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your father? It is the most important question in Castile.’
    ‘It is the answer that is important,’ said Joanna softly. ‘I would know, Mother. If I am not the King’s daughter, I think I should like to go into a convent like this and be quiet for a very long time.’
    ‘A convent life! That is no life at all!’
    ‘Mother, I beg of you, tell me.’
    ‘If I told you that Henry was your father what would you do?’
    ‘There is only one thing I could do, Mother. I should be the rightful Queen of Castile, and it would be my duty to take the throne.’
    ‘What of Isabella?’
    ‘She would have no alternative but to relinquish the throne.’
    ‘And do you think she would? You do not know Isabella, nor Ferdinand . . . nor all those men who are determined to uphold her.’
    ‘Mother, tell me the truth.’
    The Dowager Queen smiled. ‘I am weak,’ she said. ‘I will tell you later if I can. Yet, how could even I be sure? Sometimes I think you are like the King; sometimes you remind me of Beltran. Beltran was a handsome man, daughter. The handsomest at Court. And Henry . . . Oh, it seems so long ago. I look back into mists, my child. I cannot remember. I am so tired now. Sit still awhile and I will try to think. Give me your hand, Joanna. Later it will come back to me. Who . . . who is my Joanna’s father. Was it Henry? Was it Beltran?’
    Joanna knelt by the bedside and her eyes were imploring. ‘I must know, Mother. I must know.’
    But the Dowager Queen had closed her eyes, and her lips murmured:’ Henry, was it you? You, Beltran, was it you?’
    Then she slipped into sleep; her face was so white and still that Joanna thought she was already dead.

     
    The Dowager Queen of Castile had been laid in her tomb and Joanna remained in the convent. The bells were tolling and as she listened to their dismal notes she thought: I shall never know the answer now.
    The peace of the convent seemed to close in around her, sheltering her from the outside world in which a mighty storm was rising; it was a storm which she could not escape. It was for this reason that the peace of the convent seemed doubly entrancing.
    Each morning she thought to herself: Will this be the last day that I am allowed to enjoy this peace?
    And as the weeks passed she began to wonder whether she had been unnecessarily anxious. Isabella had been proclaimed in many towns of Castile as Queen. The people admired Isabella; she, with Ferdinand, was so suited to become their Queen. Perhaps the people of Castile did not wish for trouble any more than she did. Perhaps they would now be content to forget that Joanna, wife of Henry IV of Castile, had had a daughter who might or might not be the King’s.
    One day two noblemen came riding to the convent. They came on a secret mission and they wished for an audience with the Princess Joanna.
    As soon as they were brought to her and announced themselves as the Duke of Arevalo and the Marquis of Villena she knew that this was the end of her peace.
    They bowed low and humbly.
    ‘We have great news for you, Princess,’ they told her; and her heart sank, for she knew the purport of this news before they told her. She interpreted the ambitious glitter in their eyes.
    ‘Princess,’ said Arevalo, ‘we have come to tell you that you are not forgotten.’
    She lowered her eyes lest they should read in them that it was her dearest wish to be forgotten.
    ‘This is news to set Your Highness’s heart soaring with hope,’ went on Villena. ‘There is a powerful force behind us, and we shall succeed in turning the impostor Isabella from the throne and setting you up in her place.’
    ‘There is great news from Portugal,’ added Arevalo.
    ‘From Portugal?’ Joanna asked.
    ‘The King of Portugal, Alfonso V, asks your hand in marriage.’
    ‘My . . . mother’s brother!’
    ‘Have no fear. His Holiness will not withhold a dispensation if we can show him that we have the means to oust Isabella from the