Daughters of spain, p.10
Daughters of Spain, page 10
So the ceremony which was to take place at Valencia de Alcantara would be a quiet one. In this little town Emanuel was waiting for his bride.
Strange emotions filled the young Isabella’s heart as she lifted her eyes to her bridegroom’s face. Memories came back to her of the Palace in Lisbon where she had first seen him standing beside the King, and she remembered thinking at that moment that he was Alonso.
He had been her friend afterwards; he had shown clearly his desire to be in Alonso’s place; and after that unhappy day when Alonso died he had been the kindest and most sympathetic of her friends. It was then that he had suggested that she stay in Portugal as his wife.
Now he was the King of Portugal – an honour which could never have come to him but for that accident in the forest, for had Alonso lived she and he would have sons to come before Emanuel.
But it had happened differently, tragically so. And here she was, the bride of Emanuel.
He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. He loved her still. How wonderful that this young man should have remained faithful to her all those years. While she had mourned in her widowhood and declared that she would never marry again, he had waited.
And so she had come to him at last, but now it was with a hideous burden about her neck, the misery of thousands of Jews.
There was pain behind his smile. He too was thinking that it was a terrible price – the denial of his own beliefs – which he had to pay for her.
The ceremony was performed, while Ferdinand exulted and the Queen smiled graciously. All was well. The Infanta Isabella of Spain was now the Queen of Portugal.
Isabella was glad that it had not been the usual exhausting ceremony. That was something she could not have endured.
When she was with Emanuel, when she was aware of his tenderness for her, his gentleness, his determination to make her happy, she felt a quiet contentment. She thought, I am fortunate, even as Margaret has been in Juan.
She had been foolish in delaying so long. She could have married him a year … two years … why, three years before. If she had done so she might have had a child by now.
‘What a faithful man you are,’ she told her husband, ‘to wait all those years.’
‘Did you not understand that, once I had seen you, I should be faithful?’ he answered.
‘But I am not young any more. I am twenty-seven. Why, you could have married my sister Maria. She is twelve years younger than I, and a maiden.’
‘Does it seem strange to you that it was Isabella I wanted?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, ‘very strange.’
He took her hands and kissed them. ‘You will soon learn that it is not strange at all. I loved you when you first came to us. I loved you when you went away; and I love you more than ever now that you have come to me.’
‘I shall try to be all that you deserve in a wife, Emanuel.’
He kissed her then with passion, and she had a feeling that he was trying to shut something from his mind. She knew what it was. He had not mentioned ‘the condition’, but it was there between them, she felt, between them and complete happiness.
To lie beside Emanuel, to know that she had a husband once more, did not bring back the bitter memories of Alonso which she had so feared. She realised now that this was the quickest way to obliterate the memory of that long ago honeymoon which had ended in tragedy.
Emanuel was not unlike his dead cousin. And if she could not feel the wild exultation which she had enjoyed with Alonso she believed that this quieter contentment was something to which she and Alonso would have come in time.
In those first days of marriage, Alonso and Emanuel had begun to mingle strangely in her mind. They had become as one person.
During those first days they forgot. Then she noticed that one of Emanuel’s attendants had a Jewish cast of feature, and when it seemed to her that she caught this man’s gaze fixed upon her malevolently, a terrible fear shot through her.
She said nothing of this at the time, but that night she woke screaming from a frightening dream.
Emanuel sought to comfort her but she could not remember what the dream was.
She could only sob out her terror in Emanuel’s arms.
‘It is my fault,’ she said. ‘It is my fault. I should have come to you earlier. I should never have let this happen.’
‘What is it, my dearest? Tell me what is on your mind.’
‘It is what we are going to do to those people. It is the price you had to pay for our marriage.’
She felt his body stiffen, and she knew that this terrible thing was on his mind as surely as it was on her own.
He kissed her hair and whispered: ‘You should have come before, Isabella. You should have come long ago.’
‘And now?’
‘And now,’ he answered, ‘the deed must be done. I have given my word. It is a condition of the marriage.’
‘Emanuel, you hate this. You loathe it. It haunts you … even as it does me.’
‘I wanted you so much,’ he said. ‘It was the price that was asked of me and I paid it … because I wanted you so much.’
‘Is there no way out?’ she whispered.
It was a stupid question. As she asked it, she saw the stern face of Torquemada, the serene one of her mother, the shrewd one of her father. They had made this condition. They would insist on its being carried out.
They were silent for a while, then she went on: ‘It is like a blight upon us. Those strange people, with their strange religion, will curse us for what we have done to them. They will curse our House. Emanuel, I am afraid.’
He held her tightly against him and when he spoke his voice sounded muffled: ‘We must do the deed and then forget. It was not our fault. I was weak in my need of you. But we are married now. We will do this thing and then … we will begin again from there.’
‘Is it possible?’
‘It is, my Isabella.’
