Daughters of Spain

Chapter II XIMENES AND TORQUEMADA

The cavalcade had come to rest at last in the port of Laredo which stood on the eastern borders of the Asturias. During the journey from Madrid to Laredo the Queen’s anxieties had kept pace with her daughter’s increasing excitement.

Isabella had determined to remain with Juana until that moment when she left Spanish soil. She would have liked to accompany her all the way to Flanders, for she was very fearful of what would await her wild daughter there.

Isabella had left her family and her state duties to be with her daughter, and during that long and often tedious journey she had never ceased to pray for Juana’s future and to ask herself continually: What will become of her when she reaches Flanders?

Isabella had spent a night on board that ship in which Juana would sail. She now stood on deck with her daughter, awaiting the moment of departure when she must say farewell to Juana. About them was a fine array of ships, a fleet worthy of the Infanta’s rank which would carry her to Flanders and bring back the Archduchess Margaret to be Juan’s bride. There were a hundred and twenty ships in this magnificent armada, some large, some small. They carried means of defending themselves, for they had been made ready to fight against the French. Ferdinand, however, had been willing to put them to this use, because in conveying his unstable daughter to Flanders they were prosecuting the war against the French as certainly as if they went into battle.

Ferdinand himself was not with them on this occasion. He had gone to Catalonia to make ready for an attack on the French. Isabella was rather pleased that she was alone to say goodbye to Juana. So great were her anxieties that she could not have borne to see the pleasure which she knew would shine from her husband’s eyes as he watched their daughter’s departure.

Juana turned to her mother, her eyes sparkling, and cried: ‘To think that all that is for me!’

Isabella continued to look at the ships, because she could not bear to look into her daughter’s face at that moment. She knew that she was going to be reminded of her own mother, who was living out her clouded existence at the castle at Arevalo, unable to distinguish between past and present, raging now and then against those who were long since dead and had no power to harm her. There had been times when Isabella had dreaded her mother’s outbreaks of violence, even as she now dreaded those of her daughter.

How will she fare with Philip? was another question she asked herself. Will he be kind to her? Will he understand?

‘It is a goodly sight,’ murmured the Queen.

‘How long before I reach Flanders, Mother?’

‘So much will depend on the weather.’

‘I hope there will be storms.’

‘Oh, my child, no! We must pray for calm seas and a good wind.’

‘I should like to be delayed a little. I should like Philip to be waiting for me … rather impatiently.’

‘He will be waiting for you,’ murmured the Queen.

Juana clasped her hands across her breasts. ‘I long for him, Mother,’ she said. ‘I have heard that he is handsome. Did you know that people are beginning to call him Philip the Handsome?’

‘It is pleasant to have a handsome bridegroom.’

‘He likes to dance and be gay. He likes to laugh. He is the most fascinating man in Flanders.’

‘You are fortunate, my dear. But remember, he is fortunate too.’

‘He must think so. He shall think so.’

Juana had begun to laugh; it was the laughter of excitement and intense pleasure.

‘Soon it will be time to say goodbye,’ said the Queen quickly. She turned impulsively to her daughter and embraced her, praying as she did so: ‘Oh God, let something happen to keep her with me. Let her not go on this long and hazardous journey.’

But what was she thinking! This was the grandest marriage Juana could have made. It was the curse of Queens that their daughters were merely lent to them during their childhood. She must always remember this.

Juana was wriggling in the Queen’s arms. It was not her mother’s embrace that she wanted; it was that of her husband.

Will she be too eager, too passionate? wondered the Queen. And Philip – what sort of man is he? How I wish I could have met him, had a word with him, warned him that Juana is not quite like other girls.

‘Look!’ cried Juana. ‘The Admiral is coming to us.’

It was true. Don Fadrique Enriquez, Admiral of Castile, had appeared on deck and Isabella knew that the moment was at hand when she must say goodbye.

