Daughters of Spain

Chapter I THE ROYAL FAMILY

Catalina knelt on a window-seat looking out from the Palace to the purple slopes and the snowy tips of the Sierra de Guadarrama.

It would soon be Easter and the sky was cobalt, but the plain stretching out before the mountains was of a tawny bleakness.

Catalina enjoyed studying the view from the nursery window. Out there the scene always seemed a little frightening. Perhaps this was because she, who had seen bitter fighting outside Granada when she was a few years younger, was always afraid that her parents’ rebellious subjects would rise again and cause distress to her beloved mother.

Here within the granite walls of the Madrid Alcazar there was a feeling of security, which was entirely due to the presence of her mother. Her father was also in residence at this time, so that they were a united family, all gathered together under this one roof.

What could be more pleasant? And yet even now her brother and sisters were talking of unpleasant matters, such as the marriages which they would have to make at some time.

‘Please,’ murmured Catalina to herself, ‘do not do it. We are all together. Let us forget that one day we may not be so happy.’

It was no use asking them. She was the youngest and only ten years old. They would laugh at her. Only her mother would have understood if she had spoken her thoughts, although she would immediately have reminded her daughter that duty must be faced with fortitude.

Juana, who was laughing in her wild manner as though she would not in the least mind going away, suddenly noticed her young sister.

‘Come here, Catalina,’ she commanded. ‘You must not feel left out. You shall have a husband too.’

‘I don’t want a husband.’

‘I know. I know.’ Juana mimicked her young sister: ‘I want to stay with my mother all the time. I only want to be the Queen’s dear daughter!’

‘Hush!’ said Isabella, who was the eldest and fifteen years older than Catalina. ‘You must curb your tongue, Juana. It is unseemly to talk of marriage before one has been arranged for you.’

Isabella spoke from knowledge. She had already been married and had lived in Portugal. Lucky Isabella, thought Catalina, for she had not remained long there. Her husband had died and she had come home again. She had done her duty but had not had to go on doing it for long. Catalina wondered why Isabella always seemed so sad. It was as though she regretted being brought back home, as though she still pined for her lost husband. How could any husband ever make up for the companionship of their mother, the delights of being all together and part of one big happy family?

‘If I wish to talk of marriage, I will,’ announced Juana. ‘I will, I tell you, I will!’ Juana stood up to her full height, tossing back her tawny hair, her eyes ablaze with that wildness which it was so easy to evoke. Catalina watched her sister in some trepidation. She was a little afraid of Juana’s moods. This was because she had often seen her mother look worried when her eyes rested on Juana.

Even the mighty Queen Isabella was anxious about her second daughter. And Catalina, whose feelings for her mother were close to idolatry, was conscious of every mood, every fear, and she passionately longed to share them.

‘One day,’ said the Princess Isabella, ‘Juana will learn that she has to obey.’

‘I may have to obey some people,’ cried Juana, ‘but not you, sister. Not you!’

Catalina began to pray silently. ‘Not a scene now … please, please, not a scene now when we’re so happy.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Juan who always tried to make peace, ‘Juana will have such an indulgent husband that she will always be able to do as she wishes.’

Juan’s beautiful face framed in fair hair was like that of an angel. The Queen’s favourite name for her only son was Angel. Catalina could well understand why. It was not only that Juan looked like an angel, he acted like one. Catalina wondered whether her mother loved Angel better than all the rest of them. Surely she must, for he was not only the heir to the crown but the most beautiful, gentle and kind person it was possible to know. He never sought to remind people of his important position; the servants loved to serve him and considered it a pleasure as well as an honour to be of his household. Now he, a seventeen-year-old boy, who, one would have thought, would have wished to be with companions of his own sex, hunting or at some sport or another, was here in the old nursery with his sisters – perhaps because he knew they liked to have him or, as Catalina did, he appreciated the pleasure of belonging to a family such as theirs.

Juana was smiling now; the idea of having an indulgent husband on whom she could impose her will pleased her.

Their sister Isabella watched them all a little sadly. What children they were! she was thinking. It was a pity they were all so much younger than she was. Her mother of course had had little time for childbearing in the early part of her reign. There had been the great war and so many state matters to occupy her; so it was not surprising that Juan, who was the next in the family, was eight years younger than herself.

Isabella wished they would not talk of marriage. It brought back such bitter memories. She saw herself five years ago, clinging to her mother even as Catalina did now, terrified because she must leave her home and go into Portugal to marry Alonso, heir of the crown of that country. Then the promise of a crown had held no charm for her. She had cried for her mother even as poor little Catalina undoubtedly would when her turn came.

But she had found her young husband as terrified of marriage as she was herself, and very soon a bond had grown between them which in its turn burgeoned into love – so deep, so bitter-sweet, so short-lived.

She told herself that she would be haunted for ever by the sight of the bearers carrying his poor broken body in from the forest. She thought of the new heir to the throne, the young Emanuel who had tried so hard to comfort her, who had told her that he loved her and who had invited her to forget her dead husband and marry him, to stay in Portugal, not to return, a sad widow, to her parents’ dominions, but to become the bride of her late husband’s cousin who was now heir to the King of Portugal.

She had turned shuddering from handsome Emanuel.

‘No,’ she had cried. ‘I wish never to marry again. I shall continue to think of Alonso … until I die.’

That had happened when she was twenty; and ever since she had kept her vow, although her mother sought to persuade her to change her mind; and her father, who was so much less patient, was growing increasingly irritated with her.

She shuddered at the thought of returning to Portugal as a bride. Memories would be too poignant to be borne.

She felt tears in her eyes, and looking up she saw the grave glance of little Catalina fixed upon her.

Poor Catalina, she thought, her turn will come. She will face it with courage – that much I know. But what of the others?

Thirteen-year-old Maria was working on a piece of embroidery. She was completely unruffled by this talk of marriage. Sometimes Isabella thought she was rather stupid, for whatever happened she showed little excitement or resentment, but merely accepted what came. Life would be much less difficult for Maria.

And Juana? It was wiser not to think of Juana. Juana would never suffer in silence.

Now the wild creature had leapt to her feet and held out her hand to Juan.

‘Come, let us dance, brother,’ she commanded. ‘Maria, take up your lute and play for us.’

Maria placidly put down her embroidery, took up the lute and played the first plaintive notes of a pavana.

The brother and sister danced together. They were well matched and there was only a year’s difference in their ages. But what a contrast they made! This thought occurred both to Isabella and Catalina. It was so marked and people often referred to it when they saw Juan and Juana together. Their names were so much alike; they were of the same height; but one would never have guessed that they were brother and sister.

Even Juana’s hair seemed to grow rebelliously from her forehead; that touch of auburn was like their mother’s yet it was more tawny in Juana’s, so that she looked like a young lioness; her great eyes were always restless; her mood could change in a second. Juana gave the impression of never being tranquil. Even in sleep she had the appearance of restlessness.

How different was Juan with his fair face which resembled that of angels. Now he danced with his sister because she asked him to, and he knew that the thoughts of marriage and the husband she might have, had excited her. The dance would calm her; her physical exertion would help to allay the excitement of her mind.

