Daughters of Spain

Chapter X THE BIRTH OF MIGUEL

Toledo lay before them. Neither Isabella nor Ferdinand, riding at the head of the cavalcade, could help feeling pride in this city. There it stood perched on a lofty granite plateau which from this distance looked as though it had been moulded to the shape of a horseshoe among the mountains above the Tagus. A perfect fortress city, for it could only be reached on the north side by way of the plain of Castile. At every other point the steep rock would prevent entry.

There was little that was Spanish in its architecture, for the Moors seemed to have left their mark on every tower, on every street.

But Isabella was not concerned with her city of Toledo; her thoughts were of the meeting which would shortly take place.

I shall be happy, she told herself, when I see Isabella and assure myself that this pregnancy has not weakened her.

‘You grow impatient,’ Ferdinand whispered, a smile on his lips.

‘And you too?’

He nodded. He was impatient for the birth of the child. If it were a son, the unhappy deaths of Juan and his offspring would be of little significance. The people would be glad to accept the son of Isabella and Emanuel as the heir.

‘If it is a boy,’ he said, ‘he must stay with us in Spain.’

‘Perhaps,’ ventured Isabella, ‘our daughter should stay with us also.’

‘What! You would separate husband and wife!’

‘I see,’ said Isabella, ‘that you are thinking there should be more children; and how could Isabella and Emanuel beget children if they were not together!’

‘That is true,’ replied Ferdinand. His eyes strayed to those three girls in the party – Margaret, Maria and Catalina. If his daughters had but been boys … But never mind, if Isabella had a male heir, this would be some solution of their troubles.

They were entering the town. How could she ever do so, Isabella asked herself, without remembering that it was the birthplace of Juana? That memorable event had occurred on a November day when the city looked different from the way it did this day in springtime. When she had first heard the cry of her little daughter she had not guessed what anxieties were to come because of her. Perhaps it would have been better if the child, to which she had given birth here in Toledo in the year 1479, had been stillborn as poor Margaret’s child had been. She felt an impulse to call Margaret to her and tell her of this. How foolish of her! Her grief was nowadays often weakening her sense of propriety.

They were at the gates of the city and the Toledans were coming out of their homes to welcome them. Here were the goldsmiths and silversmiths, the blacksmiths, the weavers and embroiderers, the armourers and the curriers, all members of the guilds of this city which was one of the most prosperous in Spain.

Thus it had been at that time when she and Ferdinand had come here to inspect the work on San Juan de los Reyes which they had given to the city. She remembered well the day they had seen the chains of the captives whom they had liberated when they conquered Malaga. These chains had been hung outside the walls of the church for significant decoration; they rested there today and they should remain there for ever – a reminder to the people that their Sovereigns had freed Spain from Moorish domination.

They would go to the church, or perhaps that of Santa Maria la Blanca, and give thanks for the safe arrival of the King and Queen of Portugal.

She would be happy among those horseshoe arches, among those graceful arabesques; there she would ask to be purged of all resentment against the sorrows of the last year. She would be cleansed of self-pity, and ready for the miracle of birth, the recompense which was to be the son her dearest Isabella would give to her and Spain.

It was meet that the Archbishop of Toledo should be in the city to greet them – gaunt, emaciated Ximenes de Cisneros, his robes of state hanging uneasily on his spare figure.

Isabella felt a lifting of her spirits as she greeted him. She would tell her old confessor of her weakness; she would listen to his astringent comments; he would scorn her mother-love as unworthy of the Queen; he would deplore her weakness in questioning the will of God.

Ferdinand’s greeting of the Archbishop was cool. He could never look at him without recalling that the office with all its pomp and grandeur might have gone to his son.

‘It does me good to see my Archbishop,’ murmured Isabella graciously.

Ximenes bowed before her, but even his bow had arrogance. He set the Church above the State.

Ximenes rode beside the Queen through the streets of Toledo.

With what great joy the Queen embraced her daughter Isabella!

This was when they were alone after the ceremonial greeting which had been watched by thousands. Then they had done all that was required of them, this mother and daughter, bowing graciously, kissing hands, as though they were not yearning to embrace and ask a thousand questions.

The Queen would not allow herself to look too closely at her daughter; she was afraid that she might see that which had made her anxious and betray her anxiety.

