Castile for Isabella Page 17

  Isabella smiled at them wanly. She found a faint pleasure in the fact that they could comfort themselves thus, for they were two dear good friends who would suffer with her. She even allowed herself to be cheered a little. She must do something to lift herself from the blank despair into which she had fallen.

  All through the night she had scarcely slept. She would awake from a doze, and the terrible knowledge would be there like a jailer sitting by her bed.

  She dreamed of him; she saw him laying hands on her mother, making his obscene suggestions; and in her dream she ceased to be a looker-on, but the central figure in the repulsive scene.

  She was pale when her women came to her. She asked that only Beatriz and Mencia should wait upon her. It would be unbearable to face any others, to see their pitying glances, for surely everyone would pity her.

  Beatriz and Mencia were anxious. They talked together in her presence, because often when they addressed her she did not answer, for she did not hear.

  ‘We shall hear no more of this,’ said Beatriz. ‘Of course Pedro Giron cannot marry.’

  ‘Of course he cannot!’

  They did not tell Isabella that the news was spreading through the Court that the marriage was not to be long delayed, because it was going to be the means of luring Villena and the Archbishop from the side of the rebels. ‘Once the marriage is announced, the rebels will become of less importance. Once it is fact, Villena and the Archbishop will stand firmly with the King, who will be their kinsman.’

  They were glad that Isabella remained in her apartments; they did not wish her to hear what was being said.

  The Queen came to see Isabella, and she was looking well pleased.

  Isabella was lying on her bed when she entered. Beatriz and Mencia curtsied to the floor.

  ‘What is wrong with the Infanta?’ asked Joanna.

  ‘She has been a little indisposed this day,’ Beatriz told her. ‘I fear she is too sick to receive Your Highness.’

  ‘That is sad,’ said Joanna. ‘She should be rejoicing at the prospect before her.’

  Beatriz and Mencia lowered their eyes; and the Queen went past them to the bed.

  ‘Why, Isabella,’ she said, ‘I am sorry to see you sick. What is wrong? Is it something you have eaten?’

  ‘It is nothing I have eaten,’ said Isabella.

  ‘Well, I have good news for you. Perhaps you were a little anxious, eh? My dear sister, there is no need for further anxiety. I have come to tell you that a dispensation has arrived from Rome. Don Pedro is released from his vows. There is now no impediment to the marriage.’

  Isabella said nothing. She had known that there would be no difficulty in Don Pedro’s obtaining his dispensation, because his powerful brother desired it.

  ‘Well,’ coaxed Joanna, ‘does that not make you feel ready to leave your bed and dance with joy?’

  Isabella raised herself on her elbow and looked stonily at Joanna.

  ‘I shall not marry Don Pedro,’ she said. ‘I shall do everything in my power to prevent such an unworthy marriage for a Princess of Castile.’

  ‘Stubborn little virgin,’ said the Queen lightly. She put her face close to Isabella’s and whispered: ‘There is nothing to fear, my dear, in marriage. Believe me, like so many of us, you will find much to delight you. Now, leave your bed and come down to the banquet which your brother is giving to celebrate this event.’

  ‘As I have nothing to celebrate, I shall stay here,’ Isabella replied.

  ‘Oh come . . . come, you are being somewhat foolish.’

  ‘If my brother wishes me to come to his banquet, he will have to take me there by force. I warn you that should he do so, I shall then announce that this marriage is not only against my wishes but that the very thought of it fills me with dismay.’

  The Queen tried to hide her discomfiture and anger.

  ‘You are sick,’ she said. ‘You must stay in your bed. Take care, Isabella. You must not over-excite yourself. Remember how your mother was affected. Your brother and I wish to please you in every possible way.’

  ‘Then perhaps you will leave me now.’

  The Queen inclined her head.

  ‘Good day to you, Isabella. You need have no fear of marriage. You take these things too seriously.’

  With that she turned and left the apartment; and when Isabella called Beatriz and Mencia to her bedside she saw from the blank expression on their faces that they had heard all, and that now even they had lost all hope.

