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 inn at the fowls which scrabbled in the yard.
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 Joanna would hear of his humiliation; and what would become of her? Poor child! A sad life hers, for what hope had she now of ever attaining the throne of Castile?
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 Joanna? A convent for her. And for me?
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, fanning more vigorously, said quickly: ‘The people are already gathering outside. They crowd into the patios and in the glare of the sun. They await news of the birth of your child.’
‘I must not disappoint them, Beatriz.’
‘You will never disappoint your people, Isabella.’
Beatriz held the child in her arms. She laughed exultantly. Then she handed it to a nurse and went to kneel by Isabella’s bed.
‘The child?’ said Isabella.
‘Your Highness has borne a perfect child.’
‘I would see the child.’
‘Can you hear the cries? Loud . . . healthy . . . just as they should be. Oh, this is a happy day! Oh, my dearest mistress, your son is born.’
Isabella lay back on her pillows and smiled.
‘So it is a son.’
‘A Prince for Castile!’ cried Beatriz.
‘And he is well . . . quite well . . . in all ways?’
‘He is perfect. I know it.’
‘But . . .’
She was thinking that, when her mother had been born, doubtless there had been no sign of the terrible affliction which was to come to her.
‘Put unhappy thoughts from your mind, Highness. They are doubly bad at such a time. All is well. This is a beautiful child, a fine heir for Castile. Here he is.’ She took him from the nurse and laid him in Isabella’s arms.
And as she looked at her son, Isabella forgot her fears.
He was born at last – the son for whom she and Ferdinand had longed.
‘He shall be John . . . Juan,’ she said, ‘after Ferdinand’s father. That will delight my husband.’
She kissed the baby’s brow and whispered: ‘Juan . . . my little son, born in the most beautiful of my towns, welcome . . . welcome to Castile.’
Chapter IV
ISABELLA AND THE ARCHBISHOP OF SARAGOSSA
Alfonso gave himself up to dreaming. He would sit in the room overlooking the inn yard, dreaming of the life he would lead in the monastery of his choosing. He had decided that he would become a Franciscan because their simple way of life best fitted his present mood. How different would existence at a Franciscan monastery be compared with that of a royal Court!