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Authors: Jean Plaidy
Spain for the Sovereigns
Jean Plaidy, one of the pre-eminent authors of historical fiction for most of the twentieth century, is the pen name of the prolific English author Eleanor Hibbert, also known as Victoria Holt. Jean Plaidy’s novels had sold more than 14 million copies worldwide by the time of her death in 1993.
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Also by Jean Plaidy
The Tudors
Uneasy Lies the Head
Katharine, the Virgin Widow
The Shadow of the Pomegranate
The King’s Secret Matter
Murder Most Royal
St Thomas’s Eve
The Sixth Wife
The Thistle and the Rose
Mary Queen of France
Lord Robert
Royal Road to Fotheringay
The Captive Queen of Scots
The Medici Trilogy
Madame Serpent
The Italian Woman
Queen Jezebel
The Plantagenets
The Plantagenet Prelude
The Revolt of the Eaglets
The Heart of the Lion
The Prince of Darkness
The Battle of the Queens
The Queen from Provence
The Hammer of the Scots
The Follies of the King
The French Revolution
Louis the Well-Beloved
The Road to Compiègne
Flaunting, Extravagant Queen
Isabella and Ferdinand Trilogy
Castile for Isabella
Spain for the Sovereigns
Daughters of Spain
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Version 1.0
Epub ISBN 9781407011462
Published by Arrow Books in 2008
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Copyright © Jean Plaidy, 1960
Initial lettering copyright © Stephen Raw, 2008
The Estate of Eleanor Hibbert has asserted its right to have Jean Plaidy identified as the author of this work.
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First published in the United Kingdom in 1960 by Robert Hale and Company
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ISBN 9780099510338
III: The Prince of the Asturias
IV: Isabella and the Archbishop of Saragossa
VII: The Birth of Maria and the Death of Carillo
VIII: Inside the Kingdom of Granada
IX: The Dream of Christoforo Colombo
XI: Cristobal Colon and Beatriz de Arana
XIV: The Last Sigh of the Moor
Chapter I
I
t was growing dark as the cavalcade rode into the silent city of Barcelona on its way to the Palace of the Kings of Aragon. On it went, through streets so narrow that the tall grey houses – to which the smell of sea and harbour clung – seemed to meet over the cobbles.
At the head of this company of horsemen rode a young man of medium height and of kingly bearing. His complexion was fresh and tanned by exposure to the wind and sun; his features were well formed, his teeth exceptionally white, and the hair, which grew far back from his forehead, was light brown with a gleam of chestnut.
When any of his companions addressed him, it was with the utmost respect. He was some twenty-two years old, already a warrior and a man of experience, and only in the determination that all should respect his dignity did he betray his youth.
He turned to the man who rode beside him. ‘How she suffered, this city!’ he said.
‘It is true, Highness. I heard from the lips of the King, your father, that when he entered after the siege he could scarce refrain from weeping – such terrible sights met his eyes.’
Ferdinand of Aragon nodded grimly. ‘A warning,’ he murmured, ‘to subjects who seek to defy their rightful King.’
His companion replied: ‘It is so, Highness.’ He dared not remind Ferdinand that the civil war which had recently come to an end had been fought because of the murder of the rightful heir – Ferdinand’s half-brother Carlos, his father’s son by his first wife. It was a matter best forgotten, for now Ferdinand was very ready to take and defend all that his ambitious father, all that his doting mother, had procured for him.
The little cavalcade had drawn up before the Palace in which John of Aragon had his headquarters, and Ferdinand cried in his deep resonant voice: ‘What ails you all? I am here. I, Ferdinand, have come!’
There was immediate bustle within. Doors were flung open and grooms ran forward surrounding the party. Ferdinand leaped from his horse and ran into the Palace, where his father, who had heard his arrival, came to meet him, arms outstretched.
‘Ferdinand! Ferdinand!’ he cried, and his eyes filled with tears as he embraced his son. ‘Ah, I knew you would not delay your coming. I knew you would be with me. I am singularly blessed. I was given the best of wives, and although she has now been taken from me, she has left me the best of sons.’
The seventy-eight-year-old King of Aragon showed no signs of failing. Still strong and energetic – in spite of recent operations which had restored the sight of both eyes – he rarely permitted himself to show any weakness. But there was one emotion which he always failed to hide; that was the love he had for his dead wife and his son by her: Ferdinand.
His arm about Ferdinand’s shoulder, John led his son into a small apartment and called for refreshment. When it was brought and they were alone Ferdinand said: ‘You sent for me, Father; that was enough to bring me hastening to your side.’
John smiled. ‘But such a newly married husband, and such a charming wife!’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Ferdinand, with a complacent smile. ‘Isabella was loth to lose me, but she is deeply conscious of duty, and when she heard of your need, she was certain that I should not fail you.’
John nodded. ‘And all is well . . . in Castile, my son?’
‘All is well, Father.’
‘And the child?’
‘Healthy and strong.’
‘I would your little Isabella had been a boy!’
‘There will be boys,’ said Ferdinand.
‘Indeed there will be. And I will say this, Ferdinand. When you have a son, may he be so like yourself that all will say: “Here is another Ferdinand come among us.” I cannot wish you better than that.’
‘Father, you think too highly of your son.’ But the young man’s expression belied the charge.
John shook his head. ‘King of Castile! And one day . . . perhaps not far distant, King of Aragon.’