  Preparations for the wedding were going on at great speed.

  Villena and the Archbishop had brought their tremendous energy to the event. Henry was as eager. Once the marriage had taken place, the leaders of his enemies would become his friends.

  Henry had always said that gifts should be bestowed on one’s enemies to turn them into friends; he was following that policy now, for there was not a greater gift he could bestow, and on a more dangerous enemy, than the hand of his half-sister on Don Pedro.

  There was murmuring in certain quarters. Some said that now Villena and his uncle would be more powerful than ever, and that was scarcely desirable; a few even deplored the fact that an innocent young girl was being given to a voluptuary of such evil reputation. But many declared that this was a way to put an end to civil war, and that such conflicts could only bring disaster to Castile.

  Once the marriage had taken place and Villena and his uncle had transferred their allegiance from the rebels to the King’s party, the revolt would collapse; Alfonso would be relegated to his position of heir to the throne, and there would no longer be this dangerous situation of two Kings ‘reigning’ at the same time.

  As for Isabella, she felt numb with grief and fear as the days passed. She had lost a great deal of weight, for she could eat little. She had grown pale and drawn because she could not sleep.

  She spent the days in her own apartments, lying on her bed, scarcely speaking; she prayed for long periods.

  ‘Let me die,’ she implored, ‘rather than suffer this fate. Holy Mother of God, kill one of us . . . either him or myself. Save me from this impending dishonour and kill me that I may not be tempted to kill myself.’

  Somewhere in Spain was Ferdinand; had he heard of the fate which was about to fall upon her? Did he care? What had Ferdinand been thinking, all these years, of their betrothal? Perhaps he had not seen their possible union as she had, and to him she had been merely a match which would be advantageous to him. If he heard that he had lost her, perhaps he would shrug his shoulders, and look about him for another bride.

  Ferdinand, fighting side by side with his father in his own turbulent Aragon, would have other matters with which to occupy himself.

  She liked to imagine that he might come to save her from this terrible marriage. That was because she was a fanciful girl who had dreamed romantic dreams. She could not in her more reasonable moments hope that Ferdinand – a year younger than herself and as powerless as she was – could do anything to help her.

  Her great comfort during these days of terror was Beatriz, who never left her. At night Beatriz would lie at the foot of her bed and, during the early hours of morning when sleep was quite impossible, they would talk together and Beatriz would make the wildest plans, such as flight from the Palace. This was impossible, they both knew, but there was a little comfort to be derived from such talk – or at least so it seemed in the dreary hours before dawn.

  Beatriz would say: ‘It shall not be. We will find some means of preventing it. I swear it! I swear it!’

  Her deep vibrating voice would shake the bed and, such was the power of her personality, she made Isabella almost believe her.

  There was great strength in Beatriz; she had not the same love of law and order which was Isabella’s main characteristic. There had been times in the past when Isabella had warned Beatriz against her rebellious attitude to life; now she was glad of it, glad of any mite of comfort which could come her way.

  With the coming of each day
, Isabella felt her load of misery growing.

  ‘No escape,’ she murmured to herself. ‘No escape. And each day it comes nearer.’

  Andres de Cabrera came to visit his wife. He had scarcely seen her since Isabella had heard that she was to marry Don Pedro.

  ‘I cannot leave her,’ Beatriz had told him, ‘no . . . not even for you. I must be with her all through the night, for I fear she might be tempted to do herself some injury.’

  Isabella received Andres with as much pleasure as she could show to anyone. He was very shocked to see the change in her. Gone was the serene Isabella. He felt saddened to see such a change; and he was doubly alarmed to see that Beatriz was almost equally affected.

  ‘You cannot go on in this way,’ he remonstrated. ‘Highness, you must accept your fate. It is an evil one, I know, but you are a Princess of Castile. You will be able to extract obedience from this man.’