‘Juana,’ she said, grasping her daughter’s hands and forcing the girl to look at her, ‘you must write to me often. You must never forget that my great desire is to help you.’

‘Oh no, I will not forget.’ But she was not really listening. She was dreaming of ‘Philip the Handsome’, the most attractive man in Europe. As soon as this magnificent armada had carried her to Flanders she would be his wife, and she was impatient of everything that kept her from him. She was already passionately in love with a bridegroom whom she had never seen. The desire which rose within her was driving her to such a frenzy that she felt that if she could not soon satisfy it she would scream out her frustration.

The ceremony of the farewell was almost more than she could endure. She did not listen to her mother’s gentle advice; she was unaware of the Queen’s anxiety. There was only one need within her: this overwhelming hunger for Philip.

Isabella did not leave Laredo until the armada had passed out of sight. Then only did she turn away, ready for the journey back to Madrid.

‘God preserve her,’ she prayed. ‘Give her that extra care which my poor Juana so desperately needs.’

Young Catalina was watching for her mother’s return.

This, she thought, is what will happen to me one day. My mother will accompany me to the coast. Perhaps not to Laredo. To what town would one go to embark for England?

Juana had gone off gaily. Her shrill laughter had filled the Palace during her last days there. She had sung and danced and talked continually of Philip. She was shameless in the way she talked of him. It was not the way Catalina would ever talk of Arthur, Prince of Wales.

But I will not think of it, Catalina told herself. It is far away. My mother will not let me go for years and years … even if the King of England does say he wishes me to be brought up as an English Princess.

Her sister Isabella came into the room and said: ‘Still watching, Catalina?’

‘It seems so long since Mother went away.’

‘You will know soon enough when she returns. Watching will not bring her.’

‘Isabella, do you think Juana will be happy in Flanders?’

‘I do not think Juana will be happy and contented anywhere.’

‘Poor Juana. She believes she will live happily for ever when she is married to Philip. He is so handsome, she says. They even call him Philip the Handsome.’

‘It is better to have a good husband than a handsome one.’

‘I am sure Prince Arthur is good. He is only a boy yet. It will be years before he marries. And Emanuel is good too, Isabella.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Isabella, ‘Emanuel is good.’

‘Are you going to marry him?’

Isabella shook her head and turned away.

‘I am sorry I mentioned it, Isabella,’ said Catalina. ‘It reminds you, doesn’t it?’

Isabella nodded.

‘Yes,’ said Catalina, ‘you were happy, were you not? Perhaps it was better to have found Alonso such a good husband even though he died so soon … better than to have married a husband whom you hated and who was unkind to you.’

Isabella looked thoughtfully at her young sister. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it was better than that.’

‘And you have seen Emanuel. You know him well. You know he is kind. So, Isabella, if you should have to marry him, perhaps you will not be so very unhappy. Portugal is near home … whereas …’

Isabella suddenly forgot her own problems and looked into the anxious eyes of her little sister. She put her arm about her and held her tightly.

‘England is not so very far away either,’ she said.

‘I have a fear,’ Catalina answered slowly, ‘that once I am there I shall never come back … never see you all again. That is what I think would be so hard to bear … never to see you and Juan, Maria and our father … and mother … never to see Mother …’

‘I thought that. But, you see, I came back. Nothing is certain, so it is foolish to say “I shall never come back.” How can you be sure?’

‘I shall not say it. I shall say: “I will come back,” because only if I did could I bear to go.’

Isabella put her sister from her and went to the window. Catalina followed.

They saw two men riding fast up the slope to the Palace.

Catalina sighed with disappointment, because she knew they were not of the Queen’s party.

‘We shall soon discover who they are,’ said Isabella. ‘Let us go to Juan. The messengers will have been taken to him if they have important news.’

When they reached Juan’s apartments, the messengers had already been conducted to him and he was ordering that they be taken away and given refreshments.

‘What is the news?’ Isabella asked.

