‘Take me to her, I pray you,’ said Joanna.

The Mother Superior led the way up a cold stone staircase to a cell, which contained little more than a bed and a crucifix on the wall; and here lay Joanna, Princess of Portugal, Queen to the late Henry IV of Castile.

Joanna knelt by her mother’s bed, and the older Joanna smiled wanly. Kneeling there, the Princess knew that it was the approach of death which had driven her mother to repentance.

Joanna sat by her mother’s bed.

‘So you see,’ said the Dowager Queen of Castile, ‘I have not long to live. Who would have thought that I should follow Henry so soon?’

‘Oh, my mother, if you live quietly, if you rest here, you may recover and live for many more years.’

‘No, my child. It is not possible. I am exhausted. I am worn out. I have lived my life fully, recklessly. Now the price is demanded for such a life. I am repentant, yet I fear that if I were young again, if I felt life stirring within me, I should find the temptation which beckoned me irresistible.’

‘You are too young to die, Mother.’

‘Yet my life has been full. I have had lovers . . . my child . . . so many lovers that I cannot recall a half of them. It was an exciting life . . . a life of pleasure. But now it ebbs away.’

‘Mother, Castile has paid dearly for your pleasure.’

Over the Dowager Queen’s face there spread a smile of amusement and mischief.

‘I shall never be forgotten. I, the wayward Queen, had a hand in shaping the future of Castile, did I not?’

Young Joanna shivered.

‘Mother, there is a question I must ask you. It is important that I know the truth. So much depends on it.’

‘I know what is on your mind, my child. You ask yourself the same question which all Castile asks. Who is your father? It is the most important question in Castile.’

‘It is the answer that is important,’ said Joanna softly. ‘I would know, Mother. If I am not the King’s daughter, I think I should like to go into a convent like this and be quiet for a very long time.’

‘A convent life! That is no life at all!’

‘Mother, I beg of you, tell me.’

‘If I told you that Henry was your father what would you do?’

‘There is only one thing I could do, Mother. I should be the rightful Queen of Castile, and it would be my duty to take the throne.’

‘What of Isabella?’

‘She would have no alternative but to relinquish the throne.’

‘And do you think she would? You do not know Isabella, nor Ferdinand . . . nor all those men who are determined to uphold her.’

‘Mother, tell me the truth.’

The Dowager Queen smiled. ‘I am weak,’ she said. ‘I will tell you later if I can. Yet, how could even I be sure? Sometimes I think you are like the King; sometimes you remind me of Beltran. Beltran was a handsome man, daughter. The handsomest at Court. And Henry . . . Oh, it seems so long ago. I look back into mists, my child. I cannot remember. I am so tired now. Sit still awhile and I will try to think. Give me your hand, Joanna. Later it will come back to me. Who . . . who is my Joanna’s father. Was it Henry? Was it Beltran?’

Joanna knelt by the bedside and her eyes were imploring. ‘I must know, Mother. I must know.’

But the Dowager Queen had closed her eyes, and her lips murmured:’ Henry, was it you? You, Beltran, was it you?’

Then she slipped into sleep; her face was so white and still that Joanna thought she was already dead.

The Dowager Queen of Castile had been laid in her tomb and Joanna remained in the convent. The bells were tolling and as she listened to their dismal notes she thought: I shall never know the answer now.

The peace of the convent seemed to close in around her, sheltering her from the outside world in which a mighty storm was rising; it was a storm which she could not escape. It was for this reason that the peace of the convent seemed doubly entrancing.

Each morning she thought to herself: Will this be the last day that I am allowed to enjoy this peace?

And as the weeks passed she began to wonder whether she had been unnecessarily anxious. Isabella had been proclaimed in many towns of Castile as Queen. The people admired Isabella; she, with Ferdinand, was so suited to become their Queen. Perhaps the people of Castile did not wish for trouble any more than she did. Perhaps they would now be content to forget that Joanna, wife of Henry IV of Castile, had had a daughter who might or might not be the King’s.

One day two noblemen came riding to the convent. They came on a secret mission and they wished for an audience with the Princess Joanna.

As soon as they were brought to her and announced themselves as the Duke of Arevalo and the Marquis of Villena she knew that this was the end of her peace.

They bowed low and humbly.

‘We have great news for you, Princess,’ they told her; and her heart sank, for she knew the purport of this news before they told her. She interpreted the ambitious glitter in their eyes.

‘Princess,’ said Arevalo, ‘we have come to tell you that you are not forgotten.’

She lowered her eyes lest they should read in them that it was her dearest wish to be forgotten.

‘This is news to set Your Highness’s heart soaring with hope,’ went on Villena. ‘There is a powerful force behind us, and we shall succeed in turning the impostor Isabella from the throne and setting you up in her place.’

‘There is great news from Portugal,’ added Arevalo.

‘From Portugal?’ Joanna asked.

‘The King of Portugal, Alfonso V, asks your hand in marriage.’

‘My . . . mother’s brother!’

‘Have no fear. His Holiness will not withhold a dispensation if we can show him that we have the means to oust Isabella from the throne.’

‘But my uncle is an old man . . .’

‘He is the King of Portugal, Highness. Moreover, he has an army to put into the field. We cannot fail with Portugal behind us. Highness, we shall succeed, and in succeeding we shall bring you a crown and a husband.’

Joanna felt unable to reply. She was struck dumb with horror. That ageing man, her uncle, as a husband! War . . . with herself as the reason for it!

She turned to these men, about to protest, but she did not speak, because, when she looked at their hard ambitious faces, she knew that it was useless. She knew her personal feelings were of no account. She was to be the figurehead, the symbol, and they would declare that they fought for her sake.

For my sake, she thought bitterly. To give me a throne which I do not want. To give me for a husband an ageing man who terrifies me!

Isabella was frowning over documents which were spread on a table before her in her private apartments in the Madrid Alcazar.

These documents told a desperate story, for to study them was to learn how ill-equipped for battle were the armies of Castile.

It seemed to her that, should there be a rising in Castile, she would not have more than about five hundred horse to attempt to quell it; and she was not even sure on which towns she could rely.

The Archbishop of Toledo had retired to his estates in Alcala de Henares and she was not sure how far he was ready to go in order to betray her. The loss of his friendship wounded her deeply; and the practical side of her nature deplored it even more. In those stormy days which had preceded the death of her brother she had come to learn something of the resourcefulness of this man; and that at such a critical time he had ceased to be her friend hurt her. That he might become her active enemy horrified her.

War was what she dreaded more than anything. She needed long years of peace that she might restore order to Castile. She had taken over a bankrupt kingdom rent by anarchy, and she was determined to make it rich and law-abiding. Yet if at this stage she were plunged into war, how would she fare?