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‘My dear friend and brother,’ said Louis, ‘you see me here in a most unhappy state – my kingdom plunged in war, my resources strained to their limit in this conflict with Burgundy.’
‘But my brother of France is master of great resources.’
‘Great!’ The eyes of the King of France flashed with fire rarely seen in them. Then he smiled a little sadly, stroking his fustian doublet as though to call attention to his simple and shabby garments that the King of Portugal might compare them with his own finery. He shook his head. ‘Wars deplete our treasury, brother. I could not burden my poor people with more taxes than they already suffer. Nay, when I have brought this trouble with Burgundy to an end . . . then . . . why then I should be most happy to come to your help, that together we may defeat the usurper Isabella and set the rightful heiress on the throne of Castile. Until then . . .’ Louis lifted his hands and allowed a helpless expression to creep over his cu
‘Wars have a way of dragging on,’ said Alfonso desperately.
‘But until this conflict has been brought to a satisfactory conclusion you will stay in my kingdom as my guest . . . my very honoured guest.’
Louis had leaned forward in his chair, and certain of the Portuguese retinue shivered with distaste. Louis reminded them of a great spider in his drab garments, his pale face brightened only by those shrewd, alert eyes.
‘And it may well be,’ went on the King of France, ‘that by that time His Holiness can be persuaded to give you the dispensation you need for marriage with your niece.’
It was a further excuse for delay. The marriage could not take place without the dispensation from the Pope, and was he likely to give it while Isabella was firmly on the throne of Castile?
If the journey through France had delighted the King of Portugal, his meeting with France’s King could only fill him with foreboding.
Alfonso had been right to feel apprehensive. As the months passed, although the French continued to treat him with respect, Louis, on every occasion when the purpose of his visit was mentioned, became evasive.
Burgundy! was the answer. And where was the dispensation from the Pope?
A whole year Alfonso lingered in France, for, having made the long journey, how could he face a return without having achieved what he had come for?
The unhappy figure of the King of Portugal at the Court of France had become a commonplace. He was looked upon as a hanger-on whose prestige waned with each passing week.
The Duke of Burgundy had died and Louis had invaded his dominions. The Pope had given the dispensation.
Still there was no answer for Alfonso.
He began to grow melancholy and to wonder what he should do, for he could not stay indefinitely in France.
And one day, after he had been a year in Louis’s dominions, one of his retinue asked to speak to Alfonso privately; and when they were alone he said to the King: ‘Highness, we are being deceived. Louis has no intention of helping us. I have proof that he is at this time negotiating with Ferdinand and Isabella, and seeking a treaty of friendship with them.’
‘It is impossible!’ cried Alfonso.
‘There is proof, Highness.’
When he was assured that he had been told the truth Alfonso was overcome with mortification.
What can I do? he asked himself. Return to Portugal? There he would become the object of ridicule. Louis was not to be trusted, and he, Alfonso, had been a fool to think he could bargain with such a man. Louis had never intended to help him; and it was obvious that, since he sought the friendship of Isabella and Ferdinand, he believed them to be secure on the throne of Castile.
He called to three of his most trusted servants.
‘Prepare,’ he said, ‘to leave the Court immediately.’
‘We are returning home, Highness?’ asked one eagerly.
‘Home,’ murmured the King. ‘We can never go home again. I could never face my son, nor my people.’
‘Then where shall we go, Highness?’
Alfonso looked in a bewildered fashion at his servants.
‘There is a little village in Normandy. We will make for that place, and there we shall live in obscurity until I have made up my mind what I had best do.’
Alfonso stared out of the window of the i
I, he mourned, a King of Portugal to come to this!
For several days he had lived here, like a fugitive, incognito, afraid to proclaim his identity lest even these humble people should be laughing at him.
At the Court of France his retinue would be asking themselves what had become of him; he did not care. All he wanted now was to hide from the world.
In Portugal Joa
He had dreamed of a romantic enterprise. A fair young girl in distress, a gallant king to her rescue, who should become her bridegroom; and here he was, an ageing man in hiding, perhaps already known to the world as a fighter of lost causes.
What is left to me? he asked himself. What is left to Joa
He saw himself in coarse robe and hair shirt. He saw himself barefoot before some shrine. Why not a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and, after that, return home to the monastic life? Thus if he could not procure the crown of Castile he could make sure of his place in heaven.
He did not pause long to consider. When had he ever done so?
He called for pen and paper.
‘I have a very important letter to write,’ he said.
‘My son, [he wrote] I have decided to retire from the world. All earthly vanities which were once within me are dead. I propose to go on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and after that devote myself to God in the monastic life.
‘It is for you to hear this news as though it were of my death, for dead I am to the world. You will assume the sovereignty of Portugal. When you receive this letter Alfonso is no longer King of Portugal. I salute King John . . .’
Isabella lay in her bed awaiting the birth of her child. It would not be long now, and she was glad that Beatriz was with her.
The Queen’s journeyings had brought her to Seville. It was the month of June, the heat was intense and the sweat was on Isabella’s brow as the intermittent pain tortured her body.
‘Beatrix,’ she murmured, ‘are you there, Beatriz?’
‘Beside you, my dearest.’
‘There is no need to worry, Beatriz. All will be well.’
‘Indeed all will be well!’
‘The child will be born in the most beautiful of my towns. Seville, La Tierra de Maria Santisima. One understands why it is so called, Beatriz. Last night I sat at my window and looked out on the fertile vineyards. But how hot it is!’
Beatriz leaned over Isabella, moving the big fan back and forth.
‘Is that better, my dearest?’
‘Better, Beatriz. I am happy to have you with me.’
A frown had puckered Isabella’s brow, and Beatriz asked herself: ‘Is she thinking of the woman in the castle of Arevalo? Oh, not now, my dearest, not at this time. It would be wrong. It might work some evil. Not now . . . Isabella, my Queen, when the child is about to come into the world.’
‘It is the pain,’ said Isabella. ‘I should be able to endure it better than this.’
‘You are the bravest woman in Castile.’
‘When you think what it means! Our child is about to be born . . . mine and Ferdinand’s. This child could be King or Queen of Castile. That was what my mother used to say to us . . .’
Isabella had caught her breath, and Beatriz, fa