‘They come from Arevalo,’ said Juan. ‘Our grandmother is very ill and calls constantly for our mother.’

The Queen entered the familiar room, the memory of which she felt would haunt her with sadness for as long as she lived.

As soon as she had arrived at Madrid she had set out for Arevalo, praying that she would not be too late and yet half hoping that she would be.

In her bed lay the Dowager Queen of Castile, Isabella’s ambitious mother, that Princess of Portugal who had suffered from the scourge of her family and whose mental aberrations had darkened her daughter’s life.

It was because of her mother that Isabella felt those shocks of terror every time she noticed some fresh wildness in her daughter Juana. Had this madness in the royal blood passed one generation to flower in the next?

‘Is that Isabella …?’

The blank eyes were staring upwards, but they did not see the Queen, who leaned over the bed. They saw instead the little girl Isabella had been when her future was the greatest concern in the world to this mother.

‘Mother, dear Mother. I am here,’ whispered Isabella.

‘Alfonso, is that you, Alfonso?’

One could not say: Alfonso is dead, Mother … dead these many years. We do not know how he died, but we believe he was poisoned.

‘He is the true King of Castile …’

‘Oh, Mother, Mother,’ whispered Isabella, ‘it is all so long ago. Ferdinand and I rule all Spain now. I became more than the Queen of Castile.’

‘I do not trust him …’ the tortured woman cried.

Isabella laid a hand on her mother’s clammy forehead. She called to one of the attendants. ‘Bring scented water. I would bathe her forehead.’

The sick woman began to laugh. It was hideous laughter, reminding Isabella of those days when she and her young brother, Alfonso, had lived here in this gloomy palace of Arevalo with a mother who lost a little more of her reason with the passing of each day.

Isabella took the bowl of water from the attendant.

‘Go now and leave me with her,’ she said; and she herself bathed her mother’s forehead.

The laughter had lost its wildness. Isabella listened to the harsh breathing.

It could not be long now. She would call in the priests who would administer the last rites. But what would this sadly deranged, dying woman know of that? She had no idea that she was living through her last hours; she believed that she was a young woman again, fighting desperately for the throne of Castile that she might bestow it upon her son Alfonso or her daughter Isabella.

Still it was just possible that she might realise that it was Extreme Unction that was being administered; she might for a few lucid seconds understand the words of the priest.

Isabella stood up and beckoned one of the attendants who had been hovering in a corner of the apartment.

‘Your Highness …’ murmured the woman.

‘My mother is sinking fast,’ said Isabella. ‘Call the priests. They should be with her.’

‘Yes, Highness.’

Isabella went back to the bed and waited.

The Dowager Queen Isabella was lying back on her pillows, her eyes closed, her lips moving; and her daughter, trying to pray for her mother’s soul, could only find the words intruding into her prayers: ‘Oh God, You have made Juana so like her. I pray You, take care of my daughter.’

Catalina was eagerly awaiting the return of her mother from Arevalo, but it was long before she could be alone with her.

Since the little girl had learned that she was to go to England she could not spend enough time in her mother’s company. Isabella understood this and made a point of summoning Catalina to her presence whenever this was possible.

Now she dismissed everyone and kept Catalina with her; the joy on the face of the child was rewarding enough; it moved Isabella deeply.

Isabella made Catalina bring her stool and sit at her feet. This, Catalina was happy to do; she sat leaning her head against her mother’s skirts, and Isabella let her fingers caress her youngest daughter’s thick chestnut hair.

‘Did it seem long that I was away then?’ she asked.

‘So long, Mother. First you went away with Juana, and then as soon as you had returned you must leave for Arevalo.’

‘We have had little time together for so long. We must make up for it. I rejoiced to be with my mother for a little while before she died.’

‘You are unhappy, Mother.’

‘Are you surprised that I should be unhappy now that I have no mother? You who, I believe, love your own mother, can understand that, can you not?’

‘Oh yes. But your mother was not as my mother.’

