Daughters of Spain - Plaidy Jean. Страница 36

So as Isabella rode into their city they were silent.

How different, thought Isabella, from the welcome they had received in Toledo. She did not like this city of bell turrets and sullen people. She had felt the vague resentment as soon as she passed into Aragon; she had been nervous as she rode along the banks of the Ebro past those caves which seemed to have been formed in this part of the country among the sierras as well as along the banks of the river. The yellow water of the Ebro was turbulent; and the very houses seemed too much like fortresses, reminding her that here was a people who would be determined to demand and fight for its dues.

On her arrival in this faintly hostile city she went to pray to the statue of the Virgin which, it was said, had been carved by the angels fourteen hundred years before. Precious jewels glittered in her cloak and crown which seemed to smother her; and it occurred to Isabella that she must have looked very different when, as the legend had it, she appeared to St James all those years ago.

From the Virgin she went to the Cathedral close by, and there she prayed anew for strength to bear whatever lay before her.

The people watched her and whispered together.

‘The crown of Aragon was promised to the male heirs of Ferdinand.’

‘And this is but a woman.’

‘She is our Ferdinand’s daughter nevertheless, and he has no legitimate sons.’

‘But the crown should go to the next male heir.’

‘Castile and Aragon are as one now that Ferdinand and Isabella rule them.’

There was going to be resistance in Aragon to the female succession. Isabella of Castile had remained Queen in her own right, but it was well known that she had greater power than Ferdinand. In the eyes of the Aragonese, it was their Ferdinand who should have ruled Spain with Isabella merely as his consort.

‘Nay,’ they said, ‘we’ll not have women on the throne of Spain. Aragon will support the male heir.’

‘But wait a moment … the Princess is pregnant, is she not? If she were to have a son …’

‘Ah, that would be a different matter. That would offend none. The Aragonese crown goes to the male descendants of Ferdinand, and his grandson would be the rightful heir.’

‘Then, we must wait until the birth. That’s the simple answer.’

It was the simple answer, and the Cortes confirmed it. They would not give their allegiance to Isabella of Portugal because she was a woman; but if she bore a son, then they would accept that son as the heir to the crown of Aragon and all Spain.

It was a wearying occasion for Isabella.

She had been alarmed by the hostile looks of the members of the Cortes. She had disliked their arrogant manner of implying that unless she produced a son they would have none of her.

She lay on her bed while her women soothed her; and when Emanuel came to her they hurried away and left them together.

‘I feel a great responsibility rests upon me,’ she said. ‘I almost wish I were a humble woman waiting the birth of her child.’

The Queen faced Ferdinand in anger.

‘How dare they!’ she demanded. ‘In every town of Castile our daughter has been received with honours. But in Saragossa, the capital of Aragon, she is submitted to insult.’

Ferdinand could scarcely suppress a wry smile. There had been so many occasions when he had been forced to take second place, when he had been reminded that Aragon was of secondary importance to Castile and that the Queen of Castile was therefore senior to the King of Aragon.

‘They but state their rights,’ he answered.

‘Their rights – to reject our daughter!’

‘We know well that Aragon accepts only the male line as heirs to the crown.’

A faint smile played about his lips. He was reminding her that in Aragon the King was looked upon as the ruler and the Queen as his consort.

Isabella was not concerned with his private feelings. She thought only of the humiliation to her daughter.

‘I picture them,’ she said, ‘quizzing her as though she were some fishwife. How far advanced in pregnancy is she? She will give birth in August. Then we will wait until August and, if she gives birth to a male child, we will accept that child as heir to the throne. I tell you, our daughter Isabella, being our eldest, is our heir.’

‘They will not accept her, because they will not accept a woman.’

‘They have accepted me.’

‘As my wife,’ Ferdinand reminded her.

‘Rather than endure this insolence of the Saragossa Cortes I would subdue them by sending an armed force to deal with them. I would force them to accept our Isabella as the heir of Spain.’

‘You cannot mean that.’

‘But I do,’ insisted Isabella.

Ferdinand left her and returned shortly with a statesman whose integrity he knew Isabella trusted. This was Antonio de Fonesca, a brother of the Bishop who bore the same name; this man Ferdinand had once sent as envoy to Charles VII of France, and the bold conduct of Fonesca had so impressed both the Sovereigns that they often consulted him with confidence and respect.

‘The Queen’s Highness is incensed by the behaviour of the Cortes at Saragossa,’ said Ferdinand. ‘She is thinking of sending soldiers to subdue them over this matter of accepting our daughter as heir to the throne.’

‘Would Your Highness care to hear my opinion?’ asked Fonesca of the Queen.

Isabella told him that she would.

‘Then, Highness, I would say that the Aragonese have only acted as good and loyal subjects. You must excuse them if they move with caution in an affair which they find difficult to justify by precedent in their history.’

Ferdinand was watching his wife closely. He knew that her love of justice would always overcome every other emotion.

She was silent, considering the statesman’s remarks.

Then she said: ‘I see that you are right. There is nothing to be done but hope – and pray – that my grandchild will be a boy.’

Isabella, Queen of Portugal, lay on her bed. Her pains had started and she knew that her time had come.

There was a cold sweat on her brow and she was unconscious of all the people who stood about her bed. She was praying: ‘A son. Let it be a son.’

If she produced a healthy son she would begin to forget this legend of a curse which had grown up in her mind. A son could make so much difference to her family and her country.

The little boy would be heir not only to the crown of Spain but to that of Portugal. The countries would be united; the hostile people of Saragossa would be satisfied; and she and Emanuel would be the proudest parents in the world.

Why should it not be so? Could her family go on receiving blow after blow? They had had their share of tragedy. Let this be different.

‘A boy,’ she murmured, ‘a healthy boy to make the sullen people of Saragossa cheer, to unite Spain and Portugal.’ What an important little person this was who was now so impatient to be born!

The pains were coming regularly now. If she did not feel so weak she could have borne them more easily. She lay moaning while the women crowded about her. She drifted from consciousness into unconsciousness and back again.

The pain still persisted; it was more violent now.

She tried not to think of it; she tried to pray, to ask forgiveness of her sins, but her lips continued to form the words: ‘A boy. Let it be a boy.’

There were voices in the bedchamber.

‘A boy! A bonny boy!’

‘Is it indeed so?’

‘No mistake!’

‘Ah, this is a happy day.’

Isabella, lying on her bed, heard the cry of a child. She lay listening to the voices, too exhausted to move.