Daughters of Spain

Chapter V TRAGEDY AT SALAMANCA

Juan and Margaret had started on their triumphal journey, and the time had come for the Princess Isabella to set out for the meeting with Emanuel.

She was glad that her mother was travelling with her. Ferdinand also accompanied them, but the Princess had little to say to her father; she was aware of his impatience for the marriage to take place.

The Queen understood her daughter’s reluctance to return as a bride to the country of the man she had loved so tenderly; but she had no idea of the horrors which filled her daughter’s mind. It was inconceivable to the Queen that young Isabella could be so concerned about the fate of a section of the community who refused the benefits of Christianity.

The marriage was to be performed without the pomp which usually accompanied royal marriages. Isabella was a widow. The people were still rejoicing over the marriage of Juan and Margaret. A great deal had been spent on that ceremony, and important as this marriage with Portugal was, it must be performed with the minimum outlay. Neither Ferdinand nor Isabella were spendthrifts and they were not eager to spend unless it was necessary.

So the ceremony which was to take place at Valencia de Alcantara would be a quiet one. In this little town Emanuel was waiting for his bride.

Strange emotions filled the young Isabella’s heart as she lifted her eyes to her bridegroom’s face. Memories came back to her of the Palace in Lisbon where she had first seen him standing beside the King, and she remembered thinking at that moment that he was Alonso.

He had been her friend afterwards; he had shown clearly his desire to be in Alonso’s place; and after that unhappy day when Alonso died he had been the kindest and most sympathetic of her friends. It was then that he had suggested that she stay in Portugal as his wife.

Now he was the King of Portugal – an honour which could never have come to him but for that accident in the forest, for had Alonso lived she and he would have sons to come before Emanuel.

But it had happened differently, tragically so. And here she was, the bride of Emanuel.

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. He loved her still. How wonderful that this young man should have remained faithful to her all those years. While she had mourned in her widowhood and declared that she would never marry again, he had waited.

And so she had come to him at last, but now it was with a hideous burden about her neck, the misery of thousands of Jews.

There was pain behind his smile. He too was thinking that it was a terrible price – the denial of his own beliefs – which he had to pay for her.

The ceremony was performed, while Ferdinand exulted and the Queen smiled graciously. All was well. The Infanta Isabella of Spain was now the Queen of Portugal.

Isabella was glad that it had not been the usual exhausting ceremony. That was something she could not have endured.

When she was with Emanuel, when she was aware of his tenderness for her, his gentleness, his determination to make her happy, she felt a quiet contentment. She thought, I am fortunate, even as Margaret has been in Juan.

She had been foolish in delaying so long. She could have married him a year … two years … why, three years before. If she had done so she might have had a child by now.

‘What a faithful man you are,’ she told her husband, ‘to wait all those years.’

‘Did you not understand that, once I had seen you, I should be faithful?’ he answered.

‘But I am not young any more. I am twenty-seven. Why, you could have married my sister Maria. She is twelve years younger than I, and a maiden.’

‘Does it seem strange to you that it was Isabella I wanted?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said, ‘very strange.’

He took her hands and kissed them. ‘You will soon learn that it is not strange at all. I loved you when you first came to us. I loved you when you went away; and I love you more than ever now that you have come to me.’

‘I shall try to be all that you deserve in a wife, Emanuel.’

He kissed her then with passion, and she had a feeling that he was trying to shut something from his mind. She knew what it was. He had not mentioned ‘the condition’, but it was there between them, she felt, between them and complete happiness.

To lie beside Emanuel, to know that she had a husband once more, did not bring back the bitter memories of Alonso which she had so feared. She realised now that this was the quickest way to obliterate the memory of that long ago honeymoon which had ended in tragedy.

Emanuel was not unlike his dead cousin. And if she could not feel the wild exultation which she had enjoyed with Alonso she believed that this quieter contentment was something to which she and Alonso would have come in time.

In those first days of marriage, Alonso and Emanuel had begun to mingle strangely in her mind. They had become as one person.

During those first days they forgot. Then she noticed that one of Emanuel’s attendants had a Jewish cast of feature, and when it seemed to her that she caught this man’s gaze fixed upon her malevolently, a terrible fear shot through her.

She said nothing of this at the time, but that night she woke screaming from a frightening dream.

