Виктория Холт - Daughters of Spain

The innkeeper took the money which was given him, and assured his honoured customer that his wishes should be carried out.

The Moor smiled pleasantly, went out to his horse and began the journey back to Granada.

Later that night the Count of Tendilla set out for Seville with his retinue. There was rejoicing in the Albaycin. The cunning of Ximenes would be foiled. Isabella and Ferdinand would first hear the story of the Moorish revolt from their friend, not from their enemy.

* * *

When Ferdinand heard from Tendilla what had happened in Granada his first feeling was of anger, then dismay, but these were later tinged with a faint satisfaction.

He lost no time in confronting Isabella.

‘Here is a fine state of affairs,’ he cried. ‘Revolt in Granada. All brought about through this man Ximenes. So we are to pay dear for the conduct of your Archbishop. That for which we fought for years has been endangered in a few hours by the rashness of this man whom you took from his humble station to make Archbishop of Toledo and Primate of Spain.’

Isabella was astounded by the news. She had taken great pride in maintaining the treaty. She had always been delighted to hear of the prosperity of her city of Granada, of the industry of the Moorish population and the manner in which they lived peaceably side by side with the Christians. She was overjoyed when she heard of the few conversions to Christianity which Talavera had brought about. But revolt in Granada! And Ximenes, her Archbishop – as Ferdinand always called him – was apparently at the very root of it.

‘We have not heard his side of the story …’ she began.

‘And why not?’ demanded Ferdinand. ‘Does your Archbishop think he may act without our sanction? He has not thought fit to inform us. Who are we? Merely the Sovereigns. It is Ximenes who rules Spain.’

‘I confess I am both alarmed and astonished,’ admitted Isabella.

‘I should think so, Madam. This is what comes of giving high office to those who are unable to fill it with dignity and responsibility.’

‘I shall write to him at once,’ said the Queen, ‘informing him of my displeasure and summoning him to our presence without delay.’

‘It would certainly be wise to recall him from Granada before we have a war on our hands.’

Isabella went to her table and began to write in the most severe terms, expressing her deep concern and anger that the Archbishop of Toledo should have so far forgotten his duty to his Sovereigns and his office as to have acted against the treaty of Granada and, having brought about such dire results, had not thought fit to tell his Sovereigns.

Ferdinand watched her, a slow smile curving his mouth. He was anxious as to the state of Granada, but he could not help feeling this pleasure. It was very gratifying to see his prophecies, concerning that upstart, coming true. How different it would have been if his own dear son Alfonso had graced the highest office in Spain.

* * *

Ximenes stood before the Sovereigns. His face was pale but he was as arrogant as ever.

There was no contrition at all, Ferdinand noticed in amazement. What sort of man was this? He had no fear whatsoever. He could be stripped of office and possessions and he would still flaunt his self-righteousness. He could be beaten, tortured, taken to the stake – still he would preserve that air of arrogance.

Even Ferdinand was slightly shaken as he looked at this man. As for Isabella, from the moment he had stood before her she was ready to listen sympathetically and to believe that what she had heard before had not been an accurate account.

‘I do not understand,’ began Isabella, ‘on what authority you have acted as you did in Granada.’

‘On that of God,’ was the answer.

Ferdinand made an impatient gesture but Isabella went on gently: ‘My lord Archbishop, did you not know that the Treaty of Granada lays down that the Moorish population should continue to worship as it wished?’

‘I did know this, Highness, but I thought it an evil treaty.’

‘Was that your concern?’ demanded Ferdinand with sarcasm.

‘It is always my concern to fight evil, Highness.’

Isabella asked: ‘If you wished to take these measures would it not have been wiser to have consulted us, to ask our permission to do so?’

‘It would have been most unwise,’ retorted Ximenes. ‘Your Highnesses would never have given that permission.’

‘This is monstrous!’ cried Ferdinand.

‘Wait, I beg of you,’ pleaded Isabella. ‘Let the Archbishop tell us his side of the story.’

‘It was necessary,’ continued Ximenes, ‘that action should be taken against these Infidels. Your Highness did not see fit to do so. In the name of the Faith I was forced to do it for you.’

‘And,’ fumed Ferdinand, ‘having done it, you did not even take the trouble to inform us.’

‘There you wrong me. I dispatched a messenger to you in all haste. He should have reached you before you received the news from any other. Unhappily my enemies waylaid him and intoxicated him so that he did not reach you … and then, having failed in his duty, was afraid to present himself either to you or to me.’

Isabella looked relieved. ‘I knew I could trust you to keep us informed, and the failure of your messenger to arrive was certainly no fault of yours.’

‘There is still this astonishing conduct, which led to revolt in Granada, to be explained,’ Ferdinand reminded them.

Then Ximenes turned to him and delivered one of those sermons of invective for which he was famous. He reminded them of the manner in which he had served God, the state, and themselves. He told them how much of the revenues of Toledo had gone into the work of proselytising. He hinted that both had been guilty of indifference to the Faith – Ferdinand in his desire for aggrandisement, Isabella in her affection for her family. Here he touched them both where they were most vulnerable. He made them feel guilty; slowly, with infinite cunning he turned the argument in his favour so that it was as though they were under an obligation to explain themselves to him, not he to them.

