Falling Pomegranate Seeds: The Duty of Daughters (The Katherine of Aragon Story Book 1) (28 page)

Catalina laughed the gruff laugh so alike her mother’s. Peering at her sister, she smiled mischievously. “And the times you were wrong, our Isabel? I remember not so long ago you said you would never be happy again, yet here you are today, making merry with your sisters. It gives me joy to see you thus.”

Isabel drooped over her big belly like a flower pushed forward in the wind. She sighed. “Uno Piqueño, I know now we are fools if we don’t take joy when it is offered and revel in happiness while we may.”

Isabel became silent, spreading out her baby’s robe upon her lap. She lifted shining eyes. “I have done much soul-searching ever since our brother died. It took his death, rather than all the years Juan tried so hard to comfort me, to awake me from the darkness of my half-life, never seeing the woman I so sinfully allowed myself to become.

“I caged myself in my grief, selfishly shutting out all those who loved me. When Juan died, in my mind I heard his voice encouraging me to seek out joy... I felt again the warmth of his love that I often turned from while he lived.

“I know now my self-pity cost me much, years and years when I could have been a better sister, not only for you, Maria and Juana, but also for him. Juan hated the thought of being king, yet few he trusted with the burden of this knowledge. He trusted me – tried to talk to me about his fears of not being the king our parents hoped and wanted of him. I will regret to my death how I failed him. I should have listened to him rather than wallow in self-pity.” Brushing away her tears, Isabel smiled, looking at the sunlit garden. “But I try hard not to fail him now. I have had enough of unhappiness.”

Catalina and Maria gazed at one another. Without a word, the sisters knelt on either side of Isabel, nestling in close, each taking one of their sister’s hands. Despite their smiles, grief marked their faces. The months since the tragedy of the prince’s passing had not lessened the gaping hole of loss. Beatriz brushed away tears. Her heart ached too. She doubted time would ever heal the loss of their golden prince.

···

As predicted by his wife, Queen Isabel’s court was soon joined by the King of Portugal. Arriving with little fanfare, none knew of his presence until he burst into the garden, looking for his wife. “Isabel,” he cried, anxiety turning into joy.

Surprised to see him race to his wife’s side like a boy, Beatriz stood and then curtseyed with the infantas and the other attendants. The king did not notice. He dropped to his knees, threw his arms around Isabel, laying his head on her breast.

Kissing the top of her husband’s dark head, Isabel laughed. “I fear your son must learn courtesy. Our boy has kicked you.”

Hands on Isabel’s belly, the young king hooted out a laugh that made all smile. His eyes alight, the adoration he showed during their wedding celebrations had not changed since the months of marriage. He rose to kiss his wife. Beatriz smiled. It seemed their months of marriage had only served to increase his love. Isabel too lifted to him shining eyes. Whilst they blazed not with the deep, first love she once showed to Alfonso, they still glowed with something near.

The final weeks of her pregnancy passed slowly. Soon, Isabel’s belly became so large she needed the assistance of those around her to help her rise from sitting to standing. Her husband was often the first one to help. Bringing out his lute to make music while she sewed the baptism gown for their child, the king spent all his free time with his wife enjoying the lovely spring days in the garden.

Two weeks after King Manuel’s arrival, Beatriz knelt on the grass in the courtyard, picking camomile daisies to make a soothing tea for the queen. Lessons over for the day, Catalina was again with her mother, playing chess with Maria. No doubt the girls were talking about the latest communications from England. The English king grew more and more impatient for Catalina’s arrival.

Feeling too warm, Beatriz righted herself, her eyes drawn to the beautiful staircase leading to the royal chambers. A coffered ceiling overtopped the staircase. On one side, the interior of the alcázar opened up. She leaned against the Corinthian column that formed one end of an arch, looking up at the ceiling. The throne room also possessed a ceiling worthy of note, an over-ornate carved and painted artesonado ceiling, the rich wooden panels very alike to that of a ceiling at the Alhambra. All feasted the eye.

Heavy footsteps crunched gravel. Beatriz looked through a crack between wall and the jutting Corinthian column hiding her from view in the garden. The young queen and her husband walked along the garden path, talking animatedly to one another, but as yet too far away to hear.

