Виктория Холт - Castile for Isabella

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.

‘Great news!’ cried Beatriz. ‘The best news that you could hear. There will be no marriage. Our prayers have been answered; he is dead.’

Isabella sat up in bed and looked from Beatriz to Andres.

‘Dead! Is it possible? But... but how?’

‘At Villarubia,’ said Beatriz. ‘He was taken ill four days ago. I told you, did I not, that our prayers would be answered. Dearest Isabella, you see our fears were all for something which cannot happen.’

‘I cannot believe it,’ whispered Isabella. ‘It is miraculous. He was so strong... it seems impossible that he could... die. And you say he was taken ill. Of what... ? And... how?’

‘Let us say,’ Beatriz answered, ‘that it was an Act of God. That is the happiest way of looking at this. We prayed for a miracle, Princesa; and our prayers have been granted.’

Isabella rose from her bed and went to her prie-Dieu.

She knelt and gave thanks for her deliverance; and behind her stood Beatriz and Andres.

The Archbishop of Toledo and his nephew the Marquis of Viliena were closeted together, it was said, deep in mourning for Don Pedro.

The chief emotion of these ambitious men was however not sorrow but anger.

‘There are spies among us,’ cried the militant Archbishop. ‘Worse than spies... assassins!’

‘It is deplorable,’ agreed Villena sarcastically, ‘that they should have their spies and assassins, and that they should be as effective as our own.’

‘The whole of Castile is laughing at us,’ declared the Archbishop. ‘They are jeering because we presumed to ally our family with the royal one.’

‘And to think that we have been foiled in this!’

‘I would have his servants seized, tortured. I would discover who had formulated this plot against us.’

‘Useless, Uncle. Servants under torture will tell any tale. And do we need to be led to the murderers of my brother? Do we not know that they are – our enemies? The trail would doubtless lead us to the royal Palace. That could be awkward.’

‘Nephew, are you suggesting that we should meekly accept this... this murder?’

‘Meekly, no. But we should say to ourselves: Pedro, who could have linked our family with the royal one, has been murdered; therefore that little plan has failed. Well, we will show our enemies that it is dangerous to interfere with our plans. The marriage was accepted by Henry as an alternative to civil war. Very well, he has declined one, let him have the other.’

The Archbishop’s eyes were gleaming. He was ready now to play the part for which he had always longed.

He said: ‘Young Alfonso shall ride into battle by my side.’

‘It is the only way,’ said Villena. ‘We offered them peace and they retaliated by the murder of my brother. Very well, they have chosen. Now they shall have war.’

* * *

On the plains of Almedo the rival forces were waiting.

The Archbishop, clad in armour, wore a scarlet cloak on which had been embroidered the white cross of the Church. He looked a magnificent figure, and his squadrons were ready to follow him into battle.

Alfonso, who was not quite fourteen years old at this time, could not help but be thrilled by the enthusiasm of the Archbishop. The boy Alfonso was dressed in glittering mail, and this would be his first taste of battle.

The Archbishop called Alfonso to him while they waited in the grey dawn light.

‘My son,’ he said, ‘my Prince, this could be the most important day of your life. On these plains our enemies are gathered. What happens this day may decide your future, my future and, what is more important, the future of Castile. It may well be that after this day there will be one King of Castile, and that King will be yourself. Castile must become great. There must be an end to the anarchy which is spreading over our land. Remember that, when we go into battle. Come, let us pray for victory.’

Alfonso pressed the palms of his hands together; he lowered his eyes; and with the Archbishop, in that camp on the plains of Almedo, he prayed for victory over his half-brother Henry.

* * *

In the opposing camp Henry waited with his men.

‘How long the day seems in coming,’ said the Duke of Albuquerque.

Henry shivered; it seemed to him that the day came all too quickly.

Henry looked at this man who had played such a big part in his life. Beltran seemed as eager for the battle as he was for the revelries of the Court. Henry could not help feeling a great admiration for this man, who had all the bearing of a King and could contemplate going into battle without a trace of fear, although he must know that he would be considered one of the greatest prizes that could fall into the enemy’s hands.

