E 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.”