Daughters of Spain - Plaidy Jean (онлайн книга без TXT) 📗

‘Look!’ cried Juana. ‘The Admiral is coming to us.’

It was true. Don Fadrique Enriquez, Admiral of Castile, had appeared on deck and Isabella knew that the moment was at hand when she must say goodbye.

‘Juana,’ she said, grasping her daughter’s hands and forcing the girl to look at her, ‘you must write to me often. You must never forget that my great desire is to help you.’

‘Oh no, I will not forget.’ But she was not really listening. She was dreaming of ‘Philip the Handsome’, the most attractive man in Europe. As soon as this magnificent armada had carried her to Flanders she would be his wife, and she was impatient of everything that kept her from him. She was already passionately in love with a bridegroom whom she had never seen. The desire which rose within her was driving her to such a frenzy that she felt that if she could not soon satisfy it she would scream out her frustration.

The ceremony of the farewell was almost more than she could endure. She did not listen to her mother’s gentle advice; she was unaware of the Queen’s anxiety. There was only one need within her: this overwhelming hunger for Philip.

Isabella did not leave Laredo until the armada had passed out of sight. Then only did she turn away, ready for the journey back to Madrid.

‘God preserve her,’ she prayed. ‘Give her that extra care which my poor Juana so desperately needs.’

Young Catalina was watching for her mother’s return.

This, she thought, is what will happen to me one day. My mother will accompany me to the coast. Perhaps not to Laredo. To what town would one go to embark for England?

Juana had gone off gaily. Her shrill laughter had filled the Palace during her last days there. She had sung and danced and talked continually of Philip. She was shameless in the way she talked of him. It was not the way Catalina would ever talk of Arthur, Prince of Wales.

But I will not think of it, Catalina told herself. It is far away. My mother will not let me go for years and years … even if the King of England does say he wishes me to be brought up as an English Princess.

Her sister Isabella came into the room and said: ‘Still watching, Catalina?’

‘It seems so long since Mother went away.’

‘You will know soon enough when she returns. Watching will not bring her.’

‘Isabella, do you think Juana will be happy in Flanders?’

‘I do not think Juana will be happy and contented anywhere.’

‘Poor Juana. She believes she will live happily for ever when she is married to Philip. He is so handsome, she says. They even call him Philip the Handsome.’

‘It is better to have a good husband than a handsome one.’

‘I am sure Prince Arthur is good. He is only a boy yet. It will be years before he marries. And Emanuel is good too, Isabella.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Isabella, ‘Emanuel is good.’

‘Are you going to marry him?’

Isabella shook her head and turned away.

‘I am sorry I mentioned it, Isabella,’ said Catalina. ‘It reminds you, doesn’t it?’

Isabella nodded.

‘Yes,’ said Catalina, ‘you were happy, were you not? Perhaps it was better to have found Alonso such a good husband even though he died so soon … better than to have married a husband whom you hated and who was unkind to you.’

Isabella looked thoughtfully at her young sister. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it was better than that.’

‘And you have seen Emanuel. You know him well. You know he is kind. So, Isabella, if you should have to marry him, perhaps you will not be so very unhappy. Portugal is near home … whereas …’

Isabella suddenly forgot her own problems and looked into the anxious eyes of her little sister. She put her arm about her and held her tightly.

‘England is not so very far away either,’ she said.

‘I have a fear,’ Catalina answered slowly, ‘that once I am there I shall never come back … never see you all again. That is what I think would be so hard to bear … never to see you and Juan, Maria and our father … and mother … never to see Mother …’

‘I thought that. But, you see, I came back. Nothing is certain, so it is foolish to say “I shall never come back.” How can you be sure?’

‘I shall not say it. I shall say: “I will come back,” because only if I did could I bear to go.’

Isabella put her sister from her and went to the window. Catalina followed.

They saw two men riding fast up the slope to the Palace.

Catalina sighed with disappointment, because she knew they were not of the Queen’s party.

‘We shall soon discover who they are,’ said Isabella. ‘Let us go to Juan. The messengers will have been taken to him if they have important news.’

When they reached Juan’s apartments, the messengers had already been conducted to him and he was ordering that they be taken away and given refreshments.

‘What is the news?’ Isabella asked.

‘They come from Arevalo,’ said Juan. ‘Our grandmother is very ill and calls constantly for our mother.’

The Queen entered the familiar room, the memory of which she felt would haunt her with sadness for as long as she lived.

As soon as she had arrived at Madrid she had set out for Arevalo, praying that she would not be too late and yet half hoping that she would be.

In her bed lay the Dowager Queen of Castile, Isabella’s ambitious mother, that Princess of Portugal who had suffered from the scourge of her family and whose mental aberrations had darkened her daughter’s life.

It was because of her mother that Isabella felt those shocks of terror every time she noticed some fresh wildness in her daughter Juana. Had this madness in the royal blood passed one generation to flower in the next?

‘Is that Isabella …?’

The blank eyes were staring upwards, but they did not see the Queen, who leaned over the bed. They saw instead the little girl Isabella had been when her future was the greatest concern in the world to this mother.

‘Mother, dear Mother. I am here,’ whispered Isabella.

‘Alfonso, is that you, Alfonso?’

One could not say: Alfonso is dead, Mother … dead these many years. We do not know how he died, but we believe he was poisoned.

‘He is the true King of Castile …’

‘Oh, Mother, Mother,’ whispered Isabella, ‘it is all so long ago. Ferdinand and I rule all Spain now. I became more than the Queen of Castile.’

‘I do not trust him …’ the tortured woman cried.

Isabella laid a hand on her mother’s clammy forehead. She called to one of the attendants. ‘Bring scented water. I would bathe her forehead.’

The sick woman began to laugh. It was hideous laughter, reminding Isabella of those days when she and her young brother, Alfonso, had lived here in this gloomy palace of Arevalo with a mother who lost a little more of her reason with the passing of each day.

Isabella took the bowl of water from the attendant.

‘Go now and leave me with her,’ she said; and she herself bathed her mother’s forehead.

The laughter had lost its wildness. Isabella listened to the harsh breathing.

It could not be long now. She would call in the priests who would administer the last rites. But what would this sadly deranged, dying woman know of that? She had no idea that she was living through her last hours; she believed that she was a young woman again, fighting desperately for the throne of Castile that she might bestow it upon her son Alfonso or her daughter Isabella.

Still it was just possible that she might realise that it was Extreme Unction that was being administered; she might for a few lucid seconds understand the words of the priest.

Isabella stood up and beckoned one of the attendants who had been hovering in a corner of the apartment.

‘Your Highness …’ murmured the woman.