It was almost dusk when her vigil was rewarded, and she saw a party of riders coming towards the castle. She stood alert, her eyes strained, and as they came nearer she recognised the leader of the party. It was Alfonso, and with him were four of his men.
She knew what this must mean; for Alfonso did not come riding to Castro Nuno as a victor; it was obvious from his demeanour that he came as a fugitive.
She hurried down, calling as she went: ‘The King is riding to the castle. He will be here in a few minutes.’
From all over the castle men and women came hurrying into the hall, and Joanna was in the courtyard when Alfonso and his party rode in.
Poor Alfonso! Indeed, he looked an old man today. He was dishevelled and dirty, his face grey; and for the first time she felt tender towards him.
He leaped from his horse and threw the reins to a groom, crying: ‘The army is routed. We must leave almost immediately for Portugal.’
‘I am to go to Portugal?’ stammered Joanna.
Alfonso put a hand on her shoulder. His eyes were suddenly alight with that quixotic expression which was not unendearing.
‘Do not despair,’ he said. ‘It is a defeat. A temporary defeat. I will win your kingdom for you yet.’
Then he took her hand and they went into the castle.
A few hours later, when Alfonso and his party had refreshed themselves, they left Castro Nuno and rode westward over the border into Portugal; and Joanna went with them.
Isabella was at Tordesillas when the news was brought to her. Ferdinand triumphant! The King of Portugal and his son John in flight! Through great endeavour and fervent prayer she had overcome yet another ordeal which in the beginning had seemed impassable.
Never before had Isabella been so sure of her destiny as now.
At the Convent of Santa Clara she gave thanks to God for this further proof of His favour. There in that beautiful building which had once been the palace of a king’s mistress she remained in her cell, on her knees, while she reminded herself that she owed this victory to the intervention of God. The atmosphere of the Convent of Santa Clara suited her mood. She, the triumphant Queen of Castile, was prostrated in humility, in that beautiful building with its Moorish baths which had once been the delight of Dona Maria de Padilla, who herself had delighted Pedro the Cruel; these walls, which must once have been the scene of voluptuous entertainments, now enclosed the refuge of silent-footed nuns.
Isabella wanted all to know that the victory was due to Divine guidance. All her subjects must understand that she was now the undoubted ruler of Castile.
The next day, in a loose and simple gown, her feet bare, Isabella led a procession to the Church of St Paul, where, in the greatest humility, she gave thanks to God for this victory which could leave no doubt that she, and she alone, was Queen of Castile.
Although the battle which had been fought between Toro and Zamora was decisive, it did not bring complete peace to Castile.
Louis XI of France, who had come to the aid of Alfonso, was still giving trouble, and Ferdinand could not disband his army; and when Isabella studied the effect of the war, following on the disastrous reigns of her half-brother and her father, she knew that her task had hardly begun.
It was September before she was able to spend a few days in Ferdinand’s company.
She was in residence at the Madrid Alcazar and, when messengers brought her news that he was on the way, she set her cooks to prepare a banquet worthy of the victor.
Isabella was not by nature extravagant and she knew that Ferdinand was not. How could they be when they considered the state of the exchequer; when they had had to work so hard to get together the means to fight their enemies? But although Isabella was cautious in spending money, she knew that there were times when she must put aside that caution.
Those about her must understand the importance of this victory. They must not whisper among themselves that the Queen of Castile and her Consort were a parsimonious pair who did not know how to live like royalty.
This would be the first real celebration she and Ferdinand together had had since the Battle of Toro, and everyone must be aware of its importance.
Ferdinand came riding in triumph to the Alcazar, and Isabella was waiting to receive him.
As she stood, surrounded by her ministers and attendants, and Ferdinand came towards her, her heart beat faster at the sight of him. He had aged a little; the lines were more deeply marked on his face; that alertness of his eyes was accentuated. But even in those first few seconds the rivalry was there between them. Ferdinand in battle was the supreme leader. Here in the Alcazar he was merely the Queen’s Consort. He had to adjust himself, and the adjustment was somewhat distasteful.
He took Isabella’s hand, bowed over it and put his lips against it.
‘Welcome, my husband,’ she said, and her voice had lost its habitual calm. ‘Welcome, my dearest husband.’
The heralds blew a few triumphant notes on their trompas and the drummers beat their baldosas.
Then Isabella laid Ferdinand’s hand on her arm, and this was the signal for them to enter the castle.
There was feasting and music, and Isabella was happier than she had been for a very long time.
Ferdinand did not leave her side during the banquet and the ball which followed, and she believed that he had such an affection for her that he ceased to fret because in Castile she was supreme.
Isabella almost wished that she were not a queen on that night, and that she and Ferdinand could have retired in peace from their guests and spent an hour or so with their little seven-year-old Isabella.
When the ball was at last over and they had retired to their apartments she reminded him that it was eight years almost to the month since they had married.
‘It is difficult to believe it is so long,’ said Isabella, ‘for in that eight years we have seen far too little of each other.’
‘When the kingdom is at peace,’ Ferdinand answered, ‘there will not be these separations.’
‘I shall be so much happier then. Oh, Ferdinand, what should I have done without you? You have brought victory to Castile.’
‘It is only my duty,’ he said. She saw the faintly sullen lines beginning to form about his mouth, and she went swiftly to him and put an arm about his shoulders.
‘We have a great task before us, Ferdinand,’ she said, ‘but I thank God that we are together.’
He was a little mollified. ‘Now it is our task to deal with the French,’ he told her.
‘You think it will be difficult, Ferdinand?’
‘No, I do not think so. Louis has his hands full with the trouble between himself and Burgundy, and now that we have driven Alfonso back where he belongs he’ll have little heart for this fight.’
‘Soon, then, we shall have peace, and then, Ferdinand, begins our real task.’
‘I have news for you. Arevalo has made advances. I think he is prepared to forget the claims of Joanna and offer his allegiance to you.’
‘That is excellent news.’
‘It shows which way the wind blows, eh?’
‘And the Archbishop of Toledo?’
‘He will follow doubtless.’
‘Then victory will indeed be ours.’
Ferdinand seized her hands and drew her to her feet. She was comely; she was a woman; and here in the bedchamber he was no longer merely the Consort of the Queen.
‘Have we not fought for it, sacrificed for it?’ he demanded. ‘Why, Isabella, you might have lost your life. You were very ill when you lost our child.’
‘It is a great grief to me . . . a continual grief. Yet our crown depended on the army I could raise.’