If Juan did not want to dance when he was asked to do so, he immediately changed his mind. That was characteristic of Juan. He had a rare quality in not only wishing to please others but in finding that their wishes became his own.

Catalina went back to the window-seat, and looked out once more at the plain and the mountains and the arrivals and departures.

She found her sister Isabella standing beside her. Isabella put an arm about her as Catalina turned to smile. She had felt in that moment a need to protect the child from the ills which could befall the daughters of the House of Spain. Memories of Alonso always made her feel like this. Later she would seek out her mother’s confessor and talk to him of her sorrow. She preferred to talk with him because he never gave her easy comfort, but scolded her as he would scourge himself if necessary; and the sight of his pale, emaciated face never failed to comfort her.

There were times when she longed to go into a convent and spend her life in prayer until death came to unite her with Alonso. If she were not a daughter of Spain that would have been possible.

‘Look,’ said Catalina, pointing to a gaunt figure in a Franciscan robe, ‘there is the Queen’s confessor.’

Isabella looked down at the man who with his companion was about to enter the Alcazar. She could not clearly see the emaciated features and the stern expression of the monk, but she was deeply aware of them.

‘I am glad he is here,’ she said.

‘Isabella, he … he frightens me a little.’

Isabella’s face grew sterner.’ You must never be afraid of good men, Catalina; and there is not a better man in Spain than Ximenes de Cisneros.’

In her apartments the Queen sat at her writing-table. Her expression was serene but it was no indication of her thoughts. She was about to perform an unpleasant duty and this was painful to her.

Here I am, she thought, with my family all about me. Spain is more prosperous than she has been for many a year; we now have a united Kingdom, a Christian Kingdom. In the past three years, since together Ferdinand and I conquered the last Moorish stronghold, the Christian flag has flown over every Spanish town. The explorer Christobal Colon has done good work and Spain has a growing Kingdom beyond the seas. As Queen I rejoice in my country’s prosperity. As a mother I know great happiness because at this moment I have my entire family with me under one roof. All should be well and yet …

She smiled at the man who was sitting watching her.

This was Ferdinand, her husband; a year younger than herself he was still a handsome man. If there was a certain craftiness in the eyes, Isabella had always refused to recognise it; if his features were touched with sensuality Isabella was ready to tell herself that he was indeed a man and she would not have him otherwise.

He was indeed a man – a brave soldier, a wily statesman; a man who loved little on this Earth as he loved gold and treasure. Yet he had affection to spare for his family. The children loved him. Not as they loved their mother of course. But, thought Isabella, it is the mother who bore them who is closer to them than any father could be. That was not the answer. Her children loved her because they were aware of the deeper devotion which came from her; they knew that, when their husbands were chosen, their father would rejoice at the material advantages those marriages would bring; his children’s happiness would rank only as secondary. But their mother, who would also wish grand marriages for them all, would suffer even as they did from the parting.

They loved their mother devotedly. They alone knew of the tenderness which was so often hidden beneath the serenity, for it was only for them that Queen Isabella would lift the veil with which she hid her true self from the world. Now she was staring at the document which lay on the table before her and she was deeply conscious of Ferdinand’s attention which was riveted on it.

They must speak of it. She knew that he was going to ask her outright to destroy it.

She was right. His mouth hardened and for a moment she could almost believe that he hated her. ‘So you intend to make this appointment?’ Isabella was stung by the coldness of the tone. No one could convey more hatred and contempt in his voice than Ferdinand.

‘I do, Ferdinand.’

‘There are times,’ went on Ferdinand, ‘when I wish you would listen to my advice.’

‘And how I wish that I could take it.’

Ferdinand made an impatient gesture. ‘It is simple enough. You take the document and tear it in two. That could be an end to the matter.’

He had leaned forward and would have taken it, but Isabella’s plump white hand was immediately spread across it, protecting it.

Ferdinand’s mouth was set in a stubborn line which made him look childish.

‘I am sorry, Ferdinand,’ said Isabella.

‘So once again you remind me that you are Queen of Castile. You will have your way. And so … you will give this … this upstart the highest post in Spain, when you might …’

‘Give it to one who deserves it far less,’ said the Queen gently; ‘your son … who is not my son.’

‘Isabella, you talk like some country wife. Alfonso is my son. I have never denied that fact. He was born when you and I were separated … as we were so often during those early days. I was young … hot blooded … and I found a mistress as young men will. You must understand.’

‘I have understood and forgiven, Ferdinand. But that does not mean that I can give your bastard the Archbishopric of Toledo.’

‘So you’re giving it to this half-starved monk … this simple man … this low …’

‘He is of good family, Ferdinand. It is true he is not royal. But at least he is the legitimate son of his father.’

Ferdinand brought his fist down on the table. ‘I am weary of these reproaches. It has nothing to do with Alfonso’s birth. Confess it. You wish to show me … as you have so often … that you are Queen of Castile and Castile is of greater importance to Spain than is Aragon; therefore you stand supreme.’

‘Oh Ferdinand, that has never been my wish. Castile … Aragon … what are they compared with Spain? Spain is now united. You are its King; I its Queen.’

‘But the Queen will bestow the Archbishopric of Toledo where she wishes.’

Isabella looked at him sadly.

‘Is that not so?’ he shouted.

‘Yes,’ said Isabella, ‘that is so.’

‘And this is your final decision on the matter?’

‘It is my final decision.’

‘Then I crave Your Highness’s permission to retire.’ Ferdinand’s voice was heavy with sarcasm.

‘Ferdinand, you know …’ But he would not wait. He was bowing now and strutting from the room.

Isabella remained at her table. This scene was reminiscent of so many which had occurred during their married life. There was this continual jostling for the superior position on Ferdinand’s part; as for herself, she longed to be the perfect wife and mother. It would have been so easy to have said: Have it your own way, Ferdinand. Give the Archbishopric where you will.

But that gay young son of his was not suited to this high post. There was only one man in Spain whom she believed to be worthy of it, and always she must think first of Spain. This was why she was now determined that the Franciscan Ximenes should be Primate of Spain, no matter how the appointment displeased Ferdinand.

She rose from the table and went to the door of the apartment.

‘Highness!’ Several of the attendants who had been waiting outside sprang to attention.

‘Go and discover whether Fray Francisco Ximenes de Cisneros is in the Palace. If he is, tell him that it is my wish that he present himself to me without delay.’

Fray Francisco Ximenes de Cisneros was praying silently as he approached the Palace. Beneath the rough serge of his habit the hair shirt irritated his skin. He took a fierce delight in this. He had eaten nothing but a few herbs and berries during his journey to Madrid from Ocaña, but he was accustomed to long abstinence from food.

His nephew, Francisco Ruiz, whom he loved as dearly as he could love anyone, and who was closer to him than his own brothers, glanced anxiously at him.

‘What,’ he asked, ‘do you think is the meaning of the Queen’s summons?’

