Виктория Холт - Daughters of Spain

‘I will go to him,’ she said. ‘I should be at his side at such a time.’

While she was giving orders to the servants to make ready for the journey to Salamanca another messenger arrived.

She was bewildered as she read the letter he brought. Ferdinand … dead! This could not be. Ferdinand was full of strength and vitality. It was Juan who was ill. She could not imagine Ferdinand anything but alive.

‘Hasten,’ she cried. ‘There is not a moment to lose. I must go with all speed to Salamanca to see what is really happening there.’

Ferdinand! Her heart was filled with strangely mingling feelings. There were so many memories of a marriage which had lasted for nearly thirty years.

She was bewildered and found it difficult to collect her thoughts.

Was it possible that there had been some mistake? Should she read Juan for Ferdinand?

She was sick with anxiety. If Juan were dead she would no longer wish to live. He was her darling whom she wished to keep by her side for as long as she lived. He was her only son, her beloved Angel. He could not be dead. It would be too cruel.

She read the message again. It clearly said the King.

Juan … Ferdinand. If she had lost her husband she would be sad indeed. She was devoted to him. If that great love which she had borne in the beginning had become a little battered by the years, he was still her husband and she could not imagine life without him.

But if Juan were spared to her she could rebuild her life. She would have her children, whose affairs would be entirely hers to manage as she would. She was experienced enough to rule alone.

‘Not Juan …’ she whispered.

And then Ferdinand strode into the room.

She stared at him as though he were a ghost. Then she ran to him and clasped his hands, pressing them in her own as though she wished to reassure herself that they were flesh and blood.

‘It is I,’ said Ferdinand.

‘But this …’ she stammered. ‘Someone has played a cruel trick. This says …’

‘Isabella, my dearest wife, tell me you are glad to know that paper lied.’

‘I am so happy to see you well.’

‘It is as I hoped. Oh, Isabella, fortunate we are indeed to be alive and together. We have had our differences, but what should we be without each other?’

She put her head against his chest and he embraced her. There were tears in his eyes.

‘Isabella,’ he continued. ‘Now that you are happy to see me restored to you I have some sad news which I must break to you.’

She drew away from him. Her face had grown deathly pale and her eyes were wide and looked black with fear.

‘Our son is dead,’ he said.

Isabella did not speak. She shook her head from side to side.

‘It is true, Isabella. He died of a malignant fever. The physicians could do nothing for him.’

‘Then why … why … was I not told?’

‘I thought to protect you. I have tried to prepare you for this shock. My dearest Isabella, I know how you suffer. Do I not suffer with you?’

‘My son,’ she whispered. ‘My angel.’

‘Our son,’ he answered. ‘But there will be a child.’

She did not seem to hear. She was thinking of that hot day in Seville when he had been born. She remembered holding him in her arms and the feeling of wild exultation which had come to her. Her son. The heir of Ferdinand and Isabella. She had been deeply concerned about the state of her country then; anarchy was in full spate, and there was the chaos which had followed on the disastrous reigns preceding her own; she had been setting up the Santa Hermandad in every town and village. And in her arms had lain that blessed child, so that at that time in spite of all her trials, she had been the happiest woman in Spain.

She could not believe that he was dead.

‘Isabella,’ said Ferdinand gently, ‘you have forgotten. There is to be a child.’

‘I have lost my son,’ she said slowly. ‘I have lost my angel child.’

‘There will be grandsons to take his place.’

‘No one will ever take his place.’

‘Isabella, you and I have no time for looking backwards. We must look forward. This tragedy has overcome us. We must be brave. We must say: This was the will of God. But God is merciful. He has taken our son, but not before he has left his fertile seed behind him.’

Isabella did not answer. She swayed a little and Ferdinand put his arm about her.

‘You should rest for a while,’ he said. ‘This shock has been too much for you.’

‘Rest!’ she retorted. ‘There is little rest left for me. He was my only son and I shall never see him smile again.’

She was fighting the impulse to rail against this cruel fate.

Is it not enough that two daughters have gone from me, and even my little Catalina will not long remain? she was demanding. Why should I suffer so? Juan was the one I thought to keep with me for ever.

Perhaps she should send for her confessor. Perhaps she was in need of prayer.

She sought to control herself. This cruel day had to be faced; life had to go on.

She lifted her face to Ferdinand and he saw that the wildness had gone from it.

She said in a clear voice which was as firm as ever: ‘The Lord hath given, and the Lord hath taken away. Blessed be His Name.’

All Spain was in mourning for the Prince of the Asturias. Sable banners were hung up in all the important towns. The streets of Salamanca were silent save for the tolling of bells.

The King and Queen had returned to Madrid. They shut themselves in their private apartments in the Alcazar and gave way to their grief.

Throughout the land the extraordinary qualities of the Prince were talked of in hushed voices.

‘Spain,’ said its people, ‘has suffered one of the greatest losses she has ever been called upon to bear since she fell into the hands of the barbarians.’

But gradually the gloom lifted as the news spread. Before he died his child was conceived, and his widow, the young Archduchess from Flanders, carried this child in her womb.

When the child is born, it was said, Spain will smile again.