She allowed herself to be comforted; but when she slept her dreams were haunted by a thousand voices – voices of men, women and children who, because of their faith, would be driven from their homes. These voices cursed her, cursed the united Houses of Spain and Portugal.
Salamanca was celebrating the arrival of the heir of Spain and his bride. The people had come in from miles around; men, women and children moved like ants across the plain on their way to the town of the University.
The students were en fête; they were of all nationalities for, next to Paris, this was the foremost seat of learning in the world. The town was rich, as many noblemen had bought houses there that they might live near their student sons and watch over them during their years at the University.
Through the streets the students swaggered in their stoles, the colour of which indicated their faculties. Salamanca was often gay, but it had never seen anything to equal this occasion. The bells of the churches rang continually; its streets and courtyards were filled with laughter; the bulls were being brought in – there must always be bulls; and in the Plaza Mayor the excitement was at its height. On the balconies of the houses sat beautiful women, and the students watched them with gleaming eyes. Now and then a brilliant cavalcade would sweep through the streets, and the crowd would cheer because they knew this was part of the Prince’s retinue.
On their way to the balls and banquets, which were given in their honour, the Prince and his bride would pass through the streets, and the people of Salamanca were given an opportunity to show their delight in the heir to the throne.
In Salamanca there was nothing but gaiety and loyalty to the royal pair.
Margaret looked on with serene eyes.
It was pleasant to know that the people loved her and her husband. She suspected that they loved the excitement of ceremony even more, but she did not tell Juan this. She was perhaps a little more cynical than he was.
He delighted in the people’s pleasure, not because he wanted adulation – this worried him because he did not think himself worthy of it – but because he knew that his parents would hear of the reception which was being given them and how much it would please them.
They had danced at the ball given in their honour and were now in their own apartment.
Margaret was not tired; she could have danced all night because she was happier than she had ever been in her life. She looked at Juan and thought: Now this is the time to share this happiness with him, for it is his as well as mine and will please him as much as it pleases me.
She had not wanted to tell him until she was sure, but now she believed there could not be a doubt.
She sat down on the bed and looked at him. She had waved away the attendants who would have helped them to bed, wanting none of their ceremonies. She shocked them, she knew; but it was not important. Juan accepted her free Flemish manners and others must do the same. Those attendants who had come with her from Flanders found it difficult to settle happily in Spain. ‘The continual ceremonies,’ they complained, ‘they are not only wearying but ridiculous.’ She had answered: ‘You must understand that to them our customs seem coarse, which is perhaps worse than ridiculous. There is a saying: When you are in Rome you must do as the Romans do. I would say to you, the same applies to Spain.’
Yet she thought, if they cannot adapt themselves to Spanish ways they must go home. I, who am so happy, would not have them otherwise.
‘Juan,’ she said, ‘I fancy I shocked the company a little tonight.’
‘Shocked them?’
‘Oh come, did you not notice raised eyebrows? My Flemish ways astonished them.’
‘What does it matter as long as you pleased them?’
‘Did I please them?’
‘You pleased me – let us leave it at that.’
‘But Juan, you are so easy to please. Perhaps I shall have to learn to be more solemn, more of a Spaniard, more like the Queen. I must try to model myself upon your mother, Juan.’
‘Stay as you are,’ he said, kissing her lips. ‘That will please me best.’
She leaped up and began to dance a pavana with the utmost solemnity. Then suddenly her mood changed.
‘This,’ she said, ‘is how we should dance it in Flanders.’
She performed such a wild travesty of the Spanish dance that Juan burst out laughing.
‘Come, dance with me,’ she said, and held out her hands to him. ‘If you dance very nicely I will tell you a secret.’
As he stood beside her she noticed that he looked exhausted and that his face was unusually flushed.
‘Juan,’ she said, ‘you are tired.’
‘A little. It was hot in the ballroom.’
‘Your hands are burning.’
‘Are they?’
‘Sit down. I shall help you to bed. Come, I will be your valet.’
He said, laughing: ‘Margaret, what will your attendants think of your mad ways?’
‘That I am Flemish … merely that. Did you not know that the people of Flanders are people who love to joke and laugh rather than stand on ceremony? They’ll forgive me my oddities simply because I’m Flemish. And when they know my news they’ll be ready to forgive me everything.’
‘What news is this?’
‘Come, can you not guess?’
‘Margot!’
She leaned towards him and kissed him gently on the forehead.
‘Long life and happiness to you, little father,’ she whispered.
That was a never-to-be-forgotten night.
‘I shall always love Salamanca,’ said Margaret.
‘We’ll bring him to Salamanca as soon as he is old enough,’ Juan told her.
‘We will send him to the University here and we will tell the people that we love their town because there we spent some of the happiest days and nights of our honeymoon.’
‘There I first knew that he existed.’
They laughed and made love again; they felt more serious, more responsible people. They were no longer merely lovers; they were almost parents, and felt awed at the prospect.