Emanuel sought to comfort her but she could not remember what the dream was.

She could only sob out her terror in Emanuel’s arms.

‘It is my fault,’ she said. ‘It is my fault. I should have come to you earlier. I should never have let this happen.’

‘What is it, my dearest? Tell me what is on your mind.’

‘It is what we are going to do to those people. It is the price you had to pay for our marriage.’

She felt his body stiffen, and she knew that this terrible thing was on his mind as surely as it was on her own.

He kissed her hair and whispered: ‘You should have come before, Isabella. You should have come long ago.’

‘And now?’

‘And now,’ he answered, ‘the deed must be done. I have given my word. It is a condition of the marriage.’

‘Emanuel, you hate this. You loathe it. It haunts you … even as it does me.’

‘I wanted you so much,’ he said. ‘It was the price that was asked of me and I paid it … because I wanted you so much.’

‘Is there no way out?’ she whispered.

It was a stupid question. As she asked it, she saw the stern face of Torquemada, the serene one of her mother, the shrewd one of her father. They had made this condition. They would insist on its being carried out.

They were silent for a while, then she went on: ‘It is like a blight upon us. Those strange people, with their strange religion, will curse us for what we have done to them. They will curse our House. Emanuel, I am afraid.’

He held her tightly against him and when he spoke his voice sounded muffled: ‘We must do the deed and then forget. It was not our fault. I was weak in my need of you. But we are married now. We will do this thing and then … we will begin again from there.’

‘Is it possible?’

‘It is, my Isabella.’

She allowed herself to be comforted; but when she slept her dreams were haunted by a thousand voices – voices of men, women and children who, because of their faith, would be driven from their homes. These voices cursed her, cursed the united Houses of Spain and Portugal.

Salamanca was celebrating the arrival of the heir of Spain and his bride. The people had come in from miles around; men, women and children moved like ants across the plain on their way to the town of the University.

The students were en fête; they were of all nationalities for, next to Paris, this was the foremost seat of learning in the world. The town was rich, as many noblemen had bought houses there that they might live near their student sons and watch over them during their years at the University.

Through the streets the students swaggered in their stoles, the colour of which indicated their faculties. Salamanca was often gay, but it had never seen anything to equal this occasion. The bells of the churches rang continually; its streets and courtyards were filled with laughter; the bulls were being brought in – there must always be bulls; and in the Plaza Mayor the excitement was at its height. On the balconies of the houses sat beautiful women, and the students watched them with gleaming eyes. Now and then a brilliant cavalcade would sweep through the streets, and the crowd would cheer because they knew this was part of the Prince’s retinue.

On their way to the balls and banquets, which were given in their honour, the Prince and his bride would pass through the streets, and the people of Salamanca were given an opportunity to show their delight in the heir to the throne.

In Salamanca there was nothing but gaiety and loyalty to the royal pair.

Margaret looked on with serene eyes.

It was pleasant to know that the people loved her and her husband. She suspected that they loved the excitement of ceremony even more, but she did not tell Juan this. She was perhaps a little more cynical than he was.

He delighted in the people’s pleasure, not because he wanted adulation – this worried him because he did not think himself worthy of it – but because he knew that his parents would hear of the reception which was being given them and how much it would please them.

They had danced at the ball given in their honour and were now in their own apartment.

Margaret was not tired; she could have danced all night because she was happier than she had ever been in her life. She looked at Juan and thought: Now this is the time to share this happiness with him, for it is his as well as mine and will please him as much as it pleases me.

She had not wanted to tell him until she was sure, but now she believed there could not be a doubt.

She sat down on the bed and looked at him. She had waved away the attendants who would have helped them to bed, wanting none of their ceremonies. She shocked them, she knew; but it was not important. Juan accepted her free Flemish manners and others must do the same. Those attendants who had come with her from Flanders found it difficult to settle happily in Spain. ‘The continual ceremonies,’ they complained, ‘they are not only wearying but ridiculous.’ She had answered: ‘You must understand that to them our customs seem coarse, which is perhaps worse than ridiculous. There is a saying: When you are in Rome you must do as the Romans do. I would say to you, the same applies to Spain.’

Yet she thought, if they cannot adapt themselves to Spanish ways they must go home. I, who am so happy, would not have them otherwise.

