‘How could such a man have scored such successes against the Moors?’ wondered Ferdinand. ‘He must be in his dotage. Castile lies open to him now – and he hesitates. If he will but hesitate a few weeks longer we have as good a chance as he has of winning this war.’

And as Isabella neared Toledo on her journey through the kingdom she thought of that old ally, Alfonso Carillo, Archbishop of Toledo, without whose support she could never have attained the throne.

She believed that if she could meet him, if she could reason with him, she would win him back to her cause; and if the Archbishop were on her side she would have secured the most important man in Spain as her ally. It was difficult to believe that a man of his intelligence could desert her out of pique, yet first he had resented Ferdinand, and then Cardinal Mendoza. She had not realised that, although he was capable of great valour and possessed political skill, he could also be capable of petty jealousy.

She called to one of her servants and said to him: ‘We are near Alcalá de Henares, and the Archbishop of Toledo is in residence there. Go to him and tell him that I propose calling at his palace, as I wish to talk with him.’ When her messenger returned from his visit to the Archbishop he came almost shamefacedly into Isabella’s presence.

‘What news?’ she asked. ‘You saw the Archbishop?’

‘Yes, Highness. I saw the Archbishop.’

‘I pray you do not hesitate,’ said Isabella gently. ‘Come, what is his answer?’

‘The Archbishop replied, Highness, that even though Your Highness wishes to see him, he does not wish to see you; and if you should enter his palace by one door he will go out by another.’

Isabella’s expression scarcely changed.

‘I see that it was a fruitless errand. But perhaps not entirely so. We have discovered an enemy where we thought to have a friend. You have my leave to retire.’

When she was alone she went to a chair and sat down heavily. She felt sick through her pregnancy and with fear for the future. Had the Archbishop believed she had the slightest chance of beating Alfonso he would never have dared send her such a message. Quite clearly he believed her to be on the brink of defeat.

She felt the child move within her, and with her awareness of this other life she longed to go to her bed and stay there, to give up this weary pilgrimage through her kingdom, to trust in God and her destiny and to be able to say to herself: If I lose the Kingdom of Castile I shall then be merely Queen of Aragon, and I shall devote myself to my husband, the child we already have and the children which will surely be ours. That would be so easy; and the churlish conduct of one who had once been so firm an ally filled her with such despair that she wanted nothing so much as the peace of her own apartments.

But there were dispatches to be sent off to Ferdinand, telling him of her progress; there were more towns to be visited.

There was one important factor. Others would know of the rebuff she had received from the Archbishop; she must wear an even bolder face; she must be even more certain of success.

She ignored the stirring life within her, the great desire for rest.

Never for one moment must she forget her destiny, nor the fact that only if she were worthy to wear the crown of Castile could she hope for Divine favour.

Isabella was reading a dispatch from Ferdinand.

‘The position has changed for the better, thanks to your efforts. I now have at my disposal four thousand men-at-arms, eight thousand light horse and thirty thousand foot. We lack equipment, and many of these men know little of soldiering, but my confidence grows daily. And should Alfonso attack us now he will find he has missed the great chance which was his two months ago.’

Isabella looked up and smiled.

They had worked a miracle. They had found men ready to fight for them; and if these men were as yet inexperienced that would be remedied. She had Ferdinand as the commander of her army, and Ferdinand was experienced in war; he was young and Alfonso was old. Ferdinand would win.

Isabella’s smile became tender.

Her great friend, Beatriz de Bobadilla, wife of Andres de Cabrera, believed that she idealised Ferdinand, that she saw him as a god among men.

It was not entirely true nowadays. The years of marriage had changed that. Yet when he had first come to Castile she had thought him wonderful. She loved him no less; but she was aware of the vanity, the arrogance, the signs of cupidity which were all part of Ferdinand’s character. She did not forget the sulkiness he had displayed when he had realised that, for all her love, she was not prepared to give him control of Castilian affairs. Yet these faults made her the more tender, even as did those of her young daughter Isabella. And if Ferdinand at times had the faults of a boy, he had also the attributes of a man. She trusted his generalship; she knew she could rely on him to fight her cause – perhaps because it was also his own – more than she could rely on any other man in the kingdom. But the disaffection of the Archbishop of Toledo had made her realise how unwise she would be to put complete trust in anyone.

She rose from her table, and as she did so her body was racked with a pain so violent that she could not repress a cry.

One of her women who had been in the apartment came hurrying to her side.

‘Highness . . .’ The woman gasped at the pallor of Isabella’s face, and caught her in her arms, for she believed the Queen was on the point of fainting. She called to others, and in a few seconds Isabella was surrounded by her women.

She put out a hand to steady herself against the table. She knew the violent pain was coming again.

‘Help me . . .’ she murmured. ‘Help me to my bed. I fear my time has come . . . and it is so soon . . . too soon.’

So it was over.

There would be no child. Isabella felt limp and defeated. Should she have considered the child? If she had done so there would not be that army under Ferdinand’s generalship; Castile would lie open to the invader.

And because it had been necessary to rally men to her cause – and only she, the Queen, could do it – she had lost her child, the son she and Ferdinand were to have made the heir to Castile and Aragon.

She felt bitter.

It was time they had more children; but what chance had they of being parents while they lived this troubled life.

She lay thinking of the journeyings over rough roads, the jolting, the uncomfortable nights often spent in humble beds in roadside inns.

And so . . . she had lost her child. But in doing so she had formed an army.

She smiled briefly.

There would be other children. Once this weary matter of La Beltraneja’s right to the throne was settled, she and Ferdinand would be together always; they would have many children.

She dozed a little, and when her women came to see how she fared she was smiling peacefully. She murmured a little in her sleep, and when one of the women stooped to hear what she said she heard not the lament for the lost child but the words: ‘Eight thousand light horse.’

Chapter III

THE PRINCE OF THE ASTURIAS

Isabella came riding to the Alcazar of Segovia.

More than a year had passed since she had lost her child and raised men and arms to fight the invading Alfonso. It had been an arduous period.

Yet Isabella had quickly recovered from her miscarriage; indeed, many said that it was her spirit which had proved the best doctor. There had been no time during that dark period to lie abed and woo back her health; Isabella had very soon to be on horseback, riding through her kingdom, calling a Cortes at Medina del Campo and by her eloquence moving all so deeply that she had raised the money she so badly needed.