  ‘You can talk like that!’ stormed Beatriz. ‘You can tell us to accept this fate! Look at her . . . look at my Isabella, and think of him . . . that . . . that . . . But I will not speak his name. Is it not enough that we are aware of him every hour of the day and night!’

  Andres put his arm about his wife’s shoulders. ‘Beatriz, my dearest, you must be reasonable.’

  ‘He tells me to be reasonable!’ cried Beatriz ‘It seems, Andres, that you do not know me if you can imagine I am going to stand aside and be reasonable while my beloved mistress is handed over to that coarse brute.’

  ‘Beatriz . . . Beatriz . . .’ He drew her to him and was aware of something hard in the bodice of her gown.

  She laughed suddenly. Then she put her hand into her bodice and drew out a dagger.

  ‘What is this?’ cried Andres growing pale as her flashing eyes rested upon him.

  ‘I will tell you,’ said Beatriz. ‘I have made a vow, husband. I have promised Isabella that she shall never fall into the hands of that crude monster. That is why I carry this dagger with me day and night.’

  ‘Beatriz, have you gone mad?’

  ‘I am sane, Andres. I think I am the sanest person in this Palace. As soon as the Grand Master of Calatrava approaches my mistress, I shall be there between them. I shall take my dagger and plunge it into his heart.’

  ‘My dearest . . . what are you saying! What madness is this?’

  ‘You do not understand. Someone must protect her. You do not know my Isabella. She, so proud, so . . . so pure . . . I think that she will kill herself rather than suffer this degradation. I shall save her by killing him before he has a chance to besmirch her with his foulness.’

  ‘Give me that dagger, Beatriz.’

  ‘No,’ said Beatriz, slipping it into the bodice of her dress.

  ‘I demand that you give it to me.’

  ‘I am sorry, Andres,’ she answered calmly. ‘There are two people in this world for whom I would give my life if necessary. You are one. She is the other. I have sworn this solemn vow. There shall be no consummation of this barbarous marriage. That is the vow I have sworn. So it is no use your asking me for this dagger. It is for him, Andres.’

  ‘Beatriz, I implore you . . . think of our life together. Think of our future!’

  ‘There could be no happiness for me if I did not do this thing for her.’

  ‘I cannot allow you to do it, Beatriz.’

  ‘What will you do, Andres? Inform on me? I shall die doubtless. Perhaps they will torture me first; perhaps they will say, This is a plot to assassinate Isabella’s bridegroom. So, Andres, you will inform against your wife?’

  He was silent.

  ‘Andres, you will do no such thing. You must leave this to me. I have sworn he shall not deflower her. It is a sacred vow.’

  Her eyes were brilliant and her cheeks were scarlet; she looked very beautiful; and as powerful as a young goddess – tall, handsome and full of fire.

  And he loved her dearly. He knew her well enough to understand that this was no wild talk. She was bold and completely courageous. He had no doubt that she would keep her word and, when the moment came, she would lift her hand and plunge the dagger into the heart of Isabella’s bridegroom.

  And when he murmured: ‘It must not be, Beatriz!’ she answered: ‘It cannot be otherwise.’

  In his house at Almagro Don Pedro Giron was making preparations for his wedding. He had lost no time since the arrival of the dispensation from Rome.

  He strolled about his apartment while his servants made ready his baggage. He put on the rich garments in which he would be married, and strutted before them.

  ‘Look!’ he cried to his servants. ‘Here you see the husband of a Princess of Castile. How does he look, eh?’

  ‘My lord,’ was the answer, ‘there could not be a more worthy husband of a Princess of Castile.’

  ‘Ah!’ laughed Don Pedro. ‘She will find me a worthy husband, I’ll promise you.’

  And he continued to laugh, thinking of her – the prim young girl who had been in hiding when he had made certain proposals to her mother. He remembered her standing before them, her blue eyes scornful. He would teach her to be scornful!

  He gave himself up to pleasant contemplation of his wedding night. Afterwards, he promised himself, she should be a different woman. She would never again dare show her scorn of him. Princess of Castile though she was he would show her who was her master.