It was dawn when Margaret awoke. It was as though something had startled her. She did not know what. The city was wakening to life. The students were already in the streets.
Margaret had a feeling that something was wrong.
She sat up in bed. ‘Juan!’ she cried.
He did not answer her at once, and she bent over him calling him again.
The flush was still in his cheeks and as she laid her face against his she was struck by the heat of it.
‘Juan,’ she whispered, ‘Juan, my dearest. Wake up.’
He opened his eyes and she felt that she wanted to sob with relief to see him smile at her.
‘Oh Juan, for the moment I thought something was wrong.’
‘What could be wrong?’ he asked, taking her hand.
His fingers seemed to scorch her flesh.
‘How hot you are!’
‘Am I?’ He began to raise himself but, even as he did so, he fell back on the pillows.
‘What is wrong, Juan? What ails you?’
He put his hand to his head. ‘It is a dizziness,’ he said.
‘You are sick,’ she cried. She sprang from the bed and wrapped a robe about her trembling body. She ran to the door calling: ‘Come quickly. The Prince is ill.’
The physicians stood at his bedside.
His Highness had contracted a fever, they said. He would soon recover with their remedies.
All that day Margaret sat by his bedside. He watched her tenderly, trying hard to assure her with his glances that all was well.
But she was not deceived; and all through the next night she sat with him.
In the early morning he was delirious.
The physicians conferred together.
‘Highness,’ they said to her, ‘we think that a message should be sent to the King and Queen without delay.’
‘Let it be done with all speed,’ said Margaret quietly.
While the messengers galloped to the frontier town of Valencia de Alcantara, Margaret sat at the bedside of her husband.
Ferdinand received the messengers from Salamanca.
He read the letter from Margaret. Juan ill! But he had been perfectly well when he set out on his honeymoon. This was the hysterical fear of a young bride. Juan was a little exhausted; perhaps being married could be exhausting to a serious young man who, before his wedding, had lived an entirely virtuous life. Ferdinand’s marriage had presented no such problems; but he was ready to concede that Juan was different from himself in that respect.
But there was another letter. This was signed by two physicians. The Prince’s health was giving them cause for alarm. They believed he had contracted a malignant fever and that he was so ill that his parents should come immediately to his bedside.
Ferdinand looked grave. This was no hysteria; Juan must be really ill.
It was inconvenient. Emanuel and his daughter Isabella were still celebrating their marriage, and it would give rise to great anxiety if both he and the Queen left them abruptly to go to Juan’s bedside.
Ferdinand went to Isabella’s apartment, wondering how best he could break the news. She smiled as he entered, and he felt tenderness towards her. She looked a little older; the sorrow of parting with Juana, and now Isabella, had etched a few more lines on her face. When Ferdinand had his own way, as he had over this matter of Isabella’s marriage, he had time to feel affection for his Queen. She was a good, devoted mother, he reminded himself, and if she erred in her conduct towards her children it was on the side of over-indulgence.
He decided to suppress the physicians’ letter and show her only that of Margaret. Thus he could avoid arousing too much anxiety at this moment.
‘News,’ he announced, ‘from Salamanca.’
Her face lit up with pleasure.
‘I heard,’ she said, ‘that the people have given them a welcome such as they have rarely given any before.’
‘Yes, that is true,’ answered Ferdinand, ‘but …’
‘But …?’ cried the Queen and the alarm shot up in her eyes.
‘Juan is a little unwell. I have a letter here from Margaret. The poor child writes quite unlike the calm young lady she pretends to be.’
‘Show me the letter.’
Ferdinand gave it to her, and put his arm about her shoulders while she read it.
‘You see, it is the hysterical outburst of our little bride. If you ask me, our Juan finds being a husband to such a lively girl a little exhausting. He is in need of a rest.’
‘A fever!’ said the Queen. ‘I wonder what that means …?’
‘Over-excitement. Isabella, you are getting anxious. I will go at once to Salamanca. You remain here to say your farewell to Isabella and Emanuel. I will write to reassure you from Salamanca.’
Isabella considered this.
‘I know,’ went on Ferdinand, ‘that if I do not go you will continue anxious. And if we both go, we shall have all sorts of ridiculous rumours spreading throughout the country.’
‘You are right, Ferdinand. Please go to Salamanca with all speed. And write to me … as soon as you have seen him.’
Ferdinand kissed her with more tenderness than he had shown her for a long time. He was very fond of her when the submissive wife took the place of the Queen.
As Ferdinand rode through the town of Salamanca he was greeted with silence. It was almost as though the University town was one of mourning.
The physicians were waiting for him, and he had but to look at them to sense their alarm.
‘How is my son?’ he asked brusquely.
‘Highness, since we wrote to you his fever has not abated, but has in fact grown worse.’
‘I will go to his bedside at once.’
He found Margaret there and noticed that several of the women in the room were weeping, and that the expressions on the faces of the men were so doleful that it appeared as though Juan were living through his last hours.