But now they were alone and the Queen had dismissed all her attendants and those of her daughter, for she told herself they must have this short time together.

‘My dearest,’ cried the Queen, ‘let me look at you. Why, you are a little pale. And how is your health? Tell me exactly when the little one is expected.’

‘In August, Mother.’

‘Well, that is not long to wait. You have not told me how you are.’

‘I feel a little tired, and rather listless.’

‘It is natural.’

‘I wonder.’

‘What do you mean? You wonder! A pregnant woman has a child to carry. Naturally she does not feel as other women do.’

‘I have seen some women seem perfectly healthy in pregnancy.’

‘Nonsense. It differs from woman to woman and from birth to birth. I know. Remember I have had five children of my own.’

‘Then perhaps this tiredness is nothing.’

‘And your cough?’

‘It is no worse, Mother.’

‘You think I am foolish with all my questions?’

‘Mother, it is good to hear those questions.’ Isabella suddenly flung herself into her mother’s arms and, to the Queen’s dismay, she saw tears on her daughter’s cheeks.

‘Emanuel is good to you?’

‘No husband could be better.’

‘I noticed his tenderness towards you. It pleased me.’

‘He does everything to please me.’

‘Then why these tears?’

‘Perhaps … I am frightened.’

‘Frightened of childbirth! It is natural. The first time can be alarming. But it is the task of all women, you know. A Queen’s task as well as a peasant’s. Nay, more so. It is more important for a Queen to bear children than for a peasant to do so.’

‘Mother, there are times when I wish I were a peasant.’

‘What nonsense you talk.’

Isabella realised then that there were matters she could not discuss even with her mother. She could not depress her by telling her that she had a strange foreboding of evil.

She wanted to cry out: Our House is cursed. The persecuted Jews have cursed us. I feel their curses all about me.

Her mother would be shocked at such childishness.

But is it childishness? Isabella asked herself. In the night I feel certain that this evil is all about me. And Emanuel feels it too.

How could that be? Such thoughts were foolish superstition.

She fervently wished that she had not to face the ordeal of childbirth.

How tiring it was to stand before the Cortes, to hear them proclaim her the heiress of Castile.

These worthy citizens were pleased with her, because none who looked at her could be in any doubt of her pregnancy. They were all hoping for a boy. But if she did not give birth to a boy, still the child she carried would, in the eyes of the Toledans, be the heir of Spain.

She listened to their loyal shouts and smiled her thanks. How glad she was that she had been brought up to hide her feelings.

After the ceremony with the Cortes, she must be carried through the streets to show herself to the people. Then she was received in the Cathedral and blessed by the Archbishop.

The atmosphere inside the massive Gothic building seemed overpowering. She stared at the treasures which hung on the walls and thought of the rich citizens of Toledo who had reason to be grateful to her mother for restoring order throughout Spain where once there had been anarchy. In this town lived the finest goldsmiths and silversmiths in the world; and the results of their labours were here in the cathedral for all to see.

She looked at the stern face of Ximenes and, as she studied the rich robes of his office, the brocade and damask studded with precious jewels, she thought of the hair shirt which she knew would be worn beneath those fine garments, and shivered.

She tried to pray then to the Virgin, the patron saint of Toledo, and she found that she could only repeat: ‘Help me, Holy Mother. Help me.’

When they had returned to the Palace, Emanuel said she must rest; the ceremony had tired her.

‘There are too many ceremonies,’ he said.

‘I do not believe it is the ceremony which tires me, Emanuel,’ she said. ‘I think I should be equally tired if I lay on my bed all the day. Perhaps I am not really tired.’

‘What then, my dearest?’

She looked at him frankly and answered: ‘I am afraid.’

‘Afraid! But, my love, you shall have the very best attention in Spain.’

‘Do you think that will avail me anything?’

‘But indeed I do. How I long for September! Then you will be delighting in your child. You will laugh at these fears … if you remember them.’

‘Emanuel, I do not think I shall be here in September.’

‘But, my darling, what is it you are saying …?’

‘Dear Emanuel, I know you love me. I know you will be unhappy if I die. But it is better for you to be prepared.’

‘Prepared! I am prepared for birth, not for death.’

‘But if death should come …’

‘You are overwrought.’