Isabella smiled. ‘Oh, Catalina, she has caused me such anxieties.’

‘I know it, Mother. I hope never to cause you one little anxiety.’

‘If you did it would be solely because I loved you so well. You would never do aught, I know, to distress me.’

Catalina caught her mother’s hand and kissed it fiercely. Such emotion frightened Isabella.

I must strengthen her, this tender little child, she thought.

‘Catalina,’ she said, ‘you are old enough to know that my mother was kept a prisoner, more or less, at Arevalo because … because her mind was not … normal. She was unsure of what was really happening. She did not know whether I was a woman or a little girl like you. She did not know that I was the Queen but thought that my little brother was alive and that he was the heir to Castile.’

‘Did she … frighten you?’

‘When I was young I was frightened. I was frightened of her wildness. I loved her, you see, and I could not bear that she should suffer so.’

Catalina nodded. She enjoyed these confidences; she knew that something had happened to make her relationship with her mother even more poignantly precious. This had taken place when she had discovered she was destined to go to England; and she believed that the Queen did not want her to go as an ignorant child. She wanted her to understand something of the world so that she would be able to make her own decisions, so that she would be able to control her emotions – in fact, so that she would be a grown-up person able to take care of herself.

‘Juana is like her,’ said Catalina.

The Queen caught her breath. She said quickly: ‘Juana is too high spirited. Now that she is to have a husband she will be more controlled.’

‘But my grandmother had a husband; she had children; and she was not controlled.’

The Queen was silent for a few seconds, then she said: ‘Let us pray together for Juana.’

She took Catalina’s hand and they went into that small anteroom where Isabella had set up an altar; and there they knelt and prayed not only for the safe journey of Juana but for her safe and sane passage through life.

Afterwards they went back to the apartment and Catalina sat once more on her stool at the Queen’s feet.

‘Catalina,’ said Isabella, ‘I hope you will be friends with the Archduchess Margaret when she comes. We must remember that she will be a stranger among us.’

‘I wonder whether she is frightened,’ Catalina whispered, trying not to think of herself setting out on a perilous journey across the sea to England.

‘She is sixteen years old, and she comes to a strange country to marry a young man whom she has never seen. She does not know that in our Juan she will have the kindest, dearest husband anyone could have. She has yet to learn how fortunate she is. But while she is discovering this I want you and your sisters to be very kind to her.’

‘I shall, Mother.’

‘I know you will.’

‘I would do anything you asked of me … gladly I would do it if you commanded me.’

‘I know it, my precious daughter. And when the time comes for you to leave me you will do so with good courage in your heart. You will know, will you not, that wherever I am and wherever you are, I shall never forget you as long as I live.’

Catalina’s lips were trembling as she answered: ‘I will never forget it. I will always do my duty as you would have me do it. I shall not whimper.’

‘I shall be proud of you. Now take your lute, my dearest, and play to me awhile; for very soon we shall be interrupted. But never mind, I shall steal away from state duties and be with you whenever it is possible. Play to me now, my dearest.’

So Catalina brought her lute and played; but even the gayest tunes sounded plaintive because Catalina could not dismiss from her mind the thought that time passed quickly and the day must surely come when she must set out for England.

Those were sad weeks for the Queen. She was in deep mourning for her mother, and there had been such tempests at sea that she feared for the safety of the armada which was escorting Juana to Flanders.

News came that the fleet had had to put into an English port because some of the ships had suffered damage during the tempest. Isabella wondered how Don Fadrique Enriquez was managing to keep the wild Juana under control. It would not be easy and the sooner she was married to Philip the better.

But travelling by sea was a hazardous affair and it might well be that Juana would never reach her destination.

A storm at sea might rob Ferdinand of his dearest dream. If Juana were lost on her way to Flanders, and Margaret on her way to Spain, that would be the end of the proposed Habsburg alliance. Isabella could only think of the dangers to her children, and her prayers were constant.

