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
A lfonso 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!
First, there would be his pilgrimage. He closed his eyes and saw himself, pack on back, simply clad in a flowing garment, the sun beating upon him, suffering a hundred discomforts. Imaginary discomforts were so comforting.
And as he sat dreaming there he heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs in the lane and started out of his world of imagination to see that several members of his retinue, whom he had left behind at the Court of France, had arrived at the inn.
He went down to greet them.
They bowed before him. ‘God be praised, Highness,’ said their leader, ‘that we have found you.’
‘Call me Highness no more,’ said the King. ‘I have relinquished my rank. Very soon I shall be nothing more than the humblest
‘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
A lfonso 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!
First, there would be his pilgrimage. He closed his eyes and saw himself, pack on back, simply clad in a flowing garment, the sun beating upon him, suffering a hundred discomforts. Imaginary discomforts were so comforting.
And as he sat dreaming there he heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs in the lane and started out of his world of imagination to see that several members of his retinue, whom he had left behind at the Court of France, had arrived at the inn.
He went down to greet them.
They bowed before him. ‘God be praised, Highness,’ said their leader, ‘that we have found you.’
‘Call me Highness no more,’ said the King. ‘I have relinquished my rank. Very soon I shall be nothing more than the humblest
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