‘My dear Francisco, as I shall shortly know, let us not waste our breath in conjecture.’

But Francisco Ruiz was excited. It had so happened that the great Cardinal Mendoza, who had occupied the highest post in Spain – that of the Archbishop of Toledo – had recently died and the office was vacant. Was it possible that such an honour was about to be bestowed on his uncle? Ximenes might declare himself uninterested in great honours, but there were some honours which would tempt the most devout of men.

And why not? Ruiz demanded of himself. The Queen thinks highly of her confessor – and rightly so. She can never have had such a worthy adviser since Torquemada himself heard her confessions. And she loves such men, men who are not afraid to speak their minds, men who are clearly indifferent to worldly riches.

Torquemada, suffering acutely from the gout, was now an old man with clearly very little time left to him. He was almost entirely confined to the monastery of Avila. Ximenes on the other hand was at the height of his mental powers.

Ruiz was certain that it was to bestow this great honour on his uncle that they were being thus recalled to Madrid.

As for Ximenes, try as he might, he could not thrust the thought from his mind.

Archbishop of Toledo! Primate of Spain! He could not understand this strange feeling which rose within him. There was so much about himself which he could not understand. He longed to suffer the greatest bodily torture, as Christ had suffered on the cross. And even as his body cried out for this treatment, a voice within him asked: ‘Why, Ximenes, is it because you cannot endure that any should be greater than yourself? None must bear pain more stoically. None must be more devout. Who are you, Ximenes? Are you a man? Are you a God?

‘Archbishop of Toledo,’ the voice gloated within him. ‘The power will be yours. You will be greater than any man under the Sovereigns. And the Sovereigns may be swayed by your influence. Have you not had charge of the Queen’s conscience; and is not the Queen the real ruler of Spain?

‘It is for your own vanity, Ximenes. You long to be the most powerful man in Spain; more powerful than Ferdinand whose great desire is to fill his coffers and extend his Kingdom. Greater than Torquemada who has set the holy fires scorching the limbs of heretics throughout the land. More powerful than any. Ximenes, Primate of Spain, the Queen’s right hand. Ruler of Spain?’

I shall not take this post if it is offered to me, he told himself.

He closed his eyes and began to pray for strength to refuse it, but it was as though the Devil spread the kingdoms of the Earth at his feet.

He swayed slightly. There was little nourishment in berries, and when he travelled he never took food or money with him. He relied on what he could find growing by the wayside, or the help from the people he met.

‘My Master did not carry bread and wine,’ he would say, ‘and though the birds had their nests and the foxes their lairs there was no place in which the Son of Man might lay his head.’

What his Master had done Ximenes must do also.

When they entered the Palace the Queen’s messenger immediately called to him.

‘Fray Francisco Ximenes de Cisneros?’

‘It is I,’ answered Ximenes. He felt a certain pride every time he heard his full title; he had not been christened Francisco but Gonzalo, and had changed his first name that he might bear the same one as the founder of the Order in which he served.

‘Her Highness Queen Isabella wishes you to wait upon her with all speed.’

‘I will go to her presence at once.’

Ruiz plucked at his sleeve. ‘Should you not wipe away the stains of the journey before presenting yourself to the Queen’s Highness?’

‘The Queen knows I have come on a journey. She will expect me to be travel-stained.’

Ruiz looked after his uncle in some dismay. The lean figure, the emaciated face with the pale skin tightly drawn across the bones were in great contrast to the looks of the previous Archbishop of Toledo, the late Mendoza, sensuous, good-natured epicure and lover of comfort and women.

Archbishop of Toledo! thought Ruiz. Surely it cannot be!

Isabella gave a smile of pleasure as her confessor entered the apartment.

She waved her hand to the attendant and they were alone.

‘I have brought you back from Ocaña,’ she said almost apologetically, ‘because I have news for you.’

‘What news has Your Highness for me?’

His manner lacked the obsequiousness with which Isabella was accustomed to being addressed by her subjects, but she did not protest. She admired her confessor because he was no great respecter of persons.

But for the truly holy life this man led, it might have been said that he was a man of great pride.

‘I think,’ said Isabella, ‘that this letter from His Holiness the Pope will explain.’ She turned to the table and took up that document which had caused such displeasure to Ferdinand, and put it into the hands of Ximenes.

‘Open it and read it,’ urged Isabella.

Ximenes obeyed. As he read the first words a change passed across his features. He did not grow more pale – that would have been impossible – but his mouth hardened and his eyes narrowed; for a few seconds a mighty battle was raging within his meagre frame.

The words danced before his eyes. They were in the handwriting of Pope Alexander VI himself, and they ran as follows:

‘To our beloved son, Fray Francisco Ximenes de Cisneros, Archbishop of Toledo …’

Isabella was waiting for him to fall on his knees and thank her for this great honour; but he did no such thing. He stood very still, staring before him, oblivious of the fact that he was in the presence of his Queen. He was only aware of the conflict within himself, the need to understand what real motives lay behind his feelings.

Power. Great power. It was his to take. For what purpose did he want power? He was unsure. He was as unsure as he had been years ago when he had lived as a hermit in the forest of Castañar.

Then it seemed to him that devils mocked him. ‘You long for power, Ximenes,’ they said. ‘You are a vain and sinful man. You are ambitious, and by that sin fell the angels.’

He put the paper on to the table and murmured: ‘There has been a mistake. This is not for me.’ Then he turned and strode from the room, leaving the astonished Queen staring after him.

Her bewilderment gave way to anger. Ximenes might be a holy man but he had forgotten the manner in which to behave before his Queen. But almost immediately her anger disappeared. He is a good man, she reminded herself. He is one of the few about me who do not seek personal advantage. This means he has refused this great honour. What other man in Spain would do this?

Isabella sent for her eldest daughter.

The young Isabella would have knelt before her mother but the Queen took her into her arms and held her tightly against her for a few seconds.

Holy Mother of God, thought the Princess, what can this mean? She is suffering for me. Is it a husband that I shall be forced to take? Is that why she is so sorry for me?

The Queen put the Princess from her and composed her features.

‘My dearest,’ she said, ‘you do not look as well as I would wish. How is your cough?’

‘I cough now and then, Highness, as I always have.’

‘Isabella, my child, now that we are alone together, let us throw aside all ceremony. Call me Mother. I love to hear the word on your lips.’

The Princess began: ‘Oh, my Mother …’ and then she was sobbing in the Queen’s arms.

‘There, my precious child,’ murmured Isabella. ‘You still think of him then? Is it that?’

‘I was so happy … happy. Mother, can you understand? I was so frightened at first, and when I found that … we loved … it was all so wonderful. We planned to live like that for the rest of our lives …’

The Queen did not speak; she went on stroking her daughter’s hair.

‘It was cruel … so cruel. He was so young. And when we went out into the forest that day it was like any other day. He was with me but ten minutes before it happened … laughing … with me. And then there he was …’

‘It was God’s will,’ said the Queen gently.

‘God’s will? To break a young body like that! Wantonly to take one so young, so full of life and love!’