‘Juan,’ she said, ‘I fancy I shocked the company a little tonight.’

‘Shocked them?’

‘Oh come, did you not notice raised eyebrows? My Flemish ways astonished them.’

‘What does it matter as long as you pleased them?’

‘Did I please them?’

‘You pleased me – let us leave it at that.’

‘But Juan, you are so easy to please. Perhaps I shall have to learn to be more solemn, more of a Spaniard, more like the Queen. I must try to model myself upon your mother, Juan.’

‘Stay as you are,’ he said, kissing her lips. ‘That will please me best.’

She leaped up and began to dance a pavana with the utmost solemnity. Then suddenly her mood changed.

‘This,’ she said, ‘is how we should dance it in Flanders.’

She performed such a wild travesty of the Spanish dance that Juan burst out laughing.

‘Come, dance with me,’ she said, and held out her hands to him. ‘If you dance very nicely I will tell you a secret.’

As he stood beside her she noticed that he looked exhausted and that his face was unusually flushed.

‘Juan,’ she said, ‘you are tired.’

‘A little. It was hot in the ballroom.’

‘Your hands are burning.’

‘Are they?’

‘Sit down. I shall help you to bed. Come, I will be your valet.’

He said, laughing: ‘Margaret, what will your attendants think of your mad ways?’

‘That I am Flemish … merely that. Did you not know that the people of Flanders are people who love to joke and laugh rather than stand on ceremony? They’ll forgive me my oddities simply because I’m Flemish. And when they know my news they’ll be ready to forgive me everything.’

‘What news is this?’

‘Come, can you not guess?’

‘Margot!’

She leaned towards him and kissed him gently on the forehead.

‘Long life and happiness to you, little father,’ she whispered.

That was a never-to-be-forgotten night.

‘I shall always love Salamanca,’ said Margaret.

‘We’ll bring him to Salamanca as soon as he is old enough,’ Juan told her.

‘We will send him to the University here and we will tell the people that we love their town because there we spent some of the happiest days and nights of our honeymoon.’

‘There I first knew that he existed.’

They laughed and made love again; they felt more serious, more responsible people. They were no longer merely lovers; they were almost parents, and felt awed at the prospect.

It was dawn when Margaret awoke. It was as though something had startled her. She did not know what. The city was wakening to life. The students were already in the streets.

Margaret had a feeling that something was wrong.

She sat up in bed. ‘Juan!’ she cried.

He did not answer her at once, and she bent over him calling him again.

The flush was still in his cheeks and as she laid her face against his she was struck by the heat of it.

‘Juan,’ she whispered, ‘Juan, my dearest. Wake up.’

He opened his eyes and she felt that she wanted to sob with relief to see him smile at her.

‘Oh Juan, for the moment I thought something was wrong.’

‘What could be wrong?’ he asked, taking her hand.

His fingers seemed to scorch her flesh.

‘How hot you are!’

‘Am I?’ He began to raise himself but, even as he did so, he fell back on the pillows.

‘What is wrong, Juan? What ails you?’

He put his hand to his head. ‘It is a dizziness,’ he said.

‘You are sick,’ she cried. She sprang from the bed and wrapped a robe about her trembling body. She ran to the door calling: ‘Come quickly. The Prince is ill.’

The physicians stood at his bedside.

His Highness had contracted a fever, they said. He would soon recover with their remedies.

All that day Margaret sat by his bedside. He watched her tenderly, trying hard to assure her with his glances that all was well.

But she was not deceived; and all through the next night she sat with him.

In the early morning he was delirious.

The physicians conferred together.

‘Highness,’ they said to her, ‘we think that a message should be sent to the King and Queen without delay.’

‘Let it be done with all speed,’ said Margaret quietly.

While the messengers galloped to the frontier town of Valencia de Alcantara, Margaret sat at the bedside of her husband.

Ferdinand received the messengers from Salamanca.

He read the letter from Margaret. Juan ill! But he had been perfectly well when he set out on his honeymoon. This was the hysterical fear of a young bride. Juan was a little exhausted; perhaps being married could be exhausting to a serious young man who, before his wedding, had lived an entirely virtuous life. Ferdinand’s marriage had presented no such problems; but he was ready to concede that Juan was different from himself in that respect.

