Daughters of Spain (11 page)

The Princess Isabella looked from her mother to the stern face of Torquemada.

Her throat was dry; she felt that if she had tried to protest the words would not come. Her mother had an expression of tenderness yet determination. The Princess knew that the Queen had made up her mind - or perhaps that this stern-faced man who had once been her confessor had made it up for her as he had so many times before. She felt powerless between them. They asked for her consent, but they did not need it. It would be as they wished, not as she did.

She tried once more. 'I could not go into Portugal.'

Torquemada had risen, and she thought suddenly of those men and women who were taken in the dead of night to his secret prisons and there interrogated, until from weariness - and from far worse, she knew - agreed with what he wished them to say.

'It is the duty of a daughter of Spain to do what is good for Spain,' said Torquemada. 'It is sinful to say "I do not wish that." "I do not care to do that." It matters not. This is your duty. You must do your duty or imperil your soul.'

'It is you who say it is my duty,' she answered. 'How can I be sure that it is?'

'My daughter,' said the Queen, 'that which will bring benefit to Spain is your duty and the duty of us all.'

'Mother,' cried the Princess, 'you do not know what you are asking of me.'

'I know full well. It is your cross, my dearest. You must carry it.'

'You carry a two-edged sword for Spain,' said Torquemada. 'You can make this marriage which will secure our frontiers, and you can help to establish firmly the Christian Faith on Portuguese soil.'

'I am sure Emanuel will never agree to the expulsion of the Jews,' cried Isabella. 'I know him. I have talked with him. He has what are called liberal ideas. He wants freedom of thought in Portugal. He said so. He will never agree.'

'Freedom for sin,' retorted Torquemada. 'He wishes for this marriage. It shall be our condition.'

'I cannot do it,' said Isabella wearily.

'Think what it means,' whispered her mother. 'You will have the great glory of stamping out heresy in your new country.'

'Dearest Mother, I do not care ...'

'Hush, hush!' It was the thunderous voice of Torquemada. 'For that you could be brought before the tribunal.'

'It is my daughter to whom you speak,' the Queen put in with some coldness.

'Highness, it is not the first time I have had to remind
you
of your duty.'

The Queen was meekly silent. It was true. This man had a more rigorous sense of duty than she had. She could not help it
if her love for her family often came between her and her duty.

She must range herself on his side. Ferdinand would insist on this marriage taking place. They had indulged their daughter too long. And, if they could insist on this condition, that would be a blow struck for Holy Church, so she must forget her tenderness for her daughter and put herself on the side of righteousness.

Her voice was stern as she addressed her daughter: 'You should cease to behave like a child. You are a woman and a daughter of the Royal House. You will prepare yourself to accept this marriage, for I shall send a dispatch to Emanuel this day.'

Torquemada's features were drawn into lines of approval. He did not smile. He never smiled. But this expression was as near to a smile as he could come.

When her mother spoke like that, Isabella knew that it was useless to protest; she lowered her head and said quietly: 'Please, may I have your leave to retire?'

'It is granted,' said the Queen.

Isabella ran to her apartment. She did not notice little Catalina whom she passed.

'Isabella, Isabella,' called Catalina, 'what is wrong?'

Isabella took no notice but ran on; she had one concern - to reach her bedroom before she began to weep, for it seemed to her in that moment the only relief she could look for was in tears.

She threw herself on to her bed and the storm burst.

Catalina had come to stand by the side of her bed. The child watched in astonishment, but she knew why Isabella cried. She
shared in every sob; she knew exactly how her sister felt. This was like a rehearsal of what would one day happen to her.

At length she whispered very softly: 'Isabella!'

Her sister opened her eyes and saw her standing there.

'It is Catalina.'

Catalina climbed on to the bed and lay down beside her sister.

'It has happened then?' asked the little girl. 'You are to go?'

'It is Torquemada. That man ... with his schemes and his plots.'

'He has made this decision then?'

