WE are again in the great room in the palace of Valladolid, with its low roof and deep embowered casement, looking on the richly carved front of San Pablo, in which Don Fadique dared to avow his ill-omened passion to poor Blanche of Navarre.

As then, it is evening, and a warm atmosphere of tempered light plays about the statues and foliage, tracery and shields of the Gothic faÇade that rises with so much majesty in front, and flocks of grey pigeons circle round the towers to perch upon the gargoyles and escutcheons of the deeply arched portal, a noble specimen of the flamboyant style.

Now another princess sits in the same place, under the glow of the coloured glass of the casement, glinting in upon the dusky panels of the room, so dim and low and long that the farther end has already melted into shadow.

She is young too, this princess, barely sixteen, and fair-complexioned, with blue eyes and well-marked features, altogether a noble head, set off by the abundant coils of auburn hair, arranged under a jewelled coif; but there the resemblance ends.

Instead of the curly head of poor yielding Blanche, with her Gallic vivacity and childlike eyes full of tenderness to all she loves, this one has a natural dignity about her which at once imposes respect. She is calm and reserved in manners and has a measured speech.

A missal is in her hand, for she is very devout, following the offices of the church religiously, and the Ave Maria has sounded; then she crosses herself and turns to her companion, DoÑa Beatrix Bobadilla, who rises and kneels at her feet.

Now taken together they are a serious pair. Beatrix, a little older than the Infanta, is already a strong-minded woman, destined to support her mistress throughout her long career; and the Infanta, carefully trained by her mother, the beloved Isabel, in the retirement of Arevalo, not far from Avila, is possessed of that power of inspiring others with the enthusiasm she herself feels for the noble mission which she is called on to perform.

“It is a great risk. Infanta,” DoÑa Beatrix is saying, “and you are so quiet about it. I am so agitated, I cannot sit still.”

Isabel blushes deeply. “How do you know, Beatrix, what I feel? A calm exterior does not always mean a quiet heart. Do you think I can be unmoved the first time I meet the prince I intend to marry, at night, in secret, at the risk of my freedom? Should my brother discover his presence in Castile——”

“As to that, my princess,” says Beatrix, “the Archbishop of Toledo who brings him, is answerable. Every possible precaution has been taken in passing the frontier. He travels at night, disguised as a servant, tends the mules, and waits on his companions at table. Better Ferdinand of Aragon than those strangers of Portugal and Navarre, whom the king favours, to get you out of the way of the Beltraneja.”

“Yes, Ferdinand,” says Isabel, and she closes her missal and leans back in her chair; “that has been my dream. I will never wed with a stranger. Castile and Aragon must be one. No longer the unnatural strife between these two states of the same blood, and God has chosen me as the means.” She raises her blue eyes, and a radiant look spreads over her fair face, on which the open forehead and brows are as finely moulded as on her mother’s. Already she has all the command of a sovereign about her, spite of her youthful looks.

“But, Infanta, what will that villain Don Beltrano incite the king to do when he hears of this interview? They are in arms in the south, and troops throng the frontier. It is plain that they are alarmed at some news they have received. There is nothing in the world which could so much enrage the king as your affiancing with the Infante of Aragon.”

“I cannot help it,” answers Isabel. “No duty to my brother stands in the way. When the confederate lords, at Alfonso’s death, after his dethronement at Avila, offered me the throne, you know, Beatrix, that I refused it. While he lives, he is my king and my brother. Afterwards, the succession is mine, and I shall defend it to the death. Even if the Infante does not please me, if he agrees to my conditions I will marry him all the same. It is not for love I call him.”

“Not please your highness!” said Beatrix, not altogether so high-minded as her mistress, and looking at the matter in a more mundane light as she vividly recalls the image of the man she loves and is soon to marry, one of the stoutest partisans of Isabel. “I can understand hating such a fellow as the Master of Calatrava. I myself gave your Highness a dagger, rather than you should wed him; and would have seen you use it, too, with joy. But, Holy Virgin! Why not Ferdinand? He brings Aragon with him, and is reputed as a handsome prince, prudent and brave; then coming like a knight-errant to rescue his princess at midnight, disguised, a fugitive, in danger of his life.”

