Виктория Холт - Castile for Isabella

‘I am a lonely woman,’ she told herself, ‘a frightened woman.’

Yes, she was frightened. She had lived with fear now for two years; each day on waking she wondered whether this would be her last, each night wondered whether she would see the morning.

When she had come into Béarn she had been frantic, looking about for means of escape.

There had seemed to be no one to help her... until she remembered Henry, the husband who had repudiated her. It was strange that she should have thought of him; and yet was it so strange? There was about him a gentleness which others lacked. He was a lecher; he had deceitfully led her to believe that he intended to keep her in Castile even while he was planning to rid himself of her; and yet it was to him she had turned in her extremity.

She had written to him then; she had reminded him that he was not only her former husband but her cousin. Did he ever remember their happiness when she had first come to Castile? Now they were parted and she was a lonely woman, forced to exile far from her home.

Now, recalling that letter, she wept a little. She had been happy during those first days of her marriage. She had not known Henry then; she had been too young, too inexperienced to believe that any man, so gentle, so determined to please her as her husband had seemed, could be so shallow and insincere, not really feeling the deep emotion to which he had falsely given expression.

How could she have guessed in those days that tragedy was waiting for her in the years ahead? How could she have visualised those barren years, the inevitable conclusion of which had been banishment to this gloomy castle where death lurked, waiting to spring upon her at an unguarded moment?

‘For two years I have been here,’ she murmured. ‘Two years... waiting... sensing evil... knowing that I have been brought here to end my days.’

In that last frantic letter to Henry she had renounced her claim to Navarre in favour of the husband who had repudiated her, for it had seemed to her then that if she removed the cause of envy she might be allowed to live.

Was that letter a plea to Henry? Was she telling him that she was handing him Navarre because she was in Béarn, a lonely frightened prisoner? Did she still believe that Henry was a noble knight who would come and rescue the lady in distress, even though he had ceased to love her?

‘I was always a foolish woman,’ mused Blanche sadly.

Henry in Castile was living his gay and voluptuous life, there surrounded by his mistresses and his wife who shared his tastes, it seemed. How foolish to imagine that he would have a thought to spare for the dangers of a woman who had ceased to concern him once he was satisfactorily – from his point of view – divorced from her and had sent her away. There was no help from Henry. She might as well never have offered him Navarre. He was too indolent to take it.

So Navarre remained – her inheritance, the coveted land, on account of which death stalked the castle of Ortes, waiting until the moment was propitious to strike.

With the coming of night her fears increased.

Her women helped her to bed. They slept in her apartment, as she felt happier with them there.

They could not be unaware of the sense of fear which pervaded the place; she noticed how they would start at a footfall, leap to their feet when they heard voices or footsteps at the door.

* * *

A messenger arrived at Ortes with a letter from the Comtesse de Foix to her sister Blanche. It was an affectionate letter, containing news of a marriage the Comtesse was trying to arrange for her sister. Because of that unfortunate incident in Castile, Blanche must not imagine that her family would allow her to lead the life of a hermit.

I do not care if I live the life of a hermit, thought Blanche. All I care is that I live.

In one of the kitchens the messenger from the Comtesse de Foix was drinking a glass of wine.

The servant who had brought it to him lingered as he refreshed himself, and there came a moment when they were quite alone. Then the messenger ceased to smile pleasantly as he sipped his wine.

He frowned in annoyance and said to the servant: ‘Why is there this delay? If it continues you will have some explaining to do.’

‘Sir, it is not easy.’

‘I cannot comprehend the difficulties; nor can others.’

‘Sir, I have attempted... once or twice.’

‘Then you are a bungler. We do not suffer bunglers. Can you guess what your fate may well be? Put out your tongue. Good! I see it is pink, and that I believe is a sign of health. I’ll swear it’s plausible too. I’ll swear it has played its part in luring the maidens to your bed, eh? Ah, I know. You have paid too much attention to them and neglected your duty. Let me tell you this: that tongue could be cut out, and you’d be a sorry fellow without it. And that, my friend, is but one of the misfortunes which could befall you.’

‘Sir, I need time.’

‘You have wasted time. I give you another chance. It must happen within twenty-four hours after I leave. I shall stay at the inn nearby, and if the news is not brought to me within twenty-four hours...’

‘You... you shall not be disappointed, sir.’

‘That is well. Now fill my glass. And... remember.’

* * *

The messenger had left and Blanche felt easier in her mind as she watched him ride away.

She always believed that her sister or her father would send their creatures to do their work.

She called to her women to bring her embroidery. They would work awhile, she said.

There was comfort in the stitching; she could believe she was back in the past – in her home in Aragon when her mother had been alive, before sinister schemes had rent their household – when she had been a member of a happy family; or in the early days of marriage in Castile.

And thus, during those hours which followed the departure of the messenger, her fears were less acute.

She took her dinner with her ladies, as was her custom, and it was shortly after the meal that she complained of pains and dizziness.

Her women helped her to bed and, as the pain grew more violent, Blanche understood.

So this was it. It was not a knife in the dark, nor murderous hands about her throat. Foolish again to have suspected that it would be, when this was the safe way... the way Carlos had gone. They would say: She died of a colic, of a fever. And those who doubted that she had died a natural death would either not bother to question the verdict or not dare to.