'Yes. I am to marry Emanuel. There is to be a condition.'

'Emanuel is a kind man, Isabella. He loves you already. You will not be unhappy. Whereas England is a strange place.'

Isabella was silent suddenly; then she put her arms about Catalina and held her close to her.

'Oh Catalina, it is something we all have to endure. But it will be years before you go to England.'

'Years do pass.'

'And plans change.'

Catalina shuddered, and Isabella went on: 'It is all changed now, Catalina. I wish I had gone before. Then Emanuel would have loved me. He did, you know, when I was Alonso's wife.'

'He will love you now.'

'No, there will be a shadow over our marriage. You did not know what happened here when the Jews were driven out. You were too young. But I heard the servants talking of it. They took little children away from their parents. They made them leave their homes. Some died ... some were murdered. There was great suffering throughout the land.
Emanuel will hate to do in his country what was done in ours ... and if he does not do it there will be no marriage.'

'Who said this?'

'Torquemada. He is a man who always has his way. You see, Catalina, if I go to Portugal it will not be the same any more. There will be a great shadow over my marriage. Perhaps Emanuel will hate me. They cursed us ... those Jews, as they lay dying by the roadside. If I go to Portugal they will curse me.'

'Their curses cannot hurt you, for you will be doing what is good.'

'Good?'

'If it is what our mother wants, it will be good.'

'Catalina, I'm frightened. I think I can hear their curses in my ears already.'

They lay in silence side by side. Isabella was thinking of the roads of Portugal filled with bands of exiles, broken-hearted men and women looking for a home, prepared to find death on the highway, at the hands of murderers or from exposure.

'This is my marriage with Emanuel,' she whispered.

Catalina did not hear her; she was thinking of a ship which would sail away to a land of fogs and strangers; and she was a passenger on that ship.

Chapter III

T
he Archduchess Margaret clung to the ship's bulwarks. The wind was rising; the storm clouds loured. Was the middle of winter a good time to make a perilous sea journey? She was sure that it was not. Yet, she thought, what would it have availed me had I asked to wait for the spring?

There had already been much delay, and her father was anxious for her marriage; so, it seemed, were the King and Queen who were to be her parents-in-law.

'It is their will, not mine,' she murmured.

Some girls of sixteen might have been terrified. There were so many events looming ahead of her which could be terrifying. There was to be a new life in a strange country, a new husband; even closer was a threatening storm at sea.

But the expression on the face of the Archduchess was calm. She had been sufficiently buffeted by life to have learned that it is foolish to suffer in anticipation that which one may or may not have to suffer in fact.

She turned to the trembling attendant at her side and laid a hand on the woman's arm.

'The storm may not touch us,' she said. 'It may break behind us. That can happen at sea. The strong wind is carrying us fast to Spain.'

The woman shuddered.

'And if we are to die,' mused Margaret, 'well then, that is our fate. There are worse deaths, I believe, than drowning.'

'Your Grace should not talk so. It is tempting God.'

'Do you think God would change His plans because of the idle chatter of a girl like myself?'

The woman's lips were moving in prayer.

I should be praying with her, thought Margaret. This is going to be a bad storm. I can feel it in the air. Perhaps I am not meant to be a wife in reality.

Yet she did not move, but stood holding her face up to the sky - not with defiance but with resignation.

How can any of us know, she asked herself, when our last hour will come?

She turned her comely face to the woman. 'Go to my cabin,' she said. 'I will join you there.'

'Your Grace should come with me now. This is no place for you.'

'Not yet,' said Margaret. 'I will come when the rain starts.'

'Your Grace ...'

'That was an order,' said Margaret with a quiet firmness, and a few seconds later she was smiling to see with what alacrity the woman left her side.

How terrified people were of death, mused Margaret. Was it because they remembered their sins? Perhaps it was safer to die when one was young. At sixteen a girl, who had been watched over as she had been, could not have committed a great many sins.