Ferdinand was saying to himself: I have found the need always to fight, to protect what is mine and to seek to make it safe; I have seen that only by adding to my possessions can I make Aragon safe.

And Isabella: Perhaps it is sin for a mother to love her children as I have done, to evade her duty in the desire to keep them with her.

Ximenes then came to the point up to which he was leading them.

‘It is true,’ he said, ‘that there was this Treaty of Granada. But the Moors in Granada have been in revolt against Your Highnesses. By so doing they have broken the treaty, the core of which was that both sides were to live in amity. It was they who rose against us. Therefore, since they have broken their word, there is no need for us to have any compunction in changing our attitude towards them.’

Subtly Ximenes reminded the Sovereigns of the expulsion of the Jews. Much of the property of these unfortunate Jews had enriched the state. The thought of that made Ferdinand’s eyes gleam. For Isabella’s sake he spoke of the great work that could be done in bringing these Infidels into the Christian fold.

Then he cried: ‘They have broken the treaty. You are under no obligation. Any means should be used to bring these poor lost souls to Christianity.’

Ximenes had won his battle. The Treaty of Granada was no more.

An almost benevolent expression was on Ximenes’s face. He was already making plans to bring the Moors of Granada to baptism. In a short time there should be what he called a truly Christian Granada.

Maria her sister Catalina were at the window watching the comings and goings to and from the Madrid Alcazar. The expression of each was intent; and in both cases their thoughts were on marriage.

Catalina could immediately recognise the English messengers, and on those occasions when she saw these men with their letters from their King to her parents she felt sick with anxiety. The Queen had told her that in each dispatch the King of England grew more and more impatient.

Then Catalina would cling to her mother wildly for a few seconds, holding back her tears; and although the Queen reproved her, there was, Catalina knew, a rough note in her voice which betrayed her own nearness to tears.

It cannot be long now, Catalina said to herself every morning. And each day which could be lived through without word from England was something for which she thanked the saints in her prayers at night.

Maria was different. She was as nearly excited as Catalina had ever seen her.

Now she chattered: ‘Catalina, can you see the Naples livery? Tell me if you do.’

Doesn’t she care that she will have to leave her home? wondered Catalina. But perhaps Naples did not seem so far away as England.

There was gossip throughout the Alcazar that the next marriage would either be that of Maria to the Duke of Calabria who was the heir of the King of Naples, or that of Catalina to the Prince of Wales.

Maria actually enjoyed talking of her prospective marriage.

‘I was afraid I was going to be forgotten,’ she explained. ‘There were husbands for everybody else and none for me. It seemed unfair.’

‘I should rejoice if they had found no husband for me,’ Catalina reminded her.

‘That is because you are so young. You cannot imagine anything but staying at home here with Mother all your life. That is quite impossible.’

‘I fear you are right.’

‘When you are as old as I am you will feel differently,’ Maria comforted her sister.

‘In three years’ time I shall be as old as you are now. I wonder what I shall be doing by then? Three years from now. That will be the year 1503. It’s a long way ahead. Look. There is a messenger. He comes from Flanders, I am sure.’

‘Then it will be news from our sister.’

‘Oh,’ said Catalina and fell silent. That which she feared next to news from England was news from Flanders, because news which came from that country had the power to make her mother so unhappy.

* * *

The girls were summoned to their parents’ presence. This was a ceremonial occasion. They were not the only ones in the big apartment. Their parents stood side by side, and Catalina knew immediately that some important announcement was about to be made.

In the Queen’s hand were the dispatches from Flanders.

It must concern Juana, thought Catalina; but there was no need to worry. Something had happened which made her mother very happy. As for her father, there was an air of jubilance about him.

Into the apartment came all the officers of state who were at that time resident in the Alcazar, and when they were all assembled a trumpeter who stood close to the King and Queen sounded a few notes.

There was silence throughout the room. Then Isabella spoke.

‘My friends, this day I have great news for you. My daughter Juana has given birth to a son.’

These words were followed by fanfares of triumph.

And then everyone in the room cried: ‘Long life to the Prince!’

* * *

Isabella and Ferdinand were alone at last.

Ferdinand’s face was flushed with pleasure. Isabella’s eyes were shining.

‘This, I trust,’ she said, ‘will have a sobering effect on our daughter.’

‘A son!’ cried Ferdinand. ‘What joy! The first born and a son.’

‘It will be good for her to be a mother,’ mused Isabella. ‘She will discover new responsibilities. It will steady her.’

Then she thought of her own mother and those uncanny scenes in the Castle of Arevalo when she had raved about the rights of her children. Isabella remembered that she had been at her most strange when she had feared that her children might not gain what she considered to be their rights.

But she would not think such thoughts. Juana was fertile. She had her son. That was a matter for the utmost rejoicing.

‘They are calling him Charles,’ murmured Isabella.

Ferdinand frowned. ‘A foreign name. There has never been a Charles in Spain.’

‘If this child became Emperor of the Austrians he would be their Charles the Fifth,’ said Isabella. ‘There have been other Charleses in Austria.’