It was small wonder that Joanna had loved him.

Henry wished that there was some means of preventing the battle from taking place. He would be ready to listen to their terms; he would be ready to meet them. It seemed so senseless to fight and make terms afterwards. What could war mean but misery for those who took part in it?

‘Have no fear, Highness,’ said Beltran, ‘we shall put them to flight.’

‘Ah, I wish I could be sure of that.’

While he spoke information was brought to him that a messenger had arrived from the opposing camp.

‘Give him safe conduct and send him in,’ said Henry.

The messenger was brought into the royal presence.

‘It is a message I have from the Archbishop of Toledo for the Duke of Albuquerque, Highness.’

‘Then hand it to me,’ said Beltran.

Henry watched the Duke while he read the message and burst into loud laughter.

‘Wait awhile,’ he said, ‘and I will give you an answer for the Archbishop.’

‘What message is this?’ asked Henry hopefully. Could it be some offer of truce? But why should it be sent to the Duke, not the King? Surely the Archbishop knew that any offer of peace would be more eagerly accepted by the King than anyone else.

Beltran said: ‘It is a warning from the Archbishop, Highness. He tells me that I shall be foolish to venture on to the field this day. He says that no less than forty of his men have sworn to kill me. My chances of surviving the battle, he assures me, are very poor.’

‘My dear Beltran, you must not ride into battle today. There should be no battle. What good will it do any of us? Bloodshed of my subjects... that will be the result of this day’s work.’

‘Highness, it is too late for such talk.’

‘It is never too late for peace.’

‘The Archbishop would not accept your peace offer except under the most degrading conditions. Nay, Highness. Today we go to do battle with our enemies. Have I permission to answer this note?’

Henry nodded gloomily, and the Duke smiled as he prepared his answer.

‘What have you written?’ he asked.

Beltran answered: ‘I have given him a description of my attire, so that those who have sworn to kill me shall have no difficulty in seeking me out.’

* * *

Henry waited some miles from the battlefield. He had taken the first opportunity to retire when he had heard that the battle was going against his side.

For what good would it be, he reasoned with himself, to endanger the life of the King?

And he covered his face with his hands and wept for the folly of men determined to go to war.

Meanwhile the young Alfonso rode into battle side by side with the warlike Archbishop.

It was long, and the slaughter was great. Nor was it effective in forcing a decision. The courage of the Archbishop of Toledo was only matched by that of the Duke of Albuquerque, and after three hours of carnage such as had rarely been known before in Castile, the forces led by the Archbishop and Alfonso were forced to leave the battlefield in the possession of the King’s men.

But Henry was not eager to take advantage of the fact that his army had not been routed; and Beltran, brave soldier that he was, was no strategist; and thus that which could have been called a victory was treated as a defeat.

Now Castile was a country divided. Each King ruled in that territory over which he held sway.

And following the advantage they had won on account of the King’s refusal to regard the battle of Almedo as his victory, the Archbishop and the Marquis, with Alfonso as their figurehead, decided to march on Segovia.

* * *

Isabella, with Beatriz and Mencia, was eager for every item of news of Alfonso’s progress.

‘What is happening to our country?’ she said one day as she sat with her friends. ‘In every town of Castile men of the same blood are fighting one another.’

‘What can be expected when our country is plunged in civil war!’ Beatriz added.

‘I dream of peace for Castile,’ murmured Isabella. ‘Here we sit stitching at our needlework, but, Beatriz, do you not think that if we were called upon to rule this land we could do it better than those in whose hands its government now rests?’

‘Think!’ cried Beatriz. ‘I am sure of it.’

‘If Castile could be ruled by you, Infanta, with Beatriz as your first minister,’ declared Mencia, ‘then I verily believe all our troubles would quickly be brought to an end.’

‘I shudder,’ said Isabella, ‘to think of my brother. It is long since I saw him. Do you remember the day the Archbishop called and told him he would be put under his care? I wonder... has all that has happened to him changed Alfonso?’