But there was another letter. This was signed by two physicians. The Prince’s health was giving them cause for alarm. They believed he had contracted a malignant fever and that he was so ill that his parents should come immediately to his bedside.

Ferdinand looked grave. This was no hysteria; Juan must be really ill.

It was inconvenient. Emanuel and his daughter Isabella were still celebrating their marriage, and it would give rise to great anxiety if both he and the Queen left them abruptly to go to Juan’s bedside.

Ferdinand went to Isabella’s apartment, wondering how best he could break the news. She smiled as he entered, and he felt tenderness towards her. She looked a little older; the sorrow of parting with Juana, and now Isabella, had etched a few more lines on her face. When Ferdinand had his own way, as he had over this matter of Isabella’s marriage, he had time to feel affection for his Queen. She was a good, devoted mother, he reminded himself, and if she erred in her conduct towards her children it was on the side of over-indulgence.

He decided to suppress the physicians’ letter and show her only that of Margaret. Thus he could avoid arousing too much anxiety at this moment.

‘News,’ he announced, ‘from Salamanca.’

Her face lit up with pleasure.

‘I heard,’ she said, ‘that the people have given them a welcome such as they have rarely given any before.’

‘Yes, that is true,’ answered Ferdinand, ‘but …’

‘But …?’ cried the Queen and the alarm shot up in her eyes.

‘Juan is a little unwell. I have a letter here from Margaret. The poor child writes quite unlike the calm young lady she pretends to be.’

‘Show me the letter.’

Ferdinand gave it to her, and put his arm about her shoulders while she read it.

‘You see, it is the hysterical outburst of our little bride. If you ask me, our Juan finds being a husband to such a lively girl a little exhausting. He is in need of a rest.’

‘A fever!’ said the Queen. ‘I wonder what that means …?’

‘Over-excitement. Isabella, you are getting anxious. I will go at once to Salamanca. You remain here to say your farewell to Isabella and Emanuel. I will write to reassure you from Salamanca.’

Isabella considered this.

‘I know,’ went on Ferdinand, ‘that if I do not go you will continue anxious. And if we both go, we shall have all sorts of ridiculous rumours spreading throughout the country.’

‘You are right, Ferdinand. Please go to Salamanca with all speed. And write to me … as soon as you have seen him.’

Ferdinand kissed her with more tenderness than he had shown her for a long time. He was very fond of her when the submissive wife took the place of the Queen.

As Ferdinand rode through the town of Salamanca he was greeted with silence. It was almost as though the University town was one of mourning.

The physicians were waiting for him, and he had but to look at them to sense their alarm.

‘How is my son?’ he asked brusquely.

‘Highness, since we wrote to you his fever has not abated, but has in fact grown worse.’

‘I will go to his bedside at once.’

He found Margaret there and noticed that several of the women in the room were weeping, and that the expressions on the faces of the men were so doleful that it appeared as though Juan were living through his last hours.

Ferdinand glowered at them, anger swamping his fear. How dared they presume that Juan was going to die. Juan must not die. He was the heir to united Spain, and there would be trouble in Aragon if there was not a male heir. He and Isabella had only daughters beside this one son. After all their hopes and plans Juan must not die.

Margaret’s face was white and strained but she was composed, and Ferdinand felt a new affection for his daughter-in-law. But the sight of Juan’s wan face on the pillow frightened him.

He knelt by the bed and took Juan’s hand.

‘My son, what is this bad news I hear?’

Juan smiled at him. ‘Oh, Father, so you have come. Is my mother here?’

‘Nay. Why should she come because you have a little indisposition? She is at the frontier, speeding your sister on her way to Portugal.’

‘I should have liked to have seen her,’ said Juan faintly.

‘Well, you will see her soon enough.’

‘She will have to come soon, I think, Father.’

Ferdinand’s angry voice boomed out: ‘But why so?’

‘You must not be angry with me, Father, but I think I feel death close to me.’

‘What nonsense! Margaret, it is nonsense, is it not?’

Margaret said stonily: ‘I do not know.’

‘Then I do!’ cried Ferdinand. ‘You are going to recover … and quickly. By God, are you not the heir to the throne … the only male heir? There would be a pretty state of affairs if you left us without a male heir.’

Juan smiled faintly. ‘Oh, Father, there will be others. I am not so very important.’