The Queen’s face set into stern lines. ‘Your grief has unnerved you, my child. You forget your duty to God. If it is His wish to make us suffer we must accept suffering gladly.’

‘Gladly! I will never accept it gladly.’

The Queen hastily crossed herself, while her lips moved in prayer. Isabella thought: She is praying that I may be forgiven my wicked outburst. However much she suffered she would never give way to her feelings as I have done.

She was immediately contrite. ‘Oh, Mother, forgive me. I know not what I say. It is like that sometimes. The memories come back and then I fear …’

‘You must pray, my darling, for greater control. It is not God’s wish that you should shut yourself away from the world as you do.’

‘It is not my father’s wish, you mean?’ demanded Isabella.

‘Neither the wish of your heavenly nor your earthly father,’ murmured the Queen soothingly.

‘I would to God I could go into a convent. My life finished when his did.’

‘You are questioning the will of God. Had He wished you to end your life He would have taken you with your husband. This is your cross, my darling; think of Him and carry it as willingly as He carried His.’

‘He had only to die. I have to live.’

‘My dearest, have a care. I will double my prayers for you this night and every night. I fear your sufferings have affected your mind. But in time you will forget.’

‘It is four years since it happened, Mother. I have not forgotten yet.’

‘Four years! It seems long to you because you are young. To me it is like yesterday.’

‘To me it will always be as though his death happened yesterday.’

‘You must fight against such morbid thoughts, my darling. It is a sin to nurse a grief. I sent for you because I have news for you. Your father-in-law has died and there is a new King of Portugal.’

‘Alonso would have been King had he lived … and I his Queen.’

‘But he did not live, yet you could still be Queen of Portugal.’

‘Emanuel …’

‘My dear daughter, he renews his offer to you. Now that he has come to the throne he does not forget you. He is determined to have no wife but you.’

Emanuel! She remembered him well. Kindly, intelligent, he was more given to study than his gay young cousin Alonso had been; but she had known that he envied Alonso his bride. And now he was asking for her hand once more.

‘I would rather go into a nunnery.’

‘We might all feel tempted to do that which seems easier to us than our duty.’

‘Mother, you are not commanding me to marry Emanuel?’

‘You married once, by the command of your father and myself. I would not command you again; but I would have you consider your duty to your family … to Spain.’

Isabella clenched her hands tightly together. ‘Do you realise what you are asking of me? To go to Lisbon as I did for Alonso … and then to find Emanuel waiting for me and Alonso … dead.’

‘My child, pray for courage.’

‘I pray each day, Mother,’ she answered slowly. ‘But I cannot go back to Portugal. I can never be anything but Alonso’s widow as long as I live.’

The Queen sighed as she drew her daughter down to sit beside her; she put an arm about her and as she rested her face against her hair she was thinking: In time she will be persuaded to go to Portugal and marry Emanuel. We must all do our duty; and though we rebel for a while it avails us little.

Ferdinand looked up as the Queen entered. He smiled at her and his expression was slightly sardonic. It amused him that the Franciscan monk who, in his opinion so foolishly, had been offered the Archbishopric of Toledo, should merely have fled at the sight of his title in the Pope’s handwriting. This should teach Isabella to think before bestowing great titles on the unworthy. The fellow was uncouth. A pleasant prospect! The Primate of Spain a monk who was more at home in a hermit’s hut than a royal Palace. Whereas his dear Alfonso – so handsome, so dashing – what a Primate he would have made! And if he were unsure at any time, his father would have been at hand to help him.

Ferdinand could never look at his son Alfonso without remembering voluptuous nights spent with his mother. What a woman! And her son was worthy of her.

Fond as he was of young Juan he almost wished that Alfonso was his legitimate son. There was an air of delicacy about Juan, whereas Alfonso was all virility. Ferdinand could be sure that this bastard of his knew how to make the most of his youth, even as his father had done.

It was maddening to think that he could not give him Toledo. What a gift that would have been from father to son.

Still, he did not despair. Isabella might admit her folly now that the monk had run away.

‘I have spoken to Isabella,’ said the Queen.

‘I hope she realises her great good fortune.’

‘She does not call it such, Ferdinand.’

‘What! Here’s Emanuel ready to do a great deal for her.’

‘Poor child; can you expect her to enjoy returning to the place where she has once been so happy?’

‘She’ll be happy there again.’

Isabella studied her husband quizzically. Ferdinand would be happy were he in his daughter’s place. Such a marriage would mean to him a kingdom. He could not see that it made much difference that the bridegroom would be Emanuel instead of Alonso.

The Queen stifled the sorrow which such a thought roused. It was not for her to feel regrets; she was entirely satisfied with her fate.

‘You made our wishes known to her, I hope?’ went on Ferdinand.

‘I could not command her, Ferdinand. The wound has not yet healed.’

Ferdinand sat down at the polished wood table and beat his fist on it. ‘I understand not such talk,’ he said. ‘The alliance with Portugal is necessary for Spain. Emanuel wants it. It can bring us great good.’

‘Give her a little time,’ murmured Isabella; but in such a way that Ferdinand knew that, whatever he wished, their daughter would be given a little time.

He sighed. ‘We are fortunate in our children, Isabella,’ he said. ‘Through them we shall accomplish greatness for Spain. I would we had many more. Ah, if we could have been together more during those early years of our marriage …’

‘Doubtless you would have had more legitimate sons and daughters,’ agreed Isabella.

Ferdinand smiled slyly, but this was not the moment to bring up the matter of Alfonso and the Archbishopric of Toledo.

Instead he said: ‘Maximilian is interested in my proposals.’

Isabella nodded sadly. At such times she forgot she was ruler of a great and expanding country; she could only think of herself as a mother.

‘They are young yet …’ she began.

‘Young! Juan and Juana are ready for marriage. As for our eldest, she has had time enough in which to play the widow.’

‘Tell me what you have heard from Maximilian.’

‘Maximilian is willing for Philip to have Juana and for Juan to have Margaret.’

‘They would be two of the grandest marriages we could arrange for our children,’ mused Isabella. ‘But I feel that Juana is as yet too young … too unsteady.’

‘She will soon be too old, my dear; and she will never be anything but unsteady. No, the time is now. I propose to go ahead with my plans. We will tell them what we propose. There is no need to look gloomy. I’ll warrant Juana will be excited at the prospect. As for your angel son, he’ll not have to leave his mother’s side. The Archduchess Margaret will come to Juan. So it is only your poor unsteady Juana who will have to go away.’

‘I wish we could persuade Philip to come here … to live here.’

‘What, Maximilian’s heir! Oh, these are great matches, these marriages of our son and daughter to Maximilian’s. Have you realised that Philip’s and Juana’s offspring will hold the harbours of Flanders, and in addition will own Burgundy and Luxembourg, to say nothing of Artois and Franche Comté? I would like to see the face of the King of France when he hears of this match. And when Isabella marries Emanuel we shall be able to relax our defences on the Portuguese frontier. Oh yes, I should like to see the French King’s face.’

‘What do you know of Maximilian’s children … Philip and Margaret?’

