She had so little at her disposal. Her good friend Andres de Cabrera, who, in the Alcazar at Segovia, had charge of the treasury, had warned her that the royal coffers were almost empty. No war could be waged without men and equipment; and now it seemed that reckless men in her kingdom were ready to plunge Castile into war.

She needed strong men about her at this time; and most of all she needed Ferdinand.

Then even as she sat looking at these depressing figures, she heard the clattering of horses’ hoofs below; she heard the shouts of voices raised in welcome and, forgetting her dignity, she leaped from her chair and ran to the window.

She stood there, clutching the hangings to steady herself, for the sight of Ferdinand after a long absence never failed to move her deeply. There he was, jaunty and full of vigour, coming to her as she had known he would, the moment he received her call for help.

She loved him so much, this husband of hers, that at times she was afraid of her own emotions, afraid that they would betray her into an indiscretion which would be unworthy of the Queen of Castile.

In a short time he was standing before her; and those attendants who knew something of the depth of her feelings for this man retired without orders, that Isabella might be alone with her husband.

At such times Isabella laid aside the dignity of queenship. She ran to Ferdinand and put her arms about him; and Ferdinand, never more delighted than at these displays of affection, embraced her with passion.

‘I knew you would come without delay,’ she cried.

‘As always when you needed me.’

‘We need each other at this time, Ferdinand,’ she told him quickly. ‘Castile is threatened.’

He accepted the implication that the affairs of Castile concerned him as much as her.

‘My love,’ he said, ‘joyous as I am to be with you, before we give ourselves to the pleasure of reunion we must explore this desperate situation in which we find ourselves.’

‘You have heard?’ Isabella asked. ‘There are rumours that Villena and Arevalo are rebelling in favour of La Beltraneja, and that they are gathering partisans throughout Castile.’

‘That child!’ cried Ferdinand. ‘The people will never accept her.’

‘It will depend on what forces our enemies can muster, Ferdinand. Our treasury is depleted; I have discovered that we have no more than five hundred horse which we could put into the field.’

‘We must raise more men; we must find the means to fight these rebels. We shall do it, Isabella. Have no fear of that.’

‘I knew you would say that. Yes, Ferdinand, we shall do it. Oh, how glad I am that you have come. With you beside me, what seemed an insuperable task becomes possible.’ ‘You need me, Isabella,’ said Ferdinand fiercely. ‘You need me.’

‘Have I ever denied it?’ She was aware of a sudden fear within her. Was he going to demand once more that he be accepted in Castile on equal terms with herself? This was not the time for dissension between them. ‘Ferdinand,’ she said quickly, ‘I have news for you. I am with child.’

She watched the frown change to a smile on Ferdinand’s face.

‘Why, Isabella, my Queen! That is great news. When will our son be born?’

‘It is too early yet to say. But I am sure I am with child. I hope that by the time this child is born our troubles will be over and we shall have prevented this threatened rebellion from taking place.’

Ferdinand had taken her hands in his; he bent swiftly to kiss them. When he was in Isabella’s presence he could not help but admire her.

‘Come,’ he said, ‘let us examine our position. What men could be put into the field?’

She answered: ‘I have been studying these matters.’ She led him to the table. ‘Ferdinand, my husband, I pray you examine these figures and tell me what, in your opinion, is best to be done.’

She knew that Ferdinand was alert to the danger; that he would allow no friction to arise between them while it existed. She had been right to believe she could rely on him. There was not a man in Spain who was more suited to stand beside her in this fight for the crown. And if, on occasions, his desire for supremacy over her sullied their relationship, making it a little bitter, how could it be otherwise where a man as strong, as entirely masculine as Ferdinand was concerned.

While they worked a messenger arrived at the Alcazar. He came from the King of Portugal.

As soon as Isabella knew that he was in the Palace she had him brought to her. Ferdinand stood beside her and, as the man bowed and held out the dispatches, he lifted a hand to take them. But Isabella, who had anticipated this move, was anxious to take them as unobtrusively as possible – for she knew that with regard to this matter of supremacy she dared not give way even in the smallest matters. She took them before it was evident to any others that Ferdinand had attempted to do so.

She dismissed the messenger and glanced at the papers.

Then she lifted her eyes to Ferdinand’s face.

‘He asks us to resign our crowns,’ she said, ‘that the Princess Joanna may ascend the throne.’

‘He must be an imbecile,’ retorted Ferdinand.

Isabella turned to the table on which the documents were still spread out.

‘I am informed,’ she said, ‘that he could put five thousand six hundred horse and fourteen thousand foot into the field. Perhaps he would say that we were imbeciles to oppose him.’

Ferdinand’s eyes glittered. ‘Yet we shall oppose him, and we shall defeat him. You know that, Isabella.’

‘I do know it, Ferdinand.’

‘We have our daughter to fight for and our unborn son.’

‘And we have each other,’ she added, and smiled brilliantly. ‘I know, Ferdinand, that while we are together we cannot fail. And we must be together, Ferdinand, always. You feel that, as I do. Where is Isabella without Ferdinand? No matter what should befall, we shall always stand together.’

‘You speak truth,’ said Ferdinand, and his voice was gruff with emotion.

‘And together we shall be invincible,’ she went on.

Then solemnly they embraced. Isabella was the first to withdraw.

‘And now,’ she said, ‘to business. We shall ignore these demands; but we must decide how we, with the few resources at our disposal, can defeat the might of Portugal.’

In spite of the ceremonial robes in which her women had dressed her, Joanna looked what she was, a child of barely thirteen.

There was an expression of mingled resignation and despair on her face. She was to be affianced to a man who was thirty years older than herself, and the prospect terrified her. But this was even more than a distasteful marriage; it was a prelude to war.

Her women had chattered as they prepared her for this important ceremony.

‘Why, Alfonso is the bravest of kings. They say he is called the African because of his exploits against the Moors of Barbary. He is a great soldier.’

‘He must be quite an old man,’ said Joanna.

‘No, Princess, it is you who are so young. You will not think of his age. He is the King of Portugal and he comes here to make you his Queen.’

‘And to make himself King of Castile.’

‘Well, only because he will make you Queen.’

‘I do not wish . . .’

But what was the use of stating her wishes? Joanna had lived through so many conflicts that she had long realised the futility of words.

Her friends were imploring her to enjoy her prospects. A king was coming to claim her hand. She should be joyful, they told her; because they did not understand.

And when she was robed and made ready she was taken to meet the man who had come to this town of Placencia for the purpose of the betrothal, and to take Castile from Isabella and Ferdinand and bestow it upon herself.

All about the Palace were encamped the armies of her future husband, so that she could not be unaware of his might.