Isabel’s blue eyes fixed themselves on Beatrix, with a curious expression.

“The marriages of princes are not for love, amiga. It is possible that the Infante of Aragon may not consent to my conditions.”

“Oh! you will forget all that when you meet,” cries Beatrix, provoked by her coldness, so different to her own feelings. “You will have a greater power over him than protocols or decrees.”

As she spoke, the evening bells rang out sweetly from the towers of San Pablo. Already the grey pigeons had left their perch on the window-sill, and the twilight had darkened the ancient tapestry on the walls, leaving the outline of the two youthful figures defined against the light.

“He cannot be far from Valladolid now,” said Beatrix, listening to the bells, “if he left DueÑas as was agreed.” Isabel turned pale and sighed. There was a languid action of her hands that told of some internal struggle ill repressed, as the long fingers fell helplessly upon her brocaded robe. After all she was but sixteen. She was playing the part of a royal heroine, but she could not altogether silence the workings of her young heart. Spite of the great soul within her, what she was about to do came over her with dread. Not even her high resolve could reconcile her to that risk of marrying a man repugnant to her. Besides, her serious nature was wanting in that romantic element which, with another girl, would invest the unknown prince with every charm, because he was to appear in an aurÉole of mystery.

The strange phases of her life, which had formed her character to a tone of masculine decision, had not yet developed the softer qualities she possessed. Born in the midst of conspiracy, she had been the toy of each party in turn; now with her mother leading almost a cloistered life, then dragged into the fierce magnificence of an abandoned court. Forcibly affianced to any prince who suited the king’s politics, even refusing food and sleep to escape from these toils. Passionately urged by the archbishop to assume the crown on the death of her brother Alfonso, and firmly resisting a proposal she looked on as treason, she had already passed through the vicissitudes of a long and chequered career ere her own life had begun. Yet her innate purity had not suffered from contact with the vileness of others. The secrets of life were open to her. She knew all that should be hid from the mind of an innocent woman, but this only served to form her character to the most rigid virtue and to make of her the great sovereign she became. Isabel’s noble qualities had been developed under two stormy reigns—the feeble, humiliating government of her father Juan II., and the vicious violence and treachery of her brother Enrique. Since the death of her father she had never known what it was to be free. Secluded after the dethronement she had been summoned to Burgos as a pledge of the good faith of the king; but what she had seen there had so deeply disgusted her, that she entreated the Archbishop of Toledo, who had charge of her, to make her a home apart with her little court at Valladolid.

And now the moment has come which will decide her life.

All human lights are extinguished. The moon rides high in the heaven in fields of azure light over the sleeping town of Valladolid. The stars have come out one by one, doubling themselves on the shallow waters of the Pisuerga that flows by the walls through woods of light-branched aspen and elm. Not a breath stirs outside the old palace, so quaint in its homely outlines, except when the sereno passes and rouses the ire of some whelping cur to bay at the full moon. Looking at that quiet front, who could guess that a drama is to be enacted within between two young princes, the issue of which will permanently alter the politics, religion, and government, not only of the Old World but of the New, shortly to be discovered by Columbus?

As midnight strikes at San Pablo, the tapestry is withdrawn, and, under the sudden glare of torches and candles, the Archbishop of Toledo appears, leading in the upright figure of the Infante of Aragon concealed in a cloak. With him enters Don Gutierra de CardeÑas, and, too impatient to wait for the more formal presentation of the archbishop, he presses on Ferdinand in front of the Infanta.

“Look at him!” he cries, “Ese es” (this is he), in memory of which the CardeÑas’ shield still bears the letters S.S.

The more formal introduction of the archbishop follows.

