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la Cueva, Duke of Albuquerque, was indeed her father she would make this widely known and in future refuse to allow anyone to insist on her right to the throne.
    It was a big undertaking for a twelve-year-old girl, and Joanna feared that she was not bold or very determined; but there must be some understanding if she were ever to live in peace.
    And, now that she was going to her mother’s establishment in Madrid, she trembled to think what she might discover there. She had heard whispers and rumours from her servants of the life her mother led in Madrid. When she had left the King she had kept a lavishly extravagant house where, it was said, parties of a scandalous nature frequently took place.
    Joanna had several brothers and sisters, she believed. They, however, were more fortunate than she was. They shared the stigma of illegitimacy, but nobody could suggest that they had even a remote claim to the throne.
    She was alarmed to contemplate what sort of house this was to which she was going; and as she, with her little company, rode along the valley of the Manzanares the plain which stretched about them seemed gloomy and full of foreboding. She turned her horse away from the distant Sierras towards the town, and as they entered it they were met by a party of riders.
    The man at the head of this party rode up to Joanna and, bowing his head, told her that he had been watchful for her coming.
    ‘I am to take you to the Queen, your mother, Princess,’ he told her. ‘She has gone to a convent in Madrid, and it would be advisable for you to join her there with all speed.’
    ‘My mother. . . in a convent!’ cried Joanna; for it was the last place in which she would expect to find her gay and frivolous mother.
    ‘She thought it wise to rest there awhile,’ was the answer. ‘You will find her changed.’
    ‘Why has my mother gone to this convent?’ she asked.
    ‘She will explain to you when you see her,’ was the answer.
    They rode into the town, and eventually they reached the convent. Here Joanna was received with great respect by the Mother Superior, who immediately said: ‘You are fatigued, Princess, but it would be well if you came to see the Queen without delay.’
    ‘Take me to her, I pray you,’ said Joanna.
    The Mother Superior led the way up a cold stone staircase to a cell, which contained little more than a bed and a crucifix on the wall; and here lay Joanna, Princess of Portugal, Queen to the late Henry IV of Castile.
    Joanna knelt by her mother’s bed, and the older Joanna smiled wanly. Kneeling there, the Princess knew that it was the approach of death which had driven her mother to repentance.

     
    Joanna sat by her mother’s bed.
    ‘So you see,’ said the Dowager Queen of Castile, ‘I have not long to live. Who would have thought that I should follow Henry so soon?’
    ‘Oh, my mother, if you live quietly, if you rest here, you may recover and live for many more years.’
    ‘No, my child. It is not possible. I am exhausted. I am worn out. I have lived my life fully, recklessly. Now the price is demanded for such a life. I am repentant, yet I fear that if I were young again, if I felt life stirring within me, I should find the temptation which beckoned me irresistible.’
    ‘You are too young to die, Mother.’
    ‘Yet my life has been full. I have had lovers . . . my child . . . so many lovers that I cannot recall a half of them. It was an exciting life . . . a life of pleasure. But now it ebbs away.’
    ‘Mother, Castile has paid dearly for your pleasure.’
    Over the Dowager Queen’s face there spread a smile of amusement and mischief.
    ‘I shall never be forgotten. I, the wayward Queen, had a hand in shaping the future of Castile, did I not?’
    Young Joanna shivered.
    ‘Mother, there is a question I must ask you. It is important that I know the truth. So much depends on it.’
    ‘I know what is on your mind, my child. You ask yourself the same question which all Castile asks. Who is