‘I am fatigued, but I think at such times I see the future more clearly. I have a very strong feeling that I shall not get well after the child is born. It is our punishment, Emanuel. For me death, for you bereavement. Why do you look so shocked? It is a small payment for the misery we shall bring to thousands.’

Emanuel threw himself down by the bed. ‘Isabella, you must not talk so. You must not.’

She stroked his hair with her thin white hand.

‘No,’ she said, ‘I must not. But I had to warn you of this feeling I have. It is so strong. Well, I have done so. Now let us forget it. I shall pray that my child will be a boy. That I think will make you very happy.’

‘And you will be happy too.’

She only smiled at him. Then she said quickly: ‘Toledo is a beautiful town, is it not? I think my father loves it. It is so prosperous. It is so Moorish. There is everything here to remind my parents of the reconquest; there are more than the chains from Malaga on the walls of San Juan de los Reyes. But my mother, while she exults in the prosperity and beauty of Toledo, feels a certain sadness.’

‘There must be no sadness,’ said Emanuel.

‘But there must always be sadness, it seems, sadness to mingle with pride, with laughter, with joy. Is it not beautiful here? I love to watch the Tagus dashing against the stones far below. Where in Spain is there such a fertile vega as that around Toledo? The fruit is so luscious here, the corn so plentiful. But did you notice how the flies pestered us as we came in? I saw the Rock too. The Rock of Toledo from which criminals are hurled down … down into the ravine. So much beauty and so much sorrow. That is what my mother feels when she rides into Toledo. In this rich and lovely city my sister Juana was born.’

‘That should make your mother love it all the more.’

Isabella took her husband’s hand in hers and cried out: ‘Emanuel, let there be complete trust between us. Let us not pretend to one another. Can you not see it? It is like the writing on the wall. I see it clearly. As I come nearer and nearer to my confinement I seem to acquire a new sensitivity. I feel I am not entirely of this world but have not yet reached the next. Therefore I sometimes see what is hidden from most human eyes.’

‘Isabella, you must be calm, my dearest.’

‘I am calm, Emanuel. But I distress you. I do not want my passing to be the shock to you that my brother’s death was to my mother. Emanuel, my dear husband, it is always better to be prepared. Shall I tell you what is in my mind, or shall I pretend that I am a woman who looks into the future and sees her child playing beside her? Shall I lie to you, Emanuel?’

He kissed her hands. ‘There must be truth between us.’

‘That is what I thought. So I would tell you. Emanuel, my House has brought greatness to Spain, great prosperity and great sorrow. Is it never possible to have one without the other? On our journey to Toledo we passed through a town where, in the Plaza Mayor, I saw the ashes and I smelt the fires which had recently burned there. It was human flesh which burned, Emanuel.’

‘Those who died were condemned by the Holy Office.’

‘I know. They were heretics. They had denied their faith. But they have hearts in which to harbour hatred, lips with which to curse. They would curse our House, Emanuel, even as those who were driven from Spain would curse us. And their curses have not gone unheeded.’

‘Should we suffer for pleasing God and all the saints?’

‘I do not understand, Emanuel; and I am too tired to try to. We are told that this is a Christian country. It is our great desire to bring our people to the Christian faith. We do it by persuasion. We do it by force. It is God’s work. But what of the devil?’

‘These are strange thoughts, Isabella.’

‘They come unbidden. See what has happened to us. My parents had five children – four daughters and one son. Their son and heir died suddenly, and his heir was stillborn. My sister Juana is strange, so wild that I have heard it whispered that she is half-way to madness. Already she has caused trouble to our parents by allowing herself to be proclaimed Princess of Castile. You see, Emanuel, it is like a pattern, an evil pattern built up by curses.’

‘You are distraught, Isabella.’

‘No. I think I see clearly … more clearly than the rest of you. I am to have a child. Childbearing can be dangerous. I am the daughter of a cursed House. I wonder what will happen next.’

‘This is a morbid fancy due to your condition.’

‘Is it, Emanuel? Oh, tell me it is. Tell me that I can be happy. Juan caught a fever, did he not? It might have happened to anybody. And the child was stillborn because of Margaret’s grief. Juana is not mad, is she? She is merely high-spirited, and she has fallen completely under the spell of that handsome rogue who is her husband. Is that not natural? And I … I was never very strong, so I have morbid fancies … It is merely because of my condition.’