Beatriz gazed at Isabel’s husband. The complicated web often spun out by kinship, especially that of royal kinship, very little suggested the blood ties between this short, slight man and his nephew, the long-dead Alfonso. King Manuel’s much older sister was Alfonso’s mother. Isabel’s distressed voice stopped her thoughts. Through the crack she saw Isabel push her husband away. She spun around, facing the path leading in Beatriz’s direction. Her eyes blind and wide with horror, she ran awkwardly. The short distance left her gasping for breath.

Beatriz stood and stepped back, tight against the wall, keeping herself out of sight. King Manuel reached his wife and took her arm. His black eyes beseeched Isabel. “My love, forgive me. I thought it wisest to keep this from you, but how could I when we vowed to speak truth to one another? Now we are here... a voice from the grave does not give me any peace. You needed to know, my Isabel.”

“You lie,” she sobbed. Hiccupping through her tears, she sagged against him. “Why do you tell me this? Why now? Manuel, why now?”

His face the colour of ash he lifted his chin, the angles of his face sharpening in his finely drawn face. “Love, believe me only fear for our child moved me to speak. I would not have told you this for the world, but my cousin João would never have spoken to me of such matters unless he thought it true.”

Isabel pulled away from him and stood rigid, her hands tight fists at her sides. “My father is not a murderer!”

Beatriz’s heart stopped, freezing her to absolute stillness.

King Manuel reached out to Isabel, dropping his hands to his sides at what he saw in her face. “Forgive me. Put it from your mind, my Isabel. I promised your mother our son can be raised at her court. I know he will be safe with her.”

Isabel stared at her husband. “Our son... remain in Mother’s care? When was this arranged? Why am I the last to know that my child is to be taken from me?”

The king took hold of her shoulders before slipping his arms around her. “Sweet love, my own sweet love. This is why I had to tell you. Treachery has been my companion all my life. I smell it, as if I smell a decaying corpse. My love, that smell follows your father, wherever he goes. Marrying you, I never wanted to believe what my cousin told me, but if our child is a son... I cannot risk his life by acting blind and deaf. Placing our boy in your mother’s care ensures him of life. I believe that. And your father will not rid himself of a grandson he comes to love or trains to be king after him. I have to believe that, have to believe he’ll grow to forgive our boy my blood.”

Isabel slumped into his arms, holding onto him for support. She stared up, breathing heavily. “Manuel...” All life drained from her face. “You truly believe my father murdered Alfonso?”

The king groaned and tightened his arms around her. “Love, you must know political expediency is your father’s only catch-cry. For years he has pushed the English king to do what he would have done years ago, rid himself of a harmless, imprisoned man, just because his blood makes him too close a claimant for the throne.”

Isabel shook her head. “No, no – you do my father grave injustice.” Her hand gripping her throat, she swallowed. “To say such things about my father... As for Warwick, he just wants to make England safer for my sister when she’s queen.”

King Manuel’s face became ugly. “Si, safer for your sister. All should have such fathers...”

“Is it wrong that he cares about my sister’s safety?”

He stared over her head. “I don’t believe it is just for your sister’s safety, but rather looking to the future and ensuring she becomes queen and stays queen. Power means all to your father.

“With Alfonso, your father feared your mother’s worsening health would bring Juan to her throne too soon. Your brother was untried and often unwell, when Castilla needs a ruler with a strong hand. With you married to the heir of Portugal and next in line to your mother’s crown, your father worried João might be tempted to reach for the apple itself. Many in Castilla respected my cousin João, knowing him a strong king with a strong son.

“Your father hates us. The turd Portuguese he calls us behind our backs. I don’t think he cares over-much that his insults come back to me. He did not trust the uneasy peace your marriage to Alfonso brought with it. Your father never wanted your marriage, but the queen, your mother, knew you loved Alfonso. What she can do for you she does, even at the cost to herself.”

Isabel’s fingers squeezed her husband’s hands, as once before on a beach at sunset, before the beginning of so much grief, she held onto her brother, begging release from the fetters of duty. “My mother... does she know?”

The king shook his head. “No, no, my love. João was certain it was your father’s hand that set in motion Alfonso’s death. Remember, it came at a time when your hopes of bearing Alfonso’s child had just come to nought, followed by the fire that almost cost your mother her life. A short time afterward, Alfonso received a gift from your father, the stallion that took his life.”