“DoÑa Isabel of Castile,” says the prelate who has seen so many deaths, births, and espousals in the House of Trastamare, putting aside the too zealous Don Gutierra, “I bring you your affianced lord. May God and Santiago ratify your choice!”

Face to face they stood—the spouses. He is eighteen, she sixteen; both auburn-complexioned with the old Gothic colouring; she, marble-throated, serene, with the shoulders of a goddess and the gesture of a queen; he, bronzed by exposure, bright-eyed, manly, and portly; already incipient lines gather about his mouth, to harden later into an expression of severity and almost of cruelty; but he is gentle and smiling now, and his soldier-like bearing suits him well.

For a moment he stands confused before Isabel, then casting from him the hooded mantle in which he is enveloped, he kneels before her and kisses her hand.

“Oh! my Infanta, what condescension!” he murmurs, in a low voice, a little sharp in its tone from the habit of command. “I trembled lest I had been too bold. But for the danger to your Highness from the opposition of the king, I should not have dared to approach you thus.”

“You are welcome, Infante of Aragon,” says Isabel, raising him to her side. “The archbishop has been the agent of my warmest desire in bringing you. It is time, an armed force is about to secure me. That you have happily passed the frontier, I thank God.” A lovely colour has overspread her cheeks as she speaks. Her eyes are fixed on Ferdinand in an earnest gaze, which softens into a glance of exquisite sweetness. For the first time in her life she feels the thrill of that love which is to last her all her life, one love, entire and single, which comes down to us in history as the fairest example of wedded bliss. The effect she makes on Ferdinand, bold as he is in act and nature, and knowing that he comes as an accepted suitor for her hand, is altogether overwhelming. Night, darkness, the mystery of their meeting—so unlike a royal wooing—the youthful dignity of her presence, her beauty, far exceeding report, come over him in a passionate longing to carry her away and never let her go.

Nor does the subtle flattery of this hesitation on his part displease her.

Softer and sweeter grows the mild fire of her eyes as she leads him apart and seats herself beside him within the golden estrada under the rich velvet curtains, heavy with gold embroideries, of the royal canopy at the upper end of the apartment, out of sight and hearing of the archbishop, Beatrix, and the rest.

At length Ferdinand finds voice and tongue to speak. The landmarks of court restraint, of tyrannous etiquette have vanished in the mystery of this midnight meeting. He forgets that she is a great princess, that their enemies are many and powerful, fighting for a crown. He forgets all, save that she is there before him, a dazzling presence, sprung as it were out of the gloom, and that if she so will it she is to be his wife. Wild words of passion are on his lips, vague, inarticulated, his hands clasp hers, his arm steals about the slender roundness of her form.

Nor, for a time, can Isabel rouse herself from the gentle violence of his touch to say plainly what is in her mind. But, putting him from her, she speaks at last in serious tones.

“That you have won my heart, fair Infante,” she says, “I will not deny; but had my love and my duty not been agreed, I would have called you to me all the same.”

A shade of displeasure comes over Ferdinand’s glowing face as he flashes a look at her of pain and mortification. So young, yet so determined!

“Aye, but you must hear me!” she adds, rising to a sudden sense of her duty. “As future Queen of Castile, not as Isabel of Trastamare, I wed you. To me my country is more than life; its privileges, customs, laws, all must rest as they are; no foreign intrusion will be tolerated. As you will be in Aragon sole ruler, in which I shall in no way interfere, but with all my soul maintain you, so must I in Castile; and Castile, as the most powerful state, must be your country and your abode. Our cordial union will be the strength of Spain, but must be that of two independent states, each ruled by its own Cortes.”

“Surely, my princess,” urges Ferdinand, who has listened to her with evident embarrassment, “such serious discussions are premature. The Church and custom teach that the husband must be superior to the wife. Even if seated on the throne, a union begun in division may end ill.”

