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Beatriz thought it might be wise to change the subject, and after a slight pause asked after the health of the Infanta Isabella.
The Queen frowned slightly. ‘Her health does give me cause for anxiety. She is not as strong, I fear, as the other three. In fact, our baby, young Maria, seems to be the healthiest member of the family. Do you think so, Beatriz?’
‘I think that Maria has perfect health, but so have Juan and Juana. As for Isabella, she certainly has this tendency to catch cold. But I think that will pass as she grows older.’
‘Oh, Beatriz,’ said Isabella suddenly, ‘I do hope this one will be a boy.’
‘Because Ferdinand wishes it?’ asked Beatriz.
‘Yes, perhaps that is so. For myself, I would be content with another girl. Ferdinand wants sons.’
‘He has one.’
‘He has more than one,’ said Isabella after some hesitation. ‘And that is a great sorrow to me. I know of one illegitimate son. It is the Archbishop who succeeded to the See of Saragossa when he was but six years old. Ferdinand dotes on him. I have heard it whispered that there is another son. And I know there are daughters.’
‘These things will happen, Highness. They have always been so.’
‘I am foolish to think too much of them. We are often apart, and Ferdinand is not a man who could remain faithful to one woman.’
Beatriz laid her hand on that of the Queen.
‘Highness, may an old friend speak frankly?’
‘You know you may.’
‘My thoughts are taken back to the days before your marriage. You made an ideal of Ferdinand. You made an image – a man who had all the virtues of a great soldier, king and statesman, and yet was as austere in his nature as you are yourself. You made an impossible ideal, Highness.’
‘You are right, Beatriz.’
‘Such a person as you conjured up is not to be found in Christendom.’
‘Then I should be content with what I have.’
‘Highness, you should be content indeed. You have a partner who has many qualities to bring to this governing of your country; you have children. Think of the kings who long for children and ca
‘Beatriz, my dear, you have done me much good. I will be thankful for what I have. I will not ask for more. If God sees fit to give me another girl, I shall be happy. I shall forget that I longed for a son.’
Isabella was smiling. She had decided that for the next few months she would give herself up to the enjoyment of her family; she would spend much time in the nurseries with her children; and it would be as though she were not Queen of Castile but merely the mother of a boy and three girls, awaiting the arrival of a new baby.
Ferdinand had returned from Aragon, reluctantly, Isabella believed.
It was natural, Isabella told herself, that his first thoughts should have been for Aragon, and she believed his presence had been needed there.
When he returned to her after a long absence he was always the passionate lover: a state of affairs which had delighted her in their earlier relationship, but which she now knew to be due to Ferdinand’s love of change.
He was an adventurer in all respects. And she accepted him not as the embodiment of an ideal, but as the man he was.
He had risen from their bed, although only the first streaks of dawn were in the sky. He was restless, she saw, and found it difficult to lie still.
He sat on the bed, his embroidered robe about him, while she sat up and studied him gravely.
‘Ferdinand,’ she said, ‘do you not think it would be better if you confided your troubles to me?’
He smiled at her ruefully. ‘Ours is a troublous realm, Isabella,’ he said. ‘We are sovereigns of two states, and it would seem that in order to serve one we must neglect the other.’
Isabella said firmly: ‘Events in Castile are moving towards a climax. Since the capture of Boabdil we have made such great strides towards victory that surely it ca
‘Granada is a mighty kingdom which I have likened to a pomegranate. I have sworn to pluck the pomegranate dry, but there are still more juicy seeds to be taken. And meanwhile the French hold my provinces of Rousillon and Cerdagne.’
Isabella was startled. ‘Ferdinand, we ca
‘A war against the French would be a just one,’ urged Ferdinand.
‘The war against the Moors is a holy one,’ Isabella replied.
Ferdinand was a little sullen. ‘My presence is needed in Aragon,’ he said.
She wondered then whether it was herself whom he wanted to leave for some other woman, whether he longed to be with another family, not the one he had through her. She felt sick at heart to contemplate his infidelity; yet as she looked at him, so handsome, so virile, she remembered Beatrix’s words. She had greatly desired marriage with him. Young and handsome, he had appealed to her so strongly when she compared him with other suitors who had been selected for her.
No, she thought, it is not some other woman, some other family which calls him: it is Aragon. He is too firm a ruler, too clever a diplomatist ever to allow his personal emotions to interfere with his ambitions.
Not another woman, not the mother of the Archbishop of Saragossa, nor the Archbishop himself, nor any of those other mistresses whom he had doubtless found more to his taste than his chaste wife Isabella – it was Aragon.
As for herself, she longed to please him. There were times when she almost wished that she could have changed her nature, that she could have been more like what she imagined the others to be – voluptuously beautiful, as brimming over with sensual passion as he was himself. But she would suppress such thoughts.
Such a life was not for her. She was a queen – the Queen of Castile – and her duty came before any such carnal pleasure, the safety of her kingdom before a contented life.
She resisted an impulse to put out a hand and take his, to say to him: ‘Ferdinand, love me . . . me only; you may have anything in exchange that I could give you.’
She thought then of Christ’s temptation in the wilderness, and she said coldly: ‘The Holy War must be continued at the expense of all else.’
And Ferdinand rose from the bed. He walked to the window and looked out, watching the dawn encroach on the darkness.
His back was towards her, but she saw that there was an angry gesture in the way he held his head.
It was a scene which had been repeated so many times in their life together. It was the Queen of Castile in command, not only of her own nature, but of the lesser ruler of Aragon.
The children, with the exception perhaps of Juana, were delighted to have their mother with them. Juana was the wild one, the one who could not conform to the high standard set by her mother, the one who fidgeted during church services, who refused to confess all her sins to her confessor, the one who struck a certain cold fear into her mother’s heart on many occasions.
Isabella was six months pregnant, and it was during her pregnancies that she relaxed her stern hold upon herself to some extent.
I am, after all, a mother, she excused herself, and these children of mine will one day be rulers of some part of this earth. I must treat them as a very important part of my life.
If at this time it had been possible to continue with the war against the Moors with vigour, she would have neglected everything to do so. But it was not possible; it would take several years to build up the army they needed. There was nothing she could do at present to speed up matters in that direction. What she must think of was having a healthy pregnancy and recovering her strength as soon as possible. So for these few months she gave herself to domesticity more wholeheartedly than she usually could.