‘I never heard such nonsense. What of Aragon? Tell me that. They will not have a female sovereign, as you know. You must therefore consider your duty and not talk of dying and leaving us without a male heir. I will see your physicians at once. I will command them to cure you of this … honeymoon fever … at once.’

Ferdinand rose and stood glowering affectionately at his son. How he had changed! he thought uneasily. Juan had never been a strong boy as he himself had been, as young Alfonso was. Holy Mother, what a pity that boy was not his legitimate son. Action was needed here … drastic action.

Ferdinand stalked from the room, beckoning the physicians to follow him; and in the ante-room before the bedchamber he shut the door and demanded: ‘How sick is he?’

‘Very sick, Highness.’

‘What hope is there of his recovery?’

The physicians did not answer. They were afraid to tell Ferdinand what they really thought. As for Ferdinand, he was afraid to probe further. He had as much affection for his son as he was capable of, but mingled with it was the thought of the part that son had to play in his own ambitions. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that my son has overtaxed his strength. He has had his duty to do both day and night. He has had to be a good Prince to the people and a good husband to the Archduchess. It has been too much for him. We will nurse him back to health.’

‘Highness, if this sickness has been brought on through his exhaustion perhaps it would be well to separate him from his bride. This would give him a chance to grow strong again.’

‘Is that the only remedy you can suggest?’

‘We have tried every other remedy, and the fever grips him the more firmly.’

Ferdinand was silent for a while. Then he said: ‘Let us go back to the sickroom.’

He stood at the foot of Juan’s bed and tried to speak jocularly.

‘The doctors tell me that you have become exhausted. They propose keeping you very quiet, and even Margaret shall not visit you.’

‘No,’ said Margaret, ‘I must stay with him.’

Juan put out a hand and gripped that of his wife. He held it tightly and, although he did not speak, it was clear that he wished her to remain with him.

Ferdinand stared at his son’s hand and noticed how thin his wrist had become. He must have lost a great deal of weight in a very short time. Ferdinand was realising at last that his son was very ill indeed.

Yes, he thought, he is very attached to Margaret. They must stay together, for ill as he is there might yet be time to beget an heir. A child conceived in the passion of fever was still a child. If Juan could give Margaret a child before he died, his death would not be such a tragedy.

‘Have no fear,’ he said. ‘I could never find it in my heart to separate you.’

He turned and left them together. He was now more than uneasy; he was decidedly worried.

He could not sleep that night. Juan’s condition had worsened during the day and Ferdinand found that he was sharing the general opinion of all those about the Prince.

Juan was very seriously ill.

When he had said good night to him Juan had put his burning lips to his father’s hand and had said: ‘Do not grieve for me, Father. If I am to die, and I think I am, I shall go to a better world than this.’

‘Do not say such things,’ Ferdinand had answered gruffly. ‘We need you here.’

‘Break the news gently to my mother,’ whispered Juan. ‘She loves me well. Tell her that her Angel will watch over her if it is possible for him to do so. Tell her that I love her dearly and that she has been the best mother anyone ever had. Tell her this for me, Father.’

‘You shall tell her such things yourself,’ retorted Ferdinand.

‘Father, you must not grieve for me. I shall be in the happier place. Grieve more for those I leave. Comfort my mother and care for Margaret. She is so young and she does not always understand our ways. I love her very dearly. Take care of her … and our child.’

‘Your child!’

‘Margaret is with child, Father.’

Ferdinand could not hide the joy which illumined his face. Juan saw it and understood.

‘You see, Father,’ he said, ‘if I go, I shall leave you consolation.’

A child! It made all the difference. Why had they not told him before? The situation was not so cruel as he had feared, since Margaret carried the heir to Spain and her Habsburg inheritance.

For the moment Ferdinand forgot to fear that his son might be dying.

But now that he was in his own room he thought of Juan, his gentle son, and how Isabella had doted on her ‘angel’. Juan had never caused them anxiety except over his health. He had been a model son, clever, kindly and obedient.

Ferdinand found that even the thought of the heir whom Margaret carried could not compensate for the loss of his son.

What was he going to tell Isabella? He thought tenderly of his wife who had given such love and devotion to their family. How was he going to break the news to her? She had wept bitterly because she was losing Isabella; she suffered continual anxiety over Juana in Flanders. She was thinking now of the days when Maria and Catalina would be torn from her side. If Juan died … how could he break the news to Isabella?