  He gave himself up to his sensual dreaming, to the contemplation of an orgy which would be all the more enticing because it would be shared by a prim and – oh, so sedate – Princess.

  ‘Come on,’ he cried. ‘You sluggards, work harder. It is time we left. It is a long journey to Madrid.’

  ‘Yes, my lord. Yes, my lord.’

  How docile they were, how eager to please! They knew it would be the worse for them if they were not. She would soon learn also.

  What a blessing it was to be the brother of a powerful man. But people must not forget that Don Pedro himself was also powerful – powerful in his own right.

  One of the self-appointed tasks of Don Pedro was to assure those about him that, although he drew some of his power from his brother’s high office, he was himself a man to be reckoned with.

  He scowled at his servants. He was impatient to leave. He longed for the journey to be over; he longed for the wedding celebrations to begin.

  With great pomp Don Pedro set out on the journey to Madrid. All along the road people came out to greet him; graciously he accepted their homage. Never had he been so pleased with himself. Why, he reckoned, he had come farther even than his brother, the Marquis. Had the Marquis ever aspired to the hand of a Princess? What glorious good fortune that he had joined the Order of the Calatrava and thus had escaped the web of matrimony. How disconcerting it would have been if this opportunity had come along and he had been unable to take advantage of it because of a previous entanglement. But no, a little dispensation from Rome had been all that was needed.

  They would stay the first night at Villarubia, a little hamlet not far from Ciudad Real. Here members of the King’s Court had come to greet him. He noticed with delight their obsequious manners. Already he had ceased to be merely the brother of the Marquis of Villena.

  He had the innkeeper brought before him.

  ‘Now, my man,’ he shouted, as he swaggered in his dazzling garments, ‘I doubt you have ever entertained royalty before. Now’s your chance to show us what you can do. And it had better be good. If it is not, you will be a most unhappy man.’

  ‘Yes, my lord . . . yes, Highness,’ stuttered the man. ‘We have been warned of your coming and have been working all day for your pleasure.’

  ‘It is what I expect,’ cried Don Pedro.

  He was a little haughty with the officers of the King’s Guard who had come to escort him on his way to Madrid. They must understand that in a few days’ time he would be a member of the royal family.

  The innkeeper’s feast was good enough to satisfy even him; he gorged himself on the delicious meats and drank
deep of the innkeeper’s wine.

  Furtive eyes watched him, and there were many at the table to think sadly of the Princess Isabella.

  Don Pedro was helped to his bed by his servants. He was very drunk and sleepy, and incoherently he told them what a great man he was and how he would subdue his chaste and royal bride.

  It was during the night that he awoke startled. His body was covered with a cold sweat and he realised that it was a gripping pain which had awakened him.

  He struggled up in his bed and shouted to his servant.

  Andres Cabrera came to Isabella’s apartments and was greeted by his wife. ‘Isabella?’ he asked.

  ‘She lies in her bed. She grows more and more listless.’

  ‘Then she has not heard the news. So I am the first to bring it to her.’

  Beatriz gripped her husband’s arm and her eyes dilated. ‘What news?’

  ‘Give me the dagger,’ he said. ‘You’ll not need it now.’

  ‘You mean . . . ?’

  ‘He was taken ill at Villarubia four days ago. The news has just been brought to me that he is dead. Soon all Madrid will know.’

  ‘Andres!’ cried Beatriz, and there was a question in her eyes.

  ‘Suffice it,’ he said, ‘that there will be no need for you to use your dagger.’

  Beatriz swayed a little, and for a few seconds Andres thought that the excess of emotion which she was undergoing would cause her to faint.

  But she recovered herself. She gazed at him, and there was pride and gratitude in her eyes – and an infinite love for him.

  ‘It is an act of God,’ she cried.

  Andres answered: ‘We can call it that.’

  Beatriz took his hand and kissed it; then she laughed aloud and ran into Isabella’s bedchamber.

  She stood by the bed, looking down on her mistress. Andres had come to stand beside her.