‘It is hard to conjecture,’ Beatriz murmured. ‘In these last months he has become King.’

‘There can only be one King of Castile,’ Isabella reminded her, ‘And that is my half-brother Henry. Oh, how I wish that there was not this strife. Alfonso should be heir to the throne, because there is no doubt that the Queen’s daughter is not the King’s, but he should never have been proclaimed King. And to ride into battle against Henry... ! Oh, how I wish he had not done that.’

‘It was no fault of his,’ said Mencia.

‘No,’ Beatriz agreed. ‘He is but a boy. He is only fourteen. How can he be blamed because they have caught him up in their fight for power!’

‘Poor Alfonso. I tremble for him,’ murmured Isabella.

‘All will be well,’ Beatriz soothed her. ‘Dearest Princesa, remember how on other occasions we have despaired, and how all has come right.’

‘Yes,’ said Isabella. ‘I was saved from a terrible fate. But is it not alarming to consider how a man... or a woman... can be alive and well one day and dead the next?’

‘It has always been so,’ said the practical Beatriz. And she added significantly: ‘And sometimes it has proved a blessing.’

‘Listen!’ cried Mencia. ‘I hear shouts from below. What can it be?’

‘Go and see,’ said Beatriz.

Mencia got up to go, but before she had reached the door one of the men-at-arms rushed into the room.

‘Princesa, ladies, the rebels are marching on the castle.’


* * *

There was little resistance, for how could Isabella demand that resistance be shown against those at whose head rode her own brother.

As they stormed into the castle, she heard Alfonso’s voice; it had changed since she had last heard it and grown deep, authoritative.

‘Have a care. Remember, my sister, the Princess Isabella, is in the castle.’

And then the door was flung open and there stood Alfonso – her little brother, seeming little no longer – not a boy but a soldier, a King, even though she would maintain he had no right to wear the crown.

‘Isabella!’ he cried; and he was young again. His face seemed to pucker childishly, and it was as though he were begging for her approval as he used to when he took his first tottering steps about the nursery.

‘Brother... little brother!’ Isabella was in his arms and for some seconds they clung together.

Then she took his face in her hands. ‘You are well, Alfonso, you are well?’

‘Indeed yes. And you, dearest sister?’

‘Yes... and so glad to see you once more, brother. Oh, Alfonso... Alfonso!’

‘Isabella, we are together now. Let us stay together. I have rescued you from Henry. Henceforth it shall be you and I... brother and sister... together.’

‘Yes,’ she cried. ‘Yes...’ And she lost her calm and was laughing in his arms.


* * *

And so she stayed with him, and on several occasions travelled with him through that territory which now considered him its King.

But she was perturbed. Her love of justice would not allow her to blind herself to the fact that he had usurped the throne, however unwillingly.

During those troublous months news came to Isabella of the disturbances which were rife throughout Castile. Old quarrels between certain noble families were renewed; nowhere was it safe for men or women to journey unescorted. Even men of the highest nobility took advantage of the situation to rob and pillage, and the Hermandad found itself almost useless against this tide of anarchy.

Alfonso’s headquarters were at Avila, which had remained loyal to him since the occasion of that strange ‘coronation’ outside its walls. On the Archbishop and Villena, to whom he owed his position, he bestowed the honours and favours they demanded.

Isabella remonstrated with him.

‘While Henry lives you cannot be King of Castile, Alfonso,’ she told him, ‘for Henry is our father’s eldest son and the only true King of Castile.’

Alfonso had changed since those days when he had been afraid because he knew himself to be the tool of ambitious men. Alfonso had tasted the pleasures of kingship, and he was by no means prepared to relinquish them.

‘But, Isabella,’ he pointed out, ‘a King rules by the will of his people. If he fails to please his people then he has no right to the crown.’

‘There are many in Castile who are still pleased to call Henry King,’ Isabella answered.

‘Dear Isabella,’ replied her brother, ‘you are so good and so just. Henry has not been kind to you; he has tried to force you to a distasteful marriage – yet you would seem to support him.’

‘But it is not a question of kindness, brother. It is a matter of what is right. And Henry is King of Castile. It is you who are the impostor.’

Alfonso smiled at her. ‘We must agree to differ,’ he said. ‘I am glad that, although you consider me an impostor, you still love me.’

‘You are my brother. Nothing can alter that. But one day I hope there will be a settlement and that you will be proclaimed heir to the throne. That is what I wish.’

‘The nobles would never agree.’

‘It is because they are seeking power rather than what is just and right, and they still use us, Alfonso, as puppets in their schemes. In supporting you they support that which they believe to be best for themselves, and those who support Henry do so for selfish reasons. It is only through what is just that good can come.’

‘Well, Isabella, although you would appear to be on the side of my enemies...’

‘Never that! I am always for you, Alfonso. But your cause must be the just one, and you are now justly heir to the throne, but not the King.’

‘I would say, Isabella, that I would never force you to make a marriage which was distasteful to you. I would put nothing in the way of your match with Ferdinand of Aragon.’

‘Dear Alfonso, you wish me to be happy, as I wish you to be. For the moment let us rejoice in the fact that we are together.’

‘Shortly I leave for Avila, Isabella, and you must come with us.’

‘I would wish to do so,’ said Isabella.