Her mouth open, Isabel stared. “But it was an accident.”

Manuel shook his head. “Made to look like an accident. My cousin learnt later that the horse hated the touch of man and was easily spooked. And if that was not enough, a Castilian groom was Alfonso’s only companion that night. Who knows what really happened that evening.

“King João went to his grave believing the tragedy was no accident. It bore too much the wily, underhanded stamp of King Ferdinand. He believed that after the camp fire your father decided to take no more chances of Portugal threatening the smooth succession of your brother. He wanted Juan to assume the throne without any threatening him.”

Her face wet with tears, Isabel shook her head and hiccupped. “Father killed Alfonso.” She stared up at him. “You are certain my mother does not know?”

The king tightened his arms around her. “Your mother loves God too much to ever design to kill the beloved husband of her daughter, whom she loves more than life itself. But my love, when I spoke to her about our child... Isabel, my heart tells me she suspects your father, but is too loving a wife to ever voice these suspicions.”

As quietly as possible, Beatriz stole away in the direction of the staircase and, once up them, to her chamber. She closed her door and sat on the closest stool. She wished she had never been in the garden. Now she possessed knowledge of such magnitude it could have her killed. She gazed towards the fireplace. The hearth black and dead, yet she felt she stared into Hell. She knew the king was capable of murder, but whether he had Alfonso’s blood on his hands she did not want to know.

···

Her husband’s suspicions destroyed Isabel. She no longer sat with her sisters in the garden, enjoying the warm days of spring, but remained in a darkened chamber, waiting for her baby to be born, waiting to die. Blaming himself and increasingly desperate, despairing, King Manuel only left her chamber to walk around the garden.

Isabel told her mother she no longer wished to live. She wanted to be with Alfonso and Juan, where nothing and no one would hurt her again. Whether she told the queen the reason why, Beatriz did not know. But she suspected she did. Queen Isabel, when she emerged from her daughter’s chamber, seemed an utterly lost and broken woman.

All day long, hour by hour, back and forth, her confessor, her mother and her husband visited Isabel in her darkened chamber. None turned her from her quest to seize death in childbirth. Thus, Beatriz joined the midwives, preparing to battle for her life.

Catalina could not understand why her sister no longer wanted life. Listening to her, consoling her, Beatriz locked her awful knowledge away, praying to God for the strength to always keep it from her. Catalina loved her father. It would not help her to know the truth of the shallowness of his love for her, that her happiness meant nothing to him before his ambitions.

Spring no longer ruled their days. The knowledge Isabel turned her face from life darkened everything. They prayed and prayed, but Beatriz knew in her heart of hearts that Isabel’s last chance for life died when Manuel told her the truth behind Alfonso’s death.

King Ferdinand returned from his discussions with his Cortes on the day Isabel began her labour. Still unhappy with the thought of a woman ruler, his grandees asked to delay their decision until the birth of Isabel’s child. They hoped a son would solve the problem of succession. The king never realised his daughter no longer cared who ruled Aragon, or Castilla.

Isabel gave birth to her boy, held him for a moment, and died. Beatriz brought the news to Queen Isabel, leaving the midwives to deal with the weak infant.

Beatriz entered the queen’s chamber and the queen rose from her chair, hands gripping tight the armrests, her face so bone-white and ill-looking Beatriz feared for her life too. The king stepped out of the shadows, standing next to his wife. Beatriz couldn’t speak but shook her head, holding out her hands in defeat.

As if she defended herself against life, against grief, Catalina bolted up from the cushion beside the queen’s chair. She whispered, “Mother –” Beatriz did not know whether Catalina cried for help for herself or in worry for Queen Isabel. She wound her arm around the now weeping girl.

“Isabel’s son lives,” Beatriz said, desperate to say something of hope.

“Our hija has left a son,” the king repeated.

Queen Isabel stared at him, her mouth snapping shut. She groaned, falling to her knees, arms tight around her body, chest heaving, rocking to and fro. Blinking back tears, Beatriz winced. The queen moaned and moaned like a woman in the throes of agonising childbirth. The king gazed at her with distaste, and then searched the room as if seeking escape. He heaved a shuddering breath, pain and grief carving deeper lines on his face. Straightening his shoulders, he strode over to his wife’s side.