‘Nothing but good. Nothing but good.’ Ferdinand was rubbing his hands together and his eyes gleamed.

Isabella nodded slowly. Ferdinand was right, of course. Both Juan and Juana were due for marriage. She was allowing the mother to subdue the Queen when she made wild plans to keep her children with her for ever.

Ferdinand had begun to laugh. ‘Philip will inherit the Imperial crown. The house of Habsburg will be bound to us. France’s Italian projects will have little success when the German dominions stand with us against them.’

He is always a statesman first, thought Isabella, a father second. To him Philip and Margaret are not two human beings – they are the House of Habsburg and the German Dominions. But she had to admit that his plan was brilliant. Their empire overseas was growing, thanks to their brilliant explorers and adventurers. But Ferdinand’s dream had always been of conquests nearer home. He planned to be master of Europe; and why should he not be? Perhaps he would be master of the world.

He was the most ambitious man she had ever known. She had watched his love of power grow with the years. Now she asked herself uneasily whether this had happened because she had found it necessary so often to remind him that she was the Queen of Castile, and in Castile her word should be law. Had his amour propre been wounded to such a degree that he had determined to be master of all the world outside Castile?

She said: ‘If these marriages were made it would seem that all Europe would be your friend with the exception of that little island – that pugnacious, interfering little island.’

Ferdinand kept his eyes on her face as he murmured: ‘You refer to England, do you not, my Queen. I agree with you. That little island can be one of the greatest trouble spots. But I have not forgotten England. Henry Tudor has two sons, Arthur and Henry. It is my desire to marry Arthur, Prince of Wales, to our own little Catalina. Then, my dear, the whole of Europe will be bound to me. And what will the King of France do then? Tell me that.’

‘Catalina! She is but a child.’

‘Arthur is young also. This will be an ideal match.’

Isabella covered her face with her hands.

‘What is the matter with you?’ demanded her husband. ‘Will you not congratulate your children on having a father who makes such good matches for them?’

Isabella could not speak for a moment. She was thinking of Juana – wild Juana whose spirits no amount of discipline had been able to subdue – of Juana’s being torn from her and sent to the flat, desolate land of Flanders, there to be wife of a man whom she had never seen but who was so suitable because he was the heir of the Habsburgs. But chiefly she thought of Catalina … tender little Catalina … taken from her family to be the bride of a foreign Prince, to live her life in a bleak island where, if reports were true, the sun rarely shone, and the land was frequently shrouded in mists.

It had to come, she told, herself. I always knew it. But that does not make it any easier to bear now that it is upon me.

The Queen had finished her confession and Ximenes enumerated her penances. She was guilty of allowing her personal feelings to interfere with her duty. It was a weakness of which she had been guilty before. The Queen must forget she is a mother.

Isabella meekly accepted the reproaches of her confessor. He would never stray from the path of duty, she was sure. She looked at his emaciated face, his stern straight lips which she had never seen curved in a smile.

You are a good man, Ximenes, she was thinking; but it is easier for you who have never had children. When I think of my little Catalina’s eyes fixed upon me I seem to hear her pleading with me: Don’t send me away. I do not want to go to that island of fogs and rains. I shall hate Prince Arthur and he will hate me. And for you, Mother, I have a love such as can never be given to any other person.

‘I know, my love, I know,’ Isabella whispered. ‘If it were in my power …’

But her thoughts were straying from her sins and, before she had earned forgiveness, she was falling into temptation once more.

When she next saw Catalina she would remind the child of her duty.

She rose from her knees. Now she was no longer a penitent but the Queen. Regality fell like a cloak about her and she frowned as her eyes rested on the monk.

‘My friend,’ she said, ‘you still refuse the honour I would give you. How much longer will you hold out?’

‘Your Highness,’ answered Ximenes, ‘I could not take office for which I felt myself to be unfitted.’

‘Nonsense, Ximenes, you know that the position fits you as a glove. I could command you to accept, you know.’

‘If Your Highness should adopt such a measure there would be nothing for me to do but retire to my hut in the forest of Castañar.’

‘I believe that is what you wish to do.’

‘I think I am more suited to be a hermit than a courtier.’

‘We do not ask you to be a courtier, Ximenes, but Archbishop of Toledo.’

‘They are one and the same, Your Highness.’

‘If you took the office I am sure they would be quite different.’ Isabella smiled serenely. She was certain that within the next few days Ximenes would accept the Archbishopric of Toledo.

She dismissed him and he went back to the small chamber which he occupied in the Palace. It was like a monk’s cell. There was straw on the floor; this was his bed, and his pillow was a log of wood. There would be no fire in this room whatever the weather.

It was said in the Palace: Fray Francisco Ximenes enjoys punishing himself.

As he entered this cell-like apartment he found a Franciscan monk awaiting him there and, as the hood of this newcomer fell back, Ximenes saw that his visitor was his own brother Bernardín.

The grim face of Ximenes was as near to expressing pleasure as it could be. It delighted him that Bernardín had entered the Franciscan brotherhood. Bernardín had been a wild boy and the last thing to have been expected of him was that he should enter the Order.

‘Why, brother,’ he said, ‘well met. What do you do here?’

‘I come to pay a call on you. I hear that you are highly thought of at Court.’

‘The man who is highly thought of at Court one day is often in disgrace the next.’

‘But you are not in disgrace. Is it true that you are to be Archbishop of Toledo?’

Bernardín’s eyes sparkled with pleasure, but Ximenes said quickly: ‘You have been misinformed. I am not to be Archbishop of Toledo.’

‘It can’t be true that the post has been offered to you and you refused it! You wouldn’t be such a fool.’

‘I have refused it.’

‘Ximenes! You … idiot! You crass … stupid …’

‘Have done. What do you know of these matters?’

‘Only what good you could have brought to your family if you had become the most important man in Spain.’

‘I feared they had not made a monk of you, Bernardín. Tell me, what advantages should a good Franciscan hope for from the most important man in Spain?’

‘You don’t expect an answer to such a stupid question. Any man would hope for the highest honours. Whom should an Archbishop honour if not his own family?’

‘Is this my brother speaking?’

‘Don’t be an old hypocrite!’ burst out Bernardín. ‘Do you think you can hide your true feelings from me? You’ve refused this, have you not? Why? So that you can be pressed more strongly. You’ll take it. And then, when you see what power is yours, perhaps you’ll give a little something to a needy fellow Franciscan who also happens to be your own brother.’

‘I should prefer you to leave me,’ said Ximenes. ‘I do not like the way you talk.’

‘Oh, what a fool I have for a brother!’ wailed Bernardín. His expression changed suddenly. ‘You have forgotten, have you not, that there are so many wrongs that you can put right. Why, even within our own Order there is much that you dislike. Some of our fellows love luxury too much. You would like to see us all tormenting our bodies with our hair shirts; you would like to see us all using planks as our pillows; starvation should be our lot. Well, it is in your power to bring all these discomforts to us, oh holy brother.’