There was a knock at his door. He started forward and flung it open.

He knew what this message meant even before the man spoke.

‘The physicians think you should come to the Prince’s bedside to say goodbye to him, Highness.’

Ferdinand nodded.

Juan lay back on his pillows, a faint smile on his lips. Margaret was kneeling by his bed, her face buried in her hands. Her body looked as still as that of her dead husband.

Ferdinand faced his daughter-in-law. She seemed much older than the girl who only a few months before had married Juan. Her face was expressionless.

Ferdinand said gently: ‘There is the child to live for, my dear.’

‘Yes,’ answered Margaret, ‘I have the child.’

‘We shall take great care of you, my dear daughter. Let us comfort each other. I have lost the best of sons; you have lost the best of husbands. Your fortitude wins my admiration. Margaret, I do not know how to send this terrible news to his mother.’

‘She will wish to know the truth with all speed,’ Margaret said quietly.

‘The shock would kill her. She has no idea that he was suffering from anything but a mild fever. No, I must break this news gently. I am going to write to her now and tell her that Juan is ill and that you are with child. Two pieces of news, one good one bad. Then I will write again saying that Juan’s condition is giving cause for anxiety. You see, I shall gradually break this terrible news to her. It is the only way she could bear it.’

‘She will be heartbroken,’ Margaret murmured, ‘but I sometimes think she is stronger than any of us.’

‘Nay. At heart she is only a woman … a wife and mother. She loves all her children dearly, but he was her favourite. He was her son, the heir to everything we have fought for.’ Ferdinand suddenly buried his face in his hands. ‘I do not know how she will survive this shock.’

Margaret did not seem to be listening. She felt numb, telling herself that this had not really happened and that she was living through some hideous nightmare. She would wake soon to find herself in Juan’s arms and they would rise from their bed, go to the window and look out on the sunlit patio. They would ride again through the cheering crowds in the streets of Salamanca. She would laugh and say: ‘Juan, last night I had a bad dream. I dreamed that the worst possible thing which could befall me happened to me. And now I am awake, in the sunshine, and I am so happy to be alive because I know how singularly my life has been blessed since I have you.’

Ferdinand felt better when he was taking action. No sooner had he dispatched the two messengers than he called a secretary to him.

‘Write this to Her Highness the Queen,’ he commanded.

And the man began to write as the King dictated:

‘A terrible calamity has occurred in Salamanca. His Highness the King has died of a fever.’

The man stopped writing and stared at Ferdinand.

‘Ah, my good fellow, you look at me as though you think I am mad. No, this is not madness. It is good sense. The Queen will have to learn sooner or later of the death of the Prince. I have been considering how best I can break this news. I fear the effect it will have on her, and in this way I think I can soften the terrible blow. She will have had my two letters telling her of our son’s indisposition. Now I will ride with all speed to her. I shall send a messenger on ahead of me with the news of my death. That would be the greatest blow she could sustain. While she is overcome with the horror of this news I will stride in and confront her. She will be so overjoyed to see me that the blow of her son’s death will be less severe.’

The secretary bowed his head in melancholy understanding, but he doubted the wisdom of Ferdinand’s conduct.

However, it was not for him to criticise the action of his King, so he wrote the letter and, shortly afterwards, left Salamanca.

Isabella had said her last farewells to her daughter and Emanuel; the Infanta of Spain, now the Queen of Portugal, had set out with her husband and her retinue on the way to Lisbon.

How tired she was! She was becoming too old for long journeys, and taking leave of her daughter depressed her. She was extremely worried by the news of Juana which filtered through from Flanders. And now Juan was unwell.

The first of the messages arrived. Margaret was with child. The news filled her with joy; but the rest of the message said that Juan was unwell. The health of her children was a continual anxiety to her, and the two elder ones had always been delicate. Isabella’s cough had caused her mother a great deal of misgiving; Juan had been almost too frail and fair for a young man. Perhaps she had been so concerned about Juana’s mental condition that she had worried less about the physical health of the two elder children than she otherwise would have done. Maria and Catalina were much stronger; perhaps because they had been born in more settled times.

The second letter came almost immediately after the first. It appeared that Juan’s condition was more serious than they had at first thought.

‘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.’