‘That is so, Isabella. Of course that is so. Now there will be no more morbidity. Now you will rest.’

‘I will sleep if you will sit beside me and hold my hand, Emanuel. Then I shall feel at peace.’

‘I shall remain with you, but you must rest. You have forgotten that we have to start on our travels tomorrow.’

‘Now we must go to Saragossa. The Cortes there must proclaim me the Heiress as the Cortes here at Toledo have done.’

‘That is right. Now rest.’

She closed her eyes, and Emanuel stroked back the hair from her hot forehead.

He was worried. He did not like this talk of premonitions. He had an idea that the ceremony in Saragossa would not be such a pleasant one as that of Toledo. Castile was ready to accept a woman as heir to the crown. But Saragossa, the capital of Aragon, did not recognise the right of women to rule.

He did not mention this. Let her rest. They would overcome their troubles the better by taking them singly.

Into Saragossa came Isabella, Princess of Castile, with Emanuel her husband.

The people watched them with calm calculating gaze. This was the eldest daughter and heiress of their own Ferdinand, but she was a woman, and the Aragonese did not recognise the right of women to reign in Aragon. Let the Castilians make their own laws; they would never be accepted as the laws of Aragon. The Aragonese were a determined people; they were ready to fight for what they considered to be their rights.

So as Isabella rode into their city they were silent.

How different, thought Isabella, from the welcome they had received in Toledo. She did not like this city of bell turrets and sullen people. She had felt the vague resentment as soon as she passed into Aragon; she had been nervous as she rode along the banks of the Ebro past those caves which seemed to have been formed in this part of the country among the sierras as well as along the banks of the river. The yellow water of the Ebro was turbulent; and the very houses seemed too much like fortresses, reminding her that here was a people who would be determined to demand and fight for its dues.

On her arrival in this faintly hostile city she went to pray to the statue of the Virgin which, it was said, had been carved by the angels fourteen hundred years before. Precious jewels glittered in her cloak and crown which seemed to smother her; and it occurred to Isabella that she must have looked very different when, as the legend had it, she appeared to St James all those years ago.

From the Virgin she went to the Cathedral close by, and there she prayed anew for strength to bear whatever lay before her.

The people watched her and whispered together.

‘The crown of Aragon was promised to the male heirs of Ferdinand.’

‘And this is but a woman.’

‘She is our Ferdinand’s daughter nevertheless, and he has no legitimate sons.’

‘But the crown should go to the next male heir.’

‘Castile and Aragon are as one now that Ferdinand and Isabella rule them.’

There was going to be resistance in Aragon to the female succession. Isabella of Castile had remained Queen in her own right, but it was well known that she had greater power than Ferdinand. In the eyes of the Aragonese, it was their Ferdinand who should have ruled Spain with Isabella merely as his consort.

‘Nay,’ they said, ‘we’ll not have women on the throne of Spain. Aragon will support the male heir.’

‘But wait a moment … the Princess is pregnant, is she not? If she were to have a son …’

‘Ah, that would be a different matter. That would offend none. The Aragonese crown goes to the male descendants of Ferdinand, and his grandson would be the rightful heir.’

‘Then, we must wait until the birth. That’s the simple answer.’

It was the simple answer, and the Cortes confirmed it. They would not give their allegiance to Isabella of Portugal because she was a woman; but if she bore a son, then they would accept that son as the heir to the crown of Aragon and all Spain.

It was a wearying occasion for Isabella.

She had been alarmed by the hostile looks of the members of the Cortes. She had disliked their arrogant manner of implying that unless she produced a son they would have none of her.

She lay on her bed while her women soothed her; and when Emanuel came to her they hurried away and left them together.

‘I feel a great responsibility rests upon me,’ she said. ‘I almost wish I were a humble woman waiting the birth of her child.’

The Queen faced Ferdinand in anger.

‘How dare they!’ she demanded. ‘In every town of Castile our daughter has been received with honours. But in Saragossa, the capital of Aragon, she is submitted to insult.’

Ferdinand could scarcely suppress a wry smile. There had been so many occasions when he had been forced to take second place, when he had been reminded that Aragon was of secondary importance to Castile and that the Queen of Castile was therefore senior to the King of Aragon.