‘Let it be quick,’ she prayed. ‘Oh Carlos... I am coming to you now.’

* * *

A message was taken to the inn, and when it was handed to its recipient he read it calmly and gave no sign that he was surprised or shocked by its contents.

He said to his groom: ‘We shall return to the castle.’ And they left at once, riding full speed towards Ortes.

When he arrived there, he summoned the servants together and addressed them.

‘I am speaking in the name of the Comte and Comtesse de Foix,’ he told them. ‘You are to go about your business as though nothing has happened. Your mistress will be quietly interred, but news of her death is not to go beyond these walls.’

One of the women stepped forward. She said: ‘I would like to say, sir, that I fear my mistress is the victim of an evil assassin. She was well when she sat down to her meal. She suffered immediately afterwards. If you please, I think some investigation should be made.’

The messenger lifted his heavy-lidded eyes to stare at the woman. There was something so cold, so menacing in his look, that she began to tremble.

‘Who is this?’ he demanded.

‘Sir, she served Queen Blanche and was much beloved by her.’

‘It would account for her derangement perhaps.’ The cold implacable tone held a warning which was clear to everyone. ‘Poor lady,’ went on the messenger, ‘if she is the victim of hallucinations we must see that she has proper attention.’

Then another of the women spoke. She said: ‘Sir, she is hysterical. She knows not what she says. She had a great affection for Queen Blanche.’

‘Nevertheless, she shall be cared for... unless she recovers her balance. Now do not forget the orders of the Comte and Comtesse. This distressing news is to be a secret until orders are given to the contrary. If any should disobey these orders it will be necessary to punish them. Take care of the late Queen’s poor friend. Make the wishes of the Comte and Comtesse known to her.’

It was as though a shudder ran through all those listening.

They understood. A murder had been committed in their midst. Their gentle mistress, who had harmed no one and done much good to so many, had been eliminated; and they were being warned that painful death would be their reward if they raised their voices against her murderers.

Queen Joanna let her fingers play in the dark glistening hair of her lover. He bent over her couch and, as they kissed, she knew that his thoughts were not so much with her as with the brilliant materialisation of his dreams of fortune.

‘Dear Beltran,’ she asked, ‘you are contented?’

‘I think, my love, that life goes well for us.’ ‘What a long way you have come, my Beltran, since I looked from my window and beckoned you to my bedchamber. Well, one way to glory is through the bedchambers of Kings. Also through the Queen’s, you have discovered.’

He kissed her with passion. ‘To combine desire with ambition, love with power! How singularly fortunate I have been!’

‘And I. You owe your good fortune to me, Beltran. I owe mine to my own good sense. So you see I may congratulate myself even more than you do yourself.’

‘We are fortunate... in each other.’

‘And in the King, my husband. Poor Henry! He grows more shaggy with the years. I often think he is like a dear old dog, growing a little obese, a little blind, a little deaf – figuratively, of course – but remaining so good-tempered, never growling even when he is neglected or insulted, and always ready to give a friendly bark, or wag his tail at the least attention.’

‘He realises his good fortune in possessing such a Queen. You are incomparable.’

She laughed. ‘Indeed I begin to think I am. Who else could have produced the heiress of Castile?’

‘Our dearest little Joanna – how enchanting she is!’

‘So enchanting that we must make sure no one snatches the crown from her head. They will try, my love. They grow insolent. Someone referred to her as La Beltraneja yesterday in my hearing.’

‘And you were angry?’

‘I gave evidence of my righteous anger, but inwardly I was just a little pleased, a little proud.’

‘We must curb that pride and pleasure, dearest. We must plan for her sake.’

‘That is what I intend to do. I visualise the day when we shall see her mount the throne. I do not feel that Henry will live to a great age. He is too indulgent in those pleasures which, while giving him such amusement, rob him of his health and strength.’

Beltran was thoughtful. ‘I often wonder,’ he mused, ‘what his inner thoughts are when he hears our darling’s nickname.’

‘He does not hear. Did you not know that Henry has the most obliging ears in Castile? They are only rivalled by his eyes, which are equally eager to serve him. When he does not want to listen, he is deaf; when he does not wish to see, he is blind.’

‘If only we could contrive some magic to render the ears and eyes of those about him equally accommodating!’

Joanna gave a mock shudder. ‘I do not like the all-important Marquis. He has too many ideas swirling about in that haughty head of his.’

Beltran nodded slowly. ‘I have seen his eyes resting with alarming speculation on the young Alfonso. Also on his sister.’

‘Oh, those children! And especially Isabella. I fear the years at Arevalo, under the queer and pious guardianship of mad Mamma, have done great harm to the child’s character.’

‘One can almost hear her murmuring: “I will be a saint among women.”’

‘If that were all, Beltran, I would forgive her. I fancy the murmuring is: “I will be a saint among... Queens.”’

‘Alfonso is of course the main danger.’

‘Yes, but I would like to see those two removed from Court. The Dowager has gone. Oh, what a blessing not to have to see her! Long may she remain in Arevalo.’