‘Get you gone,’ cried Ximenes. ‘You are no brother of mine … nay, even though our mother bore us both and you wear the habit of the Franciscans.’

Bernardín bowed ironically. ‘Even though you are a hypocrite, even though you are so holy that you will not take the honours which would enable you to help your family, it is not a bad thing to be the brother of Francisco Ximenes de Cisneros. Men already are wary how they treat me, and seek my favour.’ Bernardín came closer to his brother and whispered: ‘They all know that in good time you will not be able to resist this honour. They all know that I, Bernardín de Cisneros, will one day be the brother of the Archbishop of Toledo.’

‘They shall not have that gratification,’ Ximenes told him.

Bernardín laughed slyly and left his brother. When he was alone Ximenes fell to his knees and began to pray. The temptation was very great.

‘Oh Lord,’ he murmured, ‘if I accepted this great honour there are so many reforms I could bring about. I would work in Thy name. I would work for Thy glory and for that of Spain. Might it not be my duty to accept this honour?

‘No, no,’ he admonished himself. ‘It is temporal power which you are seeking. You want to wear the robes of the Archbishop, to see the people kneel before you.’

But that was not true.

What did he want? He did not know.

‘I will never accept the Archbishopric of Toledo!’ he said aloud.

It was but a few days later when he was summoned to the Queen’s apartment.

Isabella received him with a gracious smile which held a hint of triumph.

She put a document into his hand. ‘It is for you, Fray Francisco Ximenes,’ she said. ‘You will see it is from His Holiness and addressed to you.’

Once more the Pope had addressed Ximenes as Archbishop of Toledo, and this document contained direct instructions from Rome.

There must be no more refusals. Alexander VI wrote from the Vatican that Fray Francisco Ximenes de Cisneros was henceforth Archbishop of Toledo, and any refusal on his part to accept the post would be regarded as disobedience to the Holy See.

The decision had been made for him.

Ximenes wondered whether the feeling he experienced was exultation. The Kingdoms of the world were no longer merely shown to him. He was forced by the Holy Father himself to accept his destiny.

Isabella sat with her children. Whenever she could spare the time from her state duties she liked to be with them, and it was comforting to know that they enjoyed this intimacy as she did.

Juan put a shawl about her shoulders. ‘There is a draught coming from the window, dear Mother.’

‘Thank you, Angel.’ She offered a silent prayer of thankfulness because, whoever else was taken from her, Angel would always be near.

Catalina was leaning against her knee, dreamily happy. Poor defenceless little Catalina, who was the baby. Isabella remembered well the day the child had been born, a miserably cold December day in Alcalá de Henares. Little did she think then that this, her fifth child, would be her last.

Juana could not cease chattering. ‘Mother, what are the women like in Flanders? They have golden hair, I hear … most of them. They are big women with great breasts.’

‘Hush, hush!’ said the Princess Isabella. She was sitting on her stool, her fingers caressing her rosary. The Queen believed she had been praying. She was constantly praying. And for what? A miracle which would bring her young husband back to life? Was she praying that she would not have to leave home and go once more as a bride to Portugal? Perhaps that would be as much a miracle as the return to life of Alonso would have been.

‘But,’ cried Juana, ‘the Queen said there was to be no ceremony. There never is ceremony when we are together thus.’

‘That is so, my daughter,’ said the Queen. ‘But it is not seemly to discuss the size of the breasts of the women in your future husband’s country.’

‘But Mother, why not? Those women might be of the utmost importance to me.’

Has she been hearing tales of this handsome philanderer who is to be her husband? the Queen wondered. How could she? Has she second sight? What strangeness is this in my Juana? How like her grandmother she grows … so like that I never look at her without feeling this fear twining itself about my heart like ivy about a tree … strangling my contentment.

‘You should listen to your sister, Juana,’ the Queen said. ‘She is older than you and therefore it is very possible that she is wiser.’

Juana snapped her fingers. ‘Philip will be a greater King than Alonso ever could have been … or Emanuel will be.’

The younger Isabella had risen to her feet; the Queen noticed how she clenched her hands, and the colour flooded into her pale cheeks.

‘Be silent, Juana,’ commanded the Queen.

‘I will not. I will not.’ Juana had begun to dance round the room while the others watched her in dismay. None of them would have dreamed of disobeying the Queen. Juana must be bordering on one of her odd moods or she would not have dared.

The Queen’s heart had begun to beat wildly but she smiled, outwardly serene. ‘We will ignore Juana,’ she said, ‘until she has learned her manners. Well, Angel, so soon you are to be a husband.’

‘I hope I shall be a satisfactory one,’ he murmured.

‘You will be the most satisfactory husband there ever was,’ said Catalina. ‘Will he not, Mother?’

‘I believe he will,’ answered the Queen.

Juana had danced up to them. She had flung herself at her mother’s feet and now lay on her stomach, propping her face in her hands.

‘Mother, when shall I sail? When shall I sail for Flanders?’

The Queen ignored her and, turning to Catalina, she said: ‘You are looking forward to the festivities of your brother’s wedding, eh, my child?’

Juana had begun to beat her fist on the floor. ‘Mother, when … when …?’

‘When you have apologised to your sister for what you have said, we shall be ready to talk to you.’

Juana frowned. She glared at Isabella and said: ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Philip will be as great a King as Alonso would have been if he had lived. And I’ll be as good a Queen as you would have been if Alonso’s horse had not kicked him to death.’

The Princess Isabella gave a little cry as she went to the window.

‘My dear child,’ the Queen patiently said to her wild daughter, ‘you must learn to put yourself into the place of others, consider what you are about to say and ask yourself how you would feel if it were being said to you.’

Juana’s face crinkled up and she burst out: ‘It is no use, Mother. I could never be like Isabella. I don’t think Philip could ever be like Alonso either.’

‘Come here,’ said the Queen and Juana came to her mother. The Queen put her arms about this daughter who had caused her many a sleepless night. How can I part with her? she asked herself. What will happen to her in a strange country where there will be no one to understand her as I do?

‘Juana,’ she said, ‘I want you to be calm. Soon you will be going among people who do not know you as we do. They may not make allowances as we do. Soon you will be travelling to Flanders with a great fleet of ships. There you will meet your husband Philip, and the ships which take you to him will bring his sister Margaret home for Juan.’

‘I shall be left behind in Flanders where the women have big breasts … and Philip will be my husband. He will be a great ruler, will he not, Mother … greater than Father. Is that possible?’

‘It is only at the end of a ruler’s life that his greatness can be judged,’ murmured the Queen. Her eyes were on her eldest daughter and she knew by the rigid position of her body that she was fighting back her tears.

She took Juana’s hand and said: ‘There is much you will have to be taught before you go away. It is regrettable that you cannot be as calm as your brother.’

Catalina spoke then. ‘But Mother, it is easy for Angel to be calm. He is not going away. His bride will come here for him.’

The Queen looked down at the solemn little face of her youngest daughter; and she knew then that the parting with Catalina was going to be the most heartbreaking of them all.

I will not tell her just yet that she is to go to England, she mused. It will be years before she must leave us. There is no point in telling her now.

