Isabella reminded him. She called to her daughter. ‘Isabella, my dear. Come. Your father has to leave us now.’
The eight-year-old Infanta Isabella came running at her mother’s call. She was a pretty though delicate child, and in her abundant hair was that hint of red which she had inherited from her Plantagenet ancestors. Even at eight she lacked the serenity of her mother.
She knelt before Ferdinand and Isabella, but Ferdinand swing her up in his arms and, holding her tightly against him, kissed her.
‘Well, daughter,’ he said, ‘are you going to miss me?’
‘So much, dear Father,’ she answered.
‘I shall soon be with you again.’
‘Please come back soon, Father.’
Isabella looked at them fondly.
‘You will not,’ said the Infanta, ‘look for a husband for me, Father.’
‘That had not been my intention.’
‘Because,’ said young Isabella, playing with the ornament on his doublet, ‘I shall never wish to leave you and the Queen to go to France and be the daughter of the French King.’
‘You shall not leave us for many years,’ Ferdinand promised.
And Isabella threw her arms about her father’s neck and hugged him tightly.
The Queen, watching them, found herself praying silently. ‘Preserve them both. Bring them happiness . . . the greatest happiness in life. If there are afflictions to be borne I will bear them. But let these two know perfect happiness.’
They seemed to her like two children. Ferdinand, who was so often like a spoilt boy, for all his valour in battle, for all his dignity; and dear Isabella, whose desire at this time was never to leave the heart of her family.
Isabella thrust away her emotion and said: ‘You should not forget your son, Ferdinand. He will wish to take his leave of you.’
‘He is too young to know our father,’ said young Isabella, pouting slightly, not wishing to share her parents’ attention with the baby who, she considered, usually had an unfair portion of it.
‘Yet your father will wish to take his leave of him,’ said the Queen.
So they went to the royal nursery. The nurses curtsied as they approached and stood back from the cradle, where little Juan crowed and smiled as though to show off his prowess to the spectators.
Ferdinand lifted him in his arms and kissed the small forehead, young Juan showing a mild protest; but he was a healthy, happy baby. A quiet baby, thought Isabella exultantly.
And so the farewells were said and Ferdinand left his wife and children to ride into Aragon.
He was shocked to see how his father had aged. John of Aragon was almost eighty-three years old, but, although he looked ill, his mental powers had not diminished in the least; moreover, his agility belied his years.
Ferdinand had no need to complain of any lack of respect shown to him in Aragon. Here his father insisted on treating him not only like a king, but a greater king than he was himself.
‘Ferdinand, King of Castile!’ cried John as he embraced his son. ‘It does my heart good to see you. Oh, no . . . no. I shall walk on your left. Castile should take precedence over Aragon.’
‘Father,’ said Ferdinand, deeply moved, ‘you are my father and always should take precedence.’
‘Not in public any more, my son. And I pray you do not kiss my hand. It is I who shall kiss yours on all public occasions. Oh, it does me good to see you thus. King of Castile, eh?’
‘Consort to the Queen, Father.’
‘That little matter? It is of no account. King of Castile you are, and as such worthy of the utmost respect.’
It was a delight to John to be alone with his son. He would hear all the news. So he was grandfather to two children now. That delighted him. And Ferdinand had a son. Juan! They had thought to delight him to the utmost by giving him that name. ‘May it be long before he comes to the throne of Castile,’ cried John emotionally.
He wanted news of Isabella. ‘She still refuses to allow you equal rights then? She is a
The eight-year-old Infanta Isabella came running at her mother’s call. She was a pretty though delicate child, and in her abundant hair was that hint of red which she had inherited from her Plantagenet ancestors. Even at eight she lacked the serenity of her mother.
She knelt before Ferdinand and Isabella, but Ferdinand swing her up in his arms and, holding her tightly against him, kissed her.
‘Well, daughter,’ he said, ‘are you going to miss me?’
‘So much, dear Father,’ she answered.
‘I shall soon be with you again.’
‘Please come back soon, Father.’
Isabella looked at them fondly.
‘You will not,’ said the Infanta, ‘look for a husband for me, Father.’
‘That had not been my intention.’
‘Because,’ said young Isabella, playing with the ornament on his doublet, ‘I shall never wish to leave you and the Queen to go to France and be the daughter of the French King.’
‘You shall not leave us for many years,’ Ferdinand promised.
And Isabella threw her arms about her father’s neck and hugged him tightly.
The Queen, watching them, found herself praying silently. ‘Preserve them both. Bring them happiness . . . the greatest happiness in life. If there are afflictions to be borne I will bear them. But let these two know perfect happiness.’
They seemed to her like two children. Ferdinand, who was so often like a spoilt boy, for all his valour in battle, for all his dignity; and dear Isabella, whose desire at this time was never to leave the heart of her family.
Isabella thrust away her emotion and said: ‘You should not forget your son, Ferdinand. He will wish to take his leave of you.’
‘He is too young to know our father,’ said young Isabella, pouting slightly, not wishing to share her parents’ attention with the baby who, she considered, usually had an unfair portion of it.
‘Yet your father will wish to take his leave of him,’ said the Queen.
So they went to the royal nursery. The nurses curtsied as they approached and stood back from the cradle, where little Juan crowed and smiled as though to show off his prowess to the spectators.
Ferdinand lifted him in his arms and kissed the small forehead, young Juan showing a mild protest; but he was a healthy, happy baby. A quiet baby, thought Isabella exultantly.
And so the farewells were said and Ferdinand left his wife and children to ride into Aragon.
He was shocked to see how his father had aged. John of Aragon was almost eighty-three years old, but, although he looked ill, his mental powers had not diminished in the least; moreover, his agility belied his years.
Ferdinand had no need to complain of any lack of respect shown to him in Aragon. Here his father insisted on treating him not only like a king, but a greater king than he was himself.
‘Ferdinand, King of Castile!’ cried John as he embraced his son. ‘It does my heart good to see you. Oh, no . . . no. I shall walk on your left. Castile should take precedence over Aragon.’
‘Father,’ said Ferdinand, deeply moved, ‘you are my father and always should take precedence.’
‘Not in public any more, my son. And I pray you do not kiss my hand. It is I who shall kiss yours on all public occasions. Oh, it does me good to see you thus. King of Castile, eh?’
‘Consort to the Queen, Father.’
‘That little matter? It is of no account. King of Castile you are, and as such worthy of the utmost respect.’
It was a delight to John to be alone with his son. He would hear all the news. So he was grandfather to two children now. That delighted him. And Ferdinand had a son. Juan! They had thought to delight him to the utmost by giving him that name. ‘May it be long before he comes to the throne of Castile,’ cried John emotionally.
He wanted news of Isabella. ‘She still refuses to allow you equal rights then? She is a
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