Ferdinand had them brought to him immediately.

He was thoughtful as he read what his wife had written. It was all the more effective because Isabella was by nature so calm.

She was asking him to return without delay. There was trouble about to break in Castile. An army was gathering to march against her, and many powerful nobles of Castile had gone over to the enemies’ camp.

These men were insisting that she was not the rightful heir to the crown. It was true she was the late King Henry’s half-sister, and he had no son. But he had a daughter – whom many believed to be illegitimate, and who was even known as La Beltraneja because her father was almost certainly Beltran de la Cueva, Duke of Albuquerque.

Those who had set themselves against Isabella now sought to place La Beltraneja on the throne of Castile.

There was a possibility that Portugal was giving support to their enemies.

Castile was in danger. Isabella was in danger. And at such a time she needed the military skill and experience of her husband.

‘It may well be,’ wrote Isabella, ‘that my need of you at this time is greater than that of your father.’

Ferdinand thought of her, kneeling at her prie-Dieu or with her advisers carefully weighing the situation. She would not have said that, had she not meant it with all her heart.

He shouted to his attendants.

‘Prepare to leave Saragossa at once. I shall need messengers to go to my father and let him know that what he needs is on its way to him. As for myself and the rest of us, we must leave for Castile without delay.’

Chapter II

ISABELLA

Isabella, Queen of Castile, looked up from the table at which she sat writing. There was a quiet pleasure in her serene blue eyes, and those who knew her very well wondered if what they suspected was true. She had been, these last weeks, a little more placid than usual, and through that placidity shone a certain joy. The Queen of Castile could be keeping a secret to herself; and it might be one which she would wish to remain unknown until she could share it with her husband.

The ladies-in-waiting whispered together. ‘Do you think it can be true? Is the Queen pregnant?’

They put their heads together and made calculations. It was only a few weeks since Ferdinand had ridden away to join his father.

‘Let us pray that it is true,’ said these ladies, ‘and that this time it will be a son.’

Even as she dealt with the papers on her table, Isabella too was saying to herself: ‘This time let it be a son.’

She was very happy.

That destiny for which she had been prepared was being fulfilled; she was married to Ferdinand after years of waiting, after continual hazards and fears that the marriage which had been planned in their childhood might not take place.

But, largely due to her own determination – and that of Ferdinand and his family – the marriage had taken place; and on the death of Ferdinand’s father, when Ferdinand would be King of Aragon, the crowns of Aragon and Castile would be united; and, apart from that small province still occupied by the Moors, Isabella and Ferdinand could then be said to rule over Spain.

It was certainly the realisation of a dream.

And Ferdinand, her husband, a year younger than herself, handsome, virile, was all that she had hoped for in a husband – or almost. She had to admit that he did not accept with a very good grace the fact that she was Queen of Castile and he her Consort. But he would in time, for she had no intention of letting a rift grow between them. Theirs was to be a marriage, perfect in all respects. She was going to ask his advice in all matters; and if it should ever be necessary for her to make a decision with which he did not agree she would employ the utmost tact and try to persuade him in time to agree with her.

She smiled fondly.

Dear Ferdinand. He would hate this separation as much as she did. But it was his duty to go to his father’s help when he was called upon to do so. And as her good confessor, Tomas de Torquemada, used to tell her – in those days when he had undertaken her religious instruction – no matter what the rank, duty came first.

Now she smiled, for her attendant was announcing that Cardinal Don Pedro Gonzalez de Mendoza was begging an audience.

She asked that he be brought to her without delay.

The Cardinal came to her and bowed low.

‘Welcome,’ said Isabella. ‘You look disturbed, Cardinal. Is aught wrong?’

The Cardinal let his eyes rest on those of her attendants who remained in the apartment.

‘I trust all is well with Your Highness. Then all will be well with me,’ he said. ‘Your Highness appears to be in excellent health.’

‘It is so,’ said Isabella.

She understood. Soon she would dismiss her attendants because she guessed that the Cardinal had something to say which could not be said before others; also he did not wish it to be known that his mission was one of great secrecy.

Isabella felt herself warming to this man, and she was surprised at herself.

He was Cardinal of Spain and, although he was the fourth son of the Marquis of Santillana, so talented was he, and to such a high position had he risen, that he was now at the head of the powerful Mendoza family.

To his Palace at Guadalaxara he could draw the most influential men in Spain, and there persuade them to act for or against the Queen.

These were dangerous times, and Isabella’s great desire was to promote law and order in Castile. She had been brought up to believe that one day this duty might be hers; and she, with that conscientiousness which was a part of her nature, had determined to rule her country well. There was one condition which brought a country low and that was war. She wished with all her heart to be able to lead her country to peace; and she believed that she could do so through the support of men such as Cardinal Mendoza.

He was an exceptionally handsome man, gracious and charming. About forty years old, in spite of his association with the Church he had not lived the life of a churchman. He was too fond of the luxuries of life, and he deemed it unwise for a man to deny himself these.

Abstinence narrowed the mind and starved the soul, he had said. Hypocrisy was lying in wait for the man who denied his body the daily food it craved; and the man who indulged himself now and then was apt to be more lenient with other men; he would find a kindly tolerance growing within him to replace that fanaticism which could often find an outlet in cruelty.

Thus he soothed his conscience. He liked good food and wine, and he had several illegitimate children.

These sins, thought Isabella, sat lightly upon him. She deplored them, but there were times – and these would become more frequent – when she must compromise and suppress her natural abhorrence for the good of the country.

She knew that she needed this charming, tolerant and brilliant man on her side.

When they were alone, he said: ‘I have come to warn Your Highness. There is one who, while feigning to be your friend, is making plans to desert you for your enemies.’

Isabella nodded slowly. ‘I think I know his name,’ she said.

Cardinal Mendoza took a step closer to her. ‘Alfonso Carillo, Archbishop of Toledo.’

‘It is hard to believe,’ Isabella spoke sadly. ‘I remember how he stood beside me. There was a time when I might have become the prisoner of my enemies. It would have meant not only incarceration but doubtless in time a dose of poison would have ended my life. But he was there to save me, and I feel I should not be alive, nor be where I am today but for the Archbishop of Toledo.’