“Not in my case,” answers Isabel, with decision, “for it would be no union at all. We are met to discuss the terms on which we wed. I have seen too much confusion and anarchy not to speak plain. The union of Aragon and Castile would form the unity of Spain. So would I have it between us two. But cost me what it may (and that your loss would cost me much after seeing you, I confess), I can consent to no division of power; I ask none, I give none. The government of the two lands must lie in the Cortes and the fueros, not in our will.” Then, noting the dark look which has come creeping like a cloud over his handsome face, she rises. “It is not too late, my lord, to withdraw from our engagement, should the terms I offer you appear to you unjust.”

“What!” cries Ferdinand, starting up, “you have brought me to heaven’s gate, and now you would turn me out? No! royal princess, not after we have met. Let Spain live in us, and generations of kings to come hail our name.”

“Yes, for Spain!” cries Isabel, an inspired look lighting up her face. “For union and for Spain!” Then, as the tears come gathering in her eyes, she trembles with emotion, and her soft voice but ill expresses the courage of her words. “For myself let me speak. A wife more loving or more humble you shall not find. Husband, father, all, you shall be to me,” and she clasps his hand and raises it to her lips, spite of his protest. She is about to kneel to him, but he withholds her in his arms. “But for any ill to my people I will not obey; this must be clear. Too much have they suffered from ill government, extortion, and neglect; now it must be peace.”

“What ill could I desire to Castile?” asks Ferdinand, provoked at the insisting of the beautiful girl, who speaks like a legislator, which, if maintained, will cross many projects of his own to the advantage of his kingdom.

“I know not,” she answers. “I have seen many strange things happen upon the throne.”

“That you have, indeed, my princess,” he replies, won back by her gentleness. “Ah! how my heart has bled for you! Nor is the succession yet settled as it should be. The king, your brother will never give up the hope of placing the Beltraneja on the throne. For that reason I desire to carry you straight into Aragon, where I can defend your rights. In that desire we are one.”

“Oh! blessed thought!” cries Isabel, clinging to him, as she speaks, with a sense of protection and love she has never known before. “Give me but your royal word, Infante, for the liberty of Castile, and I am yours while this poor heart beats.”

“Enchantress!” cries Ferdinand, clasping her in his arms. “Who can withstand you? By Santiago! you have conquered me quite, even against my judgment. I give you my royal word that you shall reign in Castile even as in my heart, alone.”

“Then with this kiss do I seal it,” she answers, breaking out all over into a great joy, and with a cry of rapture she kisses him on the lips.

Then, hand in hand, they left the estrada and came down to where the archbishop and Don Gutierra, and DoÑa Beatrix waited.

“I am ready, my lord, to wed the prince,” said Isabel, with a proud smile. “Give me your blessing. Before you all, I declare that I accept for my consort the Infante of Aragon, whose nobility of soul exceeds all my desires” (1467).

And here it may be noted that the princes were so poor that the archbishop paid the expenses of the marriage and of their journey into Aragon.

At Segovia, Isabel was proclaimed Queen of Castile, December 14, 1474, by her devoted subject the governor, Don Andreas de Cabrera, then husband of her friend, Beatrix de Bobadilla. A noble company of ricoshombres, priests, and alcades, in their robes of office, waited on her in the Alcazar in the Sala del Trono, and escorted her, under a purple baldaquino, through the city, mounted on a Spanish jennet, preceded by an hidalgo on horseback bearing a naked sword.

“Castile, Castile, for the king and his consort, DoÑa Isabel!” cried the herald.

But it was Isabel alone that received homage as

queen and proceeded to the cathedral to return thanks. How far this omission pleased Don Ferdinand does not appear, but at least he had espoused the fairest woman in Spain—after her mother—and he possessed her entire love.

Of Don Ferdinand, Shakespeare says, “The wisest monarch that ever ruled in Spain”; but the question is, how much of this “wisdom” was due to the far-seeing policy of his adoring wife and to the illustrious servants who so loyally carried out his will?