to you.’

‘That is excellent news.’

‘It shows which way the wind blows, eh?’

‘And the Archbishop of Toledo?’

‘He will follow doubtless.’

‘Then victory will indeed be ours.’

Ferdinand seized her hands and drew her to her feet. She was comely; she was a woman; and here in the bedchamber he was no longer merely the Consort of the Queen.

‘Have we not fought for it, sacrificed for it?’ he demanded. ‘Why, Isabella, you might have lost your life. You were very ill when you lost our child.’

‘It is a great grief to me . . . a continual grief. Yet our crown depended on the army I could raise.’

‘And all these months,’ went on Ferdinand, ‘I have scarcely seen you.’ He drew her towards him. ‘We are young, eh, Isabella. We are husband and wife. The quickest way to forget our sorrow is to have a son who will replace the child we lost. We have won a great victory, Isabella, and this should not be beyond our powers.’

Then he laughed and lifted her in his arms. That cold dignity dropped from her as though it were a cloak which he had loosened. And there was Isabella, warm, loving, eager.

It was during Ferdinand’s stay at the Madrid Alcazar that their son was conceived.

From his residence at Alcala de Henares, Alfonso de Carillo, the Archbishop of Toledo, grimly reviewed the situation.

King Alfonso had fled with Joanna into Portugal. There were victories all over Castile for Ferdinand. Many of the Archbishop’s possessions had already passed into the hands of Ferdinand, and very soon he himself would do so.

Ferdinand would have no mercy on him. Was this the end, then, of an exciting and glorious career?

His only hope lay with the Queen, and Isabella, after all, was the ruler of Castile.

He would write to her reminding her of all she owed him. It was true that he had boasted of having raised her up and that he would cast her down. He had been wrong. He had not understood the force of her character. He had believed her to be steadfast and firm in her determination to support what she believed to be right. So she was. But she was shrewd also; or was it that her belief in her destiny was so strong that she forced others to share that belief even against their will?

The Archbishop of Toledo, statesman and soldier, was forced to admit that he had been foolish in allying himself with the wrong side.

Now he must humble himself. So he wrote to Isabella offering her his allegiance. He reminded her of all that he had done for her in the past. He asked pardon for his folly and arrogance.

Ferdinand, who was with Isabella when this plea arrived, laughed scornfully. ‘This is the man who, when you were risking your life to ride about the country pleading for funds, took five hundred lances and rode at the head of them to serve our enemy. He must think we are fools.’

Isabella was thinking of that occasion when she had called at his palace and the Archbishop had said that if she entered by one door he would go out at the other. It was hard to forget such an insult. It was also hard to forget that occasion when she had been threatened with capture at Madrigal, and the Archbishop of Toledo had come galloping to her rescue.

She smiled. He was a fiery old man, whose dignity must be preserved at all costs. And he had been piqued by her reliance on Ferdinand and Cardinal Mendoza.

‘We should not be too harsh with the old Archbishop,’ mused Isabella.

Ferdinand looked at her in amazement.

‘Public execution should be his lot.’

‘Once he was my very good friend,’ she reminded him.

‘He was also our very bad enemy. It will be good for the people to see what happens to those who work against us.’

Isabella shook her head. ‘I should never agree to the execution of the Archbishop,’ she said.

‘You are a sentimental woman.’

‘That may be, but I cannot forget all he once did for me.’

Ferdinand snapped his fingers. ‘There was a time, Isabella, when defeat stared us in the face. If Alfonso had been a better general we should not be rulers of Castile at this moment. Fugitives we should be. Or you might. I should doubtless have died on the field of battle.’

‘Do not speak of it,’ said Isabella.

‘Then I pray you be reasonable. This man is dangerous.’

‘This man is old and broken in spirit.’

‘Such as he is never accept age; their spirit is unbreakable.’

‘I would rather have him my friend than my enemy.’

‘Then send him where he can be neither.’

‘I could not do that, Ferdinand.’

‘Nevertheless . . .’

Gently she interrupted: ‘I shall not do it, Ferdinand.’

She watched the slow flush spread over Ferdinand’s face. He clenched his hands and said between his teeth: ‘I intrude. I had forgotten. You are the Queen. I ask Your Highness’s permission to retire.’

With that he bowed and left her.

It was not the first of such scenes. Isabella sighed. She feared it would not be the last. But she was right – she knew she was right.

She must rule Castile with that dignity and calm of which she – and so few others – was capable. Anger and resentment could never go hand in hand with justice.

The Archbishop had been her bitter enemy, she knew; but he had also been her friend.

She had decided how he should be dealt with. He should buy his pardon. He was rich, and the royal exchequer was low. He should remain in exile at Alcala de Henares for the rest of his life.

He would be saddened, of course, by his exile from Court. But he was ageing, and he would find plenty to occupy him at Alcala de Henares. He was an alchemist of some ability, and he would turn his immense energy into that field for the years that were left to him.