‘It is wonderful to have you with me. I like to ask your advice. And you know, Isabella, I take it often. It is merely this one great matter on which we disagree. Sister, let me tell you this: I do not wish to be unjust. If I were a little older I would tell these nobles that I would lay no claim to the crown until my half-brother dies or it is agreed by all that he should relinquish it. I would. Indeed, I would, Isabella. But you see, I am not old enough and I must obey these men. Isabella, what would become of me if I refused to do so?’

‘Who shall say?’

‘For you see, Isabella, I should be neither the friend of these men nor of my brother Henry. I should be in that waste land between them – the friend of neither, the enemy of both.’

It was at such times that Isabella saw the frightened boy looking out from the eyes of Alfonso, the usurping King of Castile.


* * *

Isabella remained in Avila while Alfonso and his men went on to the little village of Cardeñosa, some two leagues away; for she had felt the need to linger awhile at the Convent of Santa Clara, where the nuns received her with Beatriz and Mencia.

Isabella had wanted to shut herself away, to meditate and pray. She did not ask that her marriage with Ferdinand might become a fact, because when she visualised leaving Castile for Aragon she reminded herself that that would mean leaving her brother.

‘He needs me at this time,’ she told Beatriz. ‘Oh, when he is with his men, when he is conducting affairs of state, none would believe that he is little more than a child. But I know he is often a bewildered boy. I believe that, if it could be arranged that this wretched state of conflict could come to an end, none would be happier than Alfonso.’

‘There is some magic in a crown,’ mused Beatriz, ‘which makes those who feel it on their heads very reluctant to cast it aside.’

‘Yet Alfonso, in his heart, knows that he has no right to wear it yet.’

‘You know it, Princesa, and I verily believe that were it placed on your head before you felt it to be yours by right you would not accept it. But you are a woman in a million, dearest mistress. Have I not told you that you are good... as few are good?’

‘You do not know me, Beatriz. Did I not rejoice at the deaths of Carlos and of Don Pedro? How can anyone be good who rejoices at the misfortune of others?’

‘Bah!’ said Beatriz, forgetting the deference due to a Princess. ‘You would have been inhuman not to rejoice on those occasions.’

‘A saint would not have rejoiced, so I pray you, Beatriz, do not endow me with saintliness, or you will be sadly disappointed. I would pray now for peace in our country, not because I am good, but because I know that the country’s peace will make us all so much happier – myself, Henry and Alfonso.’

There were special prayers in the Convent of Santa Clara, and these were for peace. Isabella had asked that these should be offered. She found life in the convent inspiring. She was ready to embrace its austerity; she was pleased to be able to give herself up to prayer and contemplation.

Isabella was to remember those days she spent in the convent as the end of a certain period of her life, but she could not know, as she walked the stone corridors, as she listened to the bells which called her to the chapel, and the chanting voices there, that events were taking shape which would force her to play a prominent part in the conflict which raged about her.

It was Beatrix who brought her the news.

They had asked Beatriz to do this because no other dared to do so.

And Beatriz came to her, her face blotched with the tears she had shed, for once unable to find words for what she had to say.

‘What has happened, Beatriz?’ asked Isabella, and her heart grew heavy with alarm.

When Beatriz shook her head and began to weep, Isabella went on: ‘Is it Alfonso?’

Beatriz nodded.

‘He is ill?’

Beatriz looked at her with a tragic stare, and Isabella whispered: ‘Dead?’

Beatriz suddenly found words. ‘He retired to his room after supper. When his servants went to wake him they could not arouse him; he had died in his sleep.’

‘Poison...’ murmured Isabella. She turned away and whispered: ‘So... it has happened to Alfonso.’

She stared from the window. She did not see the black figures of the nuns hurrying to the chapel. She did not hear the tolling bell. In her mind’s eye she saw Alfonso waking suddenly in the night, with the knowledge upon him. Perhaps he had called for his sister; for he would naturally call for her if he were in trouble.

And so... it had happened to Alfonso.

She did not weep. She felt too numb, too drained of feeling. She turned to Beatriz and said: ‘Where did it happen?’

‘At Cardeñosa.’

‘And the news was brought... ?’

‘A few minutes ago. Someone came to the convent from the town. They say that the whole of Avila knows of it, and that the town is plunged into mourning.’

‘We will go to Cardeñosa, Beatriz,’ said Isabella. ‘We will go at once and say our last farewells to Alfonso!’

Beatriz came to her mistress and put her arm about her. She shook her head sadly and her voice was poignant with emotion.

‘No, Princesa, you can do no good. You can only add to your suffering.’

‘I wish to see Alfonso for the last time,’ stated Isabella blankly.

‘You scourge yourself.’

‘He would wish me to be there. Come, Beatriz, we are leaving at once for Cardeñosa.’


* * *

Isabella rode out from Avila, and as she did so the people in the streets turned their faces away from her. She was grateful to them for such understanding of her sorrow.

She had not yet begun to consider what the death of Alfonso would mean to her position; she had forgotten that those ambitious men, who had so ruthlessly terminated Alfonso’s childhood to make him into a King, would now turn their attention to her. There was no room in her heart for more than this one overwhelming fact: Alfonso, little brother and companion of her early years, was dead.

She was surprised, when she rode into the little village of Cardeñosa, that there was no sign of mourning. She saw a group of soldiers cheerfully calling to each other; their laughter rang in her ears and it sounded inhuman.

When they noticed her they stopped their chatter, and saluted her, but she received their homage as though she were unaware of them. Was this all they cared for Alfonso?