* * *

Catalina and Maria sat with their sister-in-law while they worked on their embroidery.

Margaret was more subdued than she had been before the death of Juan; she seemed even more gentle.

Catalina encouraged her to talk, but not of her life with Juan – that would be too painful. To talk of Flanders might also be an uneasy subject, for something was happening in Flanders, between Juana and her husband Philip, which was not pleasing to the Sovereigns. So the best subject was Margaret’s life in France, of which neither Catalina nor Maria ever tired of hearing. As for Margaret, recalling it seemed to bring her some peace, for if she could project herself back into a past, in which she had never even heard of Juan, she could escape her anguish for a while and know some comfort.

She made the two young girls see the town of Amboise situated at that spot where the Loire and the Amasse met; they saw the château standing on its rocky plateau, imposing and as formidable as a fortress, and the surrounding country with its fields and undulating vineyards.

‘And you thought,’ said Catalina, ‘that that would be your home for ever and that you would be Queen of France.’

‘It shows, does it not,’ said Margaret, ‘that we can never be sure of what is in store for us.’

She looked a little sad and Maria put in: ‘Were you unhappy to leave France?’

‘Yes, I think I was. I thought it was a great insult, you see, and I knew that my father would be angry. It was not very pleasant to have been chosen to be the bride of the King of France and then find that he preferred someone else.’

‘But you came to us instead,’ whispered Catalina, and wished she had not said that because she saw the spasm of pain cross Margaret’s face.

‘Tell us more about Amboise,’ she went on quickly.

Margaret was only too happy to do so. She told of Charles and his sister who had been her guardian, and their father Louis XI who delighted to wear the shabbiest clothes.

As she talked to the girls, Margaret felt the child moving within her and began to ask herself why she should wish to talk of the past. Juan was lost to her but she had his child.

She stopped and began to smile.

‘What is it?’ asked Catalina, and even Maria looked curious.

Margaret laid her hands on her body and said: ‘I can feel the child … mine and Juan’s … moving within me, and it is as though he kicks me. Perhaps he is angry that I talk of the past when he is about to come into the world, and is telling me that I should speak of the future.’

Maria looked a little startled and Catalina was shocked. Margaret’s manners were often disconcerting, but they were both glad to see that look in her face. It was as though she had come alive again, as though she had realised that there was happiness waiting for her in this world.

After that she talked to them about Juan; she told them of how she had thought she was going to die when her ship had been almost wrecked. There was no more talk of Amboise. She went over everything that had happened since her arrival in Spain; she could not talk enough of the wedding, of the celebrations, of their triumphal journey across Spain to Salamanca.

Catalina rejoiced and Maria brightened; they looked forward to those times which they spent together.

‘Whatever happens,’ said Catalina to Maria, ‘however evil our fate may seem, something good will come. Look at Margaret. Juan was taken from her; but she is to have Juan’s child.’

That was a very comforting philosophy for Catalina; she cherished it.

* * *

Now there was less talk of Juan’s death; everyone was awaiting the birth of Juan’s son.

‘It will be as though he lives again,’ said the Queen. ‘I shall feel fresh life within me when I hold my grandchild in my arms.’

Ferdinand talked of the child as though it were a boy.

‘Please let it be a boy,’ prayed Catalina. ‘Then my mother will be happy again.’

It was an ordinary enough day. Margaret had sat with Catalina and Maria at their sewing and they had talked of the baby, as they did continually now.

‘He will soon be with us,’ Margaret told them. ‘How I shall welcome him. I do assure you I do not greatly care to be seen in this condition.’

Maria looked shocked. She thought that it was tempting God and the saints to talk in such a way; but Catalina knew that it was only the Flemish manner and not to be taken seriously.

Margaret had put her hands on her bulging body and said: ‘Oh, he is a sly one. He is very quiet today. Usually he kicks me to warn me that he will not long stay imprisoned in my body.’

Then she laughed and, although perhaps it was a shocking subject, Catalina rejoiced to see her so gay.

They chatted about the child and the clothes and the cradle which were being prepared for him; and the fêtes that would take place to celebrate his birth. They grew quite merry. It was an ordinary pleasant day.

Catalina did not know when she first became aware of the tension in the Palace. She, who loved her home perhaps more dearly than any of the others, was always conscious of its moods.

What was it? An unexpected quietness, followed by more activity than usual. Grave faces. Whisperings.

She went to the sewing room. Maria was there but Margaret was not.

‘What has happened, Maria?’

‘It is the baby.’

‘But it is too soon. They said …’

‘It has come nevertheless.’

Catalina’s face broke into a smile. ‘How glad I am. The waiting is over. I wonder when we shall see it, Maria.’

Maria said slowly: ‘It is not good that it should come before its time.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t quite know. But I think they are worried about it.’

The girls sat silently sewing, alert for every sound.

Then suddenly they heard a woman sobbing. Catalina ran to the door, and saw one of the attendants hurrying through the apartments.

‘What has happened?’ she cried.

But the woman did not answer; she stumbled blindly away. Terrible misgivings came to Catalina then. Was yet another tragedy to befall her family?

* * *

Catalina stood at the door of her mother’s private apartment.