Ferdinand came into the room and the effect of his presence was immediate. He could not even regard his children without betraying his thoughts of the brilliant future he had planned for them. Now, as his eldest daughter came first to greet him, the Queen knew that he saw her as the link to friendship with Portugal … a peaceful frontier which would enable him to continue with greater ease his battles against his old enemies, the French. Now Juan – and Juana. The Habsburg alliance. And Maria. He scarcely glanced her way, for no grand schemes for a profitable alliance had yet formed in his mind regarding her.

The Queen put her hand on Catalina’s arm, as though to protect her. Poor little Catalina! She would mean to her father friendship with England. She had been chosen as the bride of Arthur, Prince of Wales, because she was only a year older than he was, and therefore more suitable than Maria who was four years Arthur’s senior.

Ferdinand surveyed his family. ‘I see you merry,’ he said.

Merry! thought the Queen. My poor Isabella with the grief on her face; the resignation of my Angel; the wildness of Juana; the ignorance of Catalina. Is that merriment?

‘Well,’ went on Ferdinand, ‘you have good reason to be!’

‘Juana is eager to learn all she can about Flanders,’ the Queen said.

‘That is well. That is well. You must all be worthy of your good fortune. Isabella is fortunate. She knows Portugal well. How singularly blessed is my eldest daughter. She thought to lose the crown of Portugal and finds it miraculously restored to her.’

The Princess Isabella said: ‘I cannot return to Portugal, Father. I could not …’ She stopped, and there was a short but horrified silence in the room. It was clear that in a few moments the Princess Isabella was going to commit the terrible indiscretion of weeping before the King and Queen.

The Queen said gently: ‘You have our leave to retire, daughter.’ Isabella threw her mother a grateful glance and curtsied.

‘But first …’ Ferdinand was beginning.

‘Go now, my dear,’ interrupted the Queen firmly, and she did not look at the angry lights which immediately shot up in Ferdinand’s eyes.

For the sake of her children, as for her country, Isabella was ready to face the wrath of her husband.

Ferdinand burst out: ‘It is time that girl was married. The life she leads here is unnatural. She is continually at her prayers. What does she pray for? Convent walls! She should be praying for children!’

The children were subdued with the exception of Juana, in whom any conflict aroused excitement.

‘I am praying for children already, Father,’ she cried.

‘Juana,’ warned her mother; but Ferdinand gave a low laugh.

‘That’s well enough. You cannot start your prayers too early. And what of my youngest daughter? Is she eager to learn the manners of England?’

Catalina was staring at her father in frank bewilderment.

‘Eh, child?’ he went on, looking at her lovingly. Little Catalina, the youngest, only ten years old – and yet so important to her father’s schemes.

Isabella had drawn her little daughter close to her. ‘Our youngest daughter’s marriage is years away,’ she said. ‘Why, Catalina need not think of England for many a year.’

‘It will not be so long,’ declared Ferdinand. ‘Henry is an impatient man. He might even ask that she be educated over there. He’ll be wanting to turn her into a little Englishwoman at the earliest possible moment.’

Isabella felt the tremor run through her daughter’s body. She wondered what she could do to appease her. That it should have been broken like this! There were times when she had to restrain her anger against this husband who could be so impetuous in some matters, so cold blooded in others.

Could he not see the stricken look in the child’s face now? Could he not understand its meaning?

‘I have a little matter to discuss with your mother,’ he went on. ‘You may all leave us.’

The children came forward in order of seniority and took their leave of their parents. The coming of Ferdinand into the apartment had brought with it the return of ceremony.

Little Catalina was last. Isabella leaned towards her and patted her cheek. Those big dark eyes were bewildered; and the fear was already beginning to show in them.

‘I will come to you later, my child,’ whispered the Queen, and for a moment the fear lifted. It was as it had been in the days of the child’s extreme youth when she had suffered some slight pain. ‘Mother will come and make it well.’ It was always so with Catalina. Her mother’s presence had such an effect on her that its comfort could always soothe her pain.

Ferdinand was smiling the crafty smile which indicated that he had some fresh scheme afoot and was congratulating himself on its shrewdness.

‘Ferdinand,’ said Isabella when they were alone, ‘that is the first indication that Catalina has had that she is to go to England.’

‘Is that so?’

‘It was a shock to her.’

‘H’m. She’ll be Queen of England one day. I can scarcely wait to get those marriages performed. When I think of the great good which can come to our country through these alliances I thank God that I have five children and wish I had five more. But it was not of this that I came to speak to you. This man Ximenes … this Archbishop of yours …’

‘And yours, Ferdinand.’

‘Mine! I’d never give my consent to setting up a humble monk in the highest office in Spain. It has occurred to me that, as a humble man who will suddenly find himself a very rich one, he will not know how to manage great riches.’

‘You can depend upon it, he will not change his mode of life. He will give more to the poor, I’ll swear, and I believe it has always been a great dream of his to build a University at Alcalá and to compile a polyglot Bible.’

Ferdinand made an impatient gesture. There came into his eyes that acquisitive gleam which Isabella now knew so well and which told her that he was thinking of the rich revenues of Toledo, and she guessed that he had some scheme for diverting them from the Archbishop to himself.

‘Such a man,’ said Ferdinand, ‘would not know what to do with such a fortune. It would embarrass him. He prefers to live his hermit’s life. Why should we prevent him? I am going to offer him two or three cuentos a year for his personal expenses, and I do not see why the rest of the revenues of Toledo should not be used for the good of the country generally.’

Isabella was silent.

‘Well?’ demanded Ferdinand impatiently.

‘Have you put this matter before the Archbishop?’ she asked.

‘I thought it would be wiser if we did so together. I have sent for him to come to us. He should be here very shortly. I shall expect you to support me in this.’

Isabella did not speak. She was thinking: I shall soon need to oppose him with regard to Catalina. I shall not allow him to send my daughter away from home for some years. We must not continually pull one against the other. The Archbishop, I am sure, is more able to fight his battles than my little Catalina.

‘Well?’ repeated Ferdinand.

‘I will see the Archbishop with you and hear what he has to say on this matter.’

‘I need money … badly,’ went on Ferdinand. ‘If I am going to pursue the Italian wars with any success I must have more men and arms. If we are not to suffer defeat at the hands of the French …’

‘I know,’ said Isabella. ‘The question is, is this the right way to get the money you need?’

‘Any way to get the money for such a purpose is the right way,’ Ferdinand sternly told her.

It was shortly afterwards when Ximenes came to the apartment.

‘Ah, Archbishop!’ Ferdinand stressed the title almost ironically. Anyone looking less like an Archbishop there could not possibly be. Why, in the day of Mendoza the title had carried much dignity. Isabella was a fool to have bestowed it on a half-starved holy man.

‘Your Highnesses,’ murmured Ximenes, making obeisance before them.

‘His Highness the King has a suggestion to make to you, Ximenes,’ said the Queen.