‘They but state their rights,’ he answered.

‘Their rights – to reject our daughter!’

‘We know well that Aragon accepts only the male line as heirs to the crown.’

A faint smile played about his lips. He was reminding her that in Aragon the King was looked upon as the ruler and the Queen as his consort.

Isabella was not concerned with his private feelings. She thought only of the humiliation to her daughter.

‘I picture them,’ she said, ‘quizzing her as though she were some fishwife. How far advanced in pregnancy is she? She will give birth in August. Then we will wait until August and, if she gives birth to a male child, we will accept that child as heir to the throne. I tell you, our daughter Isabella, being our eldest, is our heir.’

‘They will not accept her, because they will not accept a woman.’

‘They have accepted me.’

‘As my wife,’ Ferdinand reminded her.

‘Rather than endure this insolence of the Saragossa Cortes I would subdue them by sending an armed force to deal with them. I would force them to accept our Isabella as the heir of Spain.’

‘You cannot mean that.’

‘But I do,’ insisted Isabella.

Ferdinand left her and returned shortly with a statesman whose integrity he knew Isabella trusted. This was Antonio de Fonesca, a brother of the Bishop who bore the same name; this man Ferdinand had once sent as envoy to Charles VII of France, and the bold conduct of Fonesca had so impressed both the Sovereigns that they often consulted him with confidence and respect.

‘The Queen’s Highness is incensed by the behaviour of the Cortes at Saragossa,’ said Ferdinand. ‘She is thinking of sending soldiers to subdue them over this matter of accepting our daughter as heir to the throne.’

‘Would Your Highness care to hear my opinion?’ asked Fonesca of the Queen.

Isabella told him that she would.

‘Then, Highness, I would say that the Aragonese have only acted as good and loyal subjects. You must excuse them if they move with caution in an affair which they find difficult to justify by precedent in their history.’

Ferdinand was watching his wife closely. He knew that her love of justice would always overcome every other emotion.

She was silent, considering the statesman’s remarks.

Then she said: ‘I see that you are right. There is nothing to be done but hope – and pray – that my grandchild will be a boy.’

Isabella, Queen of Portugal, lay on her bed. Her pains had started and she knew that her time had come.

There was a cold sweat on her brow and she was unconscious of all the people who stood about her bed. She was praying: ‘A son. Let it be a son.’

If she produced a healthy son she would begin to forget this legend of a curse which had grown up in her mind. A son could make so much difference to her family and her country.

The little boy would be heir not only to the crown of Spain but to that of Portugal. The countries would be united; the hostile people of Saragossa would be satisfied; and she and Emanuel would be the proudest parents in the world.

Why should it not be so? Could her family go on receiving blow after blow? They had had their share of tragedy. Let this be different.

‘A boy,’ she murmured, ‘a healthy boy to make the sullen people of Saragossa cheer, to unite Spain and Portugal.’ What an important little person this was who was now so impatient to be born!

The pains were coming regularly now. If she did not feel so weak she could have borne them more easily. She lay moaning while the women crowded about her. She drifted from consciousness into unconsciousness and back again.

The pain still persisted; it was more violent now.

She tried not to think of it; she tried to pray, to ask forgiveness of her sins, but her lips continued to form the words: ‘A boy. Let it be a boy.’

There were voices in the bedchamber.

‘A boy! A bonny boy!’

‘Is it indeed so?’

‘No mistake!’

‘Ah, this is a happy day.’

Isabella, lying on her bed, heard the cry of a child. She lay listening to the voices, too exhausted to move.

Someone was standing by her bed. Someone else knelt and was taking her hand and kissing it. Emanuel was standing, and it was her mother who knelt.

‘Emanuel,’ she whispered. ‘Mother …’

‘My dearest …’ began Emanuel.

But her mother cried out in a voice loud with triumph: ‘It is over, my darling. The best possible news for you. You have given birth to a fine baby boy.’

Isabella smiled. ‘Then everyone is happy.’

Emanuel was bending over her, his eyes anxious. ‘Including you?’ he said.

‘But yes.’

His eyes were faintly teasing: No more talk of curses, they were telling her. You see, all your premonitions were wrong. The ordeal is over and you have a beautiful son. ‘Can you hear the bells ringing?’ her mother asked the young Queen.

‘I … I am not sure.’

‘All over Spain the bells shall ring. Everyone will be rejoicing. They shall all know that their Sovereigns have a grandson, a male heir, at last.’

‘Then I am happy.’

‘We will leave her to rest,’ said the Queen.

Emanuel nodded. ‘She is exhausted – no wonder.’

‘But first …’ whispered Isabella.

‘I understand,’ laughed her mother. She stood up and called to the nurse.

She took the baby from her and placed it in its mother’s arms.

Ferdinand said: ‘He shall be called Miguel, after the saint on whose day he was born.’

‘God bless our little Miguel,’ answered the Queen. ‘He’s a lively little fellow, but I wish his mother did not look so exhausted.’

Ferdinand bent over the cradle, exulting in the infant; he found it hard to take his hands from the child who meant so much to him.

‘We must have a triumphant pilgrimage as soon as Isabella is well enough to leave her bed,’ went on Ferdinand. ‘The people will want to see their heir. We should do this without delay.’

Isabella agreed as to the desirability of this, but it should not be, she assured herself, until Miguel’s mother had recovered from her ordeal.

One of the women of the bedchamber was coming quickly towards them.

‘Your Highnesses, Her Highness of Portugal …’

‘Yes?’ said Isabella sharply.

‘She seems to find breathing difficult. Her condition is changing …’

Isabella did not wait for more. With Ferdinand following she hurried to her daughter’s bedside.

Emanuel was already there.

The sight of her daughter’s wan face, her blue-encircled eyes, her fight for her breath, made Isabella’s heart turn over with fear.

‘My darling child,’ she cried, and there was a note of anguish in her voice which was a piteous appeal.

‘Mother …’

‘It is I, my darling. Mother is with you.’

‘I feel so strange.’

‘You are tired, my love. You have given birth to a beautiful boy. No wonder you are exhausted.’

‘I … cannot … breathe,’ she gasped.

‘Where are the physicians?’ demanded Ferdinand.

Emanuel shook his head as though to imply they had admitted their ignorance. There was nothing they could do.

Ferdinand walked to a corner of the room, and the doctors followed him.

‘What is wrong with her?’

‘It is a malaise which sometimes follows childbirth.’

‘Then what is to be done?’

‘Highness, it must take its course.’

‘But this is …’

The doctors did not answer. They dared not tell the King that in their opinion the Queen of Portugal was on her deathbed.

Ferdinand stood wretchedly looking at the group round the bed. He was afraid to join them. It can’t happen, he told himself. Isabella, his wife, could never endure this in addition to all she had suffered. This would be too much.

Isabella’s eyes seemed to rest on her mother.

‘Do we disturb you here, my darling?’ asked the elder Isabella.

‘No, Mother. You … never disturb me. I am too tired to talk, but … I want you here. You too, Emanuel.’

‘You are going to stay with us for months … you and Emanuel and little Miguel. We are going to show the baby to the people. They will love their little heir. This is a happy day, my daughter.’

‘Yes … a happy day.’

Emanuel was looking appealingly at his mother-in-law as though imploring her to tell him that his wife would recover.

‘Mother,’ said the sick woman, ‘and Emanuel … come near to me.’

They sat on the bed and each held a hand.

‘Now,’ she said, ‘I am happy. I am … going, I think.’

‘No!’ cried Emanuel.

But the younger Isabella saw the anguish in the eyes of the elder and she knew; they both knew.

Neither spoke, but they looked at each other and the great love they bore for one another was in their eyes.

‘I … I gave you the boy,’ whispered Isabella.

‘And you are going to get well,’ insisted Emanuel.

But the two Isabellas did not answer him, because they knew that a lie could give them no comfort.

‘I am so tired,’ murmured the Queen of Portugal. ‘I … will go now. Goodbye.’

The Queen of Spain signed for the priests to come to her daughter’s bedside. She knew that the moment had come for the last rites.

She listened to their words; she saw her daughter’s attempts to repeat the necessary prayers; and she thought: This is not true. I am dreaming. It cannot be true. Not Juan and Isabella. Not both. That would be too cruel.

But she knew it was true.

Isabella was growing weaker with every moment; and only an hour after she had given them little Miguel, she was dead.