The pale eyes were turned on Ferdinand, and even he felt a little disturbed by their cold stare. It was disconcerting to come face to face with someone who was not in fear of one. There was nothing this man feared. You could strip him of office and he would shrug his shoulders; you could take him to the faggots and set them alight and he would delight in his agony. Yes, it was certainly disturbing for a King, before whom men trembled, to find one so careless of his authority as Ximenes.

‘Ah,’ Ferdinand was blustering in spite of himself, ‘the Queen and I have been speaking of you. You are clearly a man of simple tastes, and you find yourself burdened with great revenues. We have decided that you shall not be burdened with these. We propose to take them from you and administer them for the good of the country. You shall receive an adequate allowance for your household and personal expenses …’

Ferdinand stopped, for Ximenes had lifted a hand as though demanding silence; he might have been the sovereign and Ferdinand his subject.

‘Your Highness,’ said Ximenes, addressing himself to Ferdinand, for he knew that this was entirely his idea, ‘I will tell you this. It was with great reluctance that I accepted my Archbishopric. Nothing but the express orders of the Holy Father could induce me to do so. But I have accepted it. Therefore I will do my duty as I see it should be done. I know that I shall need these resources if I am to care for the souls in my charge. And I must say this without more ado: If I remain in this post I and my Church must be free; and what is mine must be left to my jurisdiction, in much the same way as Your Highness has charge of your kingdoms.’

Ferdinand’s face was white with anger. He said: ‘I had thought that your mind was on holy matters, Archbishop, but it seems it is not unaffected by your revenues.’

‘My mind is on my duty, Your Highness. If you persist in taking the revenues of Toledo you must also remove its Archbishop from his post. What has Her Highness the Queen to say of this matter?’

Isabella said quietly: ‘It must be as you wish, Archbishop. We must find other means for meeting the requirements of the state.’

Ximenes bowed. ‘Have I your leave to retire, Your Highnesses?’

‘You have our leave,’ answered Isabella.

When he had gone she waited for the storm to break. Ferdinand had gone to the window; his fists were clenched and she knew that he was fighting to control his anger.

‘I am sorry, Ferdinand,’ she said, ‘but you cannot rob him of his rights. The revenues are his; you cannot take them merely because he is a man of holy habits.’

Ferdinand turned and faced her. ‘Once again, Madam,’ he said, ‘you give an example of your determination to thwart and flout me.’

‘When I do not fall in with your wishes it is always with the utmost regret.’

Ferdinand bit his lips to hold back the words which were struggling to be spoken. She was right, of course. She was indeed happy when they were in agreement. It was her perpetual conscience which came between them. ‘Holy Mother,’ he murmured, ‘why did you give me such a good woman for my wife? Her eternal conscience, her devotion to duty, even when it is opposed to our good, is the cause of continual friction between us.’

It was no use being angry with Isabella. She was as she always had been.

He said in such a low voice that she could scarcely hear him: ‘That man and I will be enemies as long as we live.’

‘No, Ferdinand,’ pleaded Isabella. ‘That must not be. You both wish to serve Spain. Let that be a bond between you. What does it matter if you look at your duty from different angles when the object is the same?’

‘He is insolent, this Archbishop of Toledo!’

‘You must not blame Ximenes because he was chosen instead of your natural son, Ferdinand.’

Ferdinand snapped his fingers. ‘That! That is forgotten. Have I not grown accustomed to seeing my wishes disregarded? It is the man himself … the holy man, who starves himself … and walks the Palace in his grubby serge. I think of Mendoza’s day …’

‘Mendoza is dead now, Ferdinand. This is the day of Ximenes.’

‘The pity of it!’ murmured Ferdinand; and Isabella was wondering how she was going to keep her husband and her Archbishop from crossing each other’s paths.

But her mind was not really on Ximenes, nor on Ferdinand. From the moment Catalina had left the apartment with her brother and sisters she had been thinking of the child.

She must go to her without delay. She must explain to her that marriage into England was a long way off.

‘I do not believe,’ said Ferdinand, ‘that you are giving me your attention.’

‘I was thinking of our daughter, of Catalina. I am going to her now to tell her that I shall not allow her to leave us until she is much older.’

‘Do not make rash promises.’

‘I shall make none,’ said Isabella. ‘But I must comfort her. I know how badly she needs such comfort.’

With that she left him, frustrated as he so often was, admiring her as he had such reason for doing, realising that although she often exasperated him beyond endurance he owed a great deal to her of what was his.

He thought ruefully that she would seek to protect Catalina from his marriage plans in the same way as she had stubbornly refused to give Toledo to his son Alfonso. Yet he was bound to her as she was to him. They were one; they were Spain.

Isabella was thinking only of her daughter as she hastened to the children’s apartments. It was as she had expected: Catalina was alone. The child lay on her bed and her face was buried in the pillows as though, thought Isabella tenderly, by hiding her eyes she need not see what was too unpleasant to be borne.

‘My little one,’ whispered the Queen.

Catalina turned, and her face was illumined with sudden joy.

Isabella lay down and took the child in her arms. For a few moments Catalina clung childishly to her mother as though by doing so she could bind them together for ever.

‘I did not mean you to know for a long, long time,’ whispered the Queen.

‘Mother … when shall I go away from you?’

‘My dearest, it will not be for years.’

‘But my father said …’

‘Oh, he is an impatient man. He loves his daughters so much and is so happy in the possession of them that he longs to see them with children of their own. He forgets how young you are. A little girl of ten to be married!’

‘Sometimes they are taken away from their mothers to live in foreign courts … the courts of their bridegrooms.’

‘You shall not leave me for many years. I promise you.’

‘How many, Mother?’

‘Not until you are grown up and ready for marriage.’

Catalina snuggled closer to her mother. ‘That is a long, long time. That is four years, or five years perhaps.’

‘It is indeed. So you see how foolish it would be to worry now over what may happen in four or five years’ time. Why, by then you will be almost a woman, Catalina … wanting a husband of your own perhaps, not so eager to cling to your mother.’

‘I shall always cling to my mother!’ Catalina declared passionately.

‘Ah,’ sighed Isabella, ‘we shall see.’

And they lay silently side by side. Catalina was comforted. To her, four or five years seemed an eternity. But to her mother it seemed a very little time.

But the purpose was achieved, the blow was softened. Isabella would talk to her young daughter about England. She would discover all she could about the Tudor King who, some said, had usurped the throne of England. Though of course it would be well if the child did not hear such gossip as that. She would talk to her about the King’s children, the eldest of whom was to be her husband … a boy a year younger than herself. What was there to fear in that? There was another boy, Henry; and two girls, Margaret and Mary. She would soon learn their ways and in time forget about her Spanish home.

That was not true, she knew. Catalina would never forget.

She is closer to me than any of the others, I believe, thought Isabella. How happy I should be if this English marriage came to nothing and I were able to keep my little Catalina at my side until the day I die.

She did not mention such a thought. It was unworthy of the Queen of Spain and the mother of Catalina. At this time it seemed that Catalina’s destiny lay with the English. As a daughter of Spain, Catalina would have to do her duty.