She tried to concentrate on other matters, but it was not easy to shut out the thought of Juana in peril; and since the recent death of her mother she had had bad dreams in which the sick woman of Arevalo often changed into the unstable Juana.

She was fortunate, she told herself, in her Archbishop of Toledo. Others might rail against him, criticise him because he had taken all the colour and glitter from his office, because he was as stern and unrelenting in his condemnation of others as he was of himself. But for him Isabella had that same admiration which she had had – and still had – for Tomás de Torquemada.

Tomás had firmly established the Holy Inquisition in the land, and Ximenes would do his utmost to maintain it. They were two of a kind and men whom Isabella – as sternly devout as they were themselves – wished to have about her.

She knew that Ximenes was introducing reforms in the Order to which he belonged. It had always seemed deplorable to him that many monks, who appeared in the Franciscan robes, did not follow the rules which had been set down for them by their Founder. They loved good living; they feasted and drank good wine; they loved women, and it was said that many of them were the fathers of illegitimate children. This was something to rouse fury in a man such as Ximenes and, like Torquemada, he was not one to shrug aside the weaknesses of others.

Therefore Isabella was not entirely surprised when, one day while she mourned her mother and waited anxiously for news of Juana’s safe arrival in Flanders, she found herself confronted by the General of the Franciscan Order who had come from Rome especially to see her.

She received him at once and invited him to tell her his grievance.

‘Your Highness,’ he cried, ‘my grievance is this: the Archbishop of Toledo seeks to bring reforms into our Order.’

‘I know it, General,’ murmured the Queen. ‘He would have you all following the rules laid down by your Founder. He himself follows those rules and he deems it the duty of all Franciscans to do the same.’

‘His high position has gone to his head, I fear,’ said the General.

The Queen smiled gently. She knew that the General was a Franciscan of the Conventual Order while Ximenes belonged to the Observatines, a sect which believed it should follow the ways of the Founder in every detail. The Conventuals had broken away from these rigid rules, believing that they need not live the lives of monks to do good in the world. They were good-livers, some of these Conventuals, and Isabella could well understand and sympathise with the desire of Ximenes to abolish their rules and force them to conform with the laws of the Observatines.

‘I crave Your Highness’s support,’ he went on. ‘I ask you to inform the Archbishop that he would be better employed attending to his duties than making trouble within the Order of which he is honoured to be a member.’

‘The Archbishop’s conduct is a matter for his own conscience,’ said Isabella.

The General forgot he was in the presence of the Queen of Spain. He cried out: ‘What folly is this! To take such a man and set him up in the highest position in Spain! Archbishop of Toledo! The right hand of the King and Queen. A man who is more at home in a forest hut than in a Palace. A man without ability, without noble birth. Your Highness should remove him immediately from this high office and put someone there who is worthy of the honour.’

‘I think,’ said Isabella quietly, ‘that you are mad. Have you forgotten to whom you speak?’

‘I am not mad,’ replied the General. ‘I know I am speaking to Queen Isabella – she who will one day be a handful of dust … even as I or anyone else.’

With that he turned from her and hurried out of the room.

Isabella was overcome by astonishment, but she did not seek to punish this man.

She was astounded though at the hatred which Ximenes engendered, but she was more certain than she had ever been that, in making him Archbishop of Toledo, she had made a wise choice.

Francisco Ximenes de Cisneros lay in his bed in his house at Alcalá de Henares. He preferred this simpler dwelling to the Palace which could have been his home at Toledo, and there were often times when he yearned for his hermit’s hut in the forest of Our Lady of Castañar.

His thoughts were now on Bernardín, that erring brother of his who would come to him soon; he had sent for him and he did not believe even Bernardín would dare disobey.

It was disconcerting to have to receive his brother while in bed, but he was now enduring one of his spells of illness, which some said were due to his meagre diet and the rigorous life he led. He spent most of his time in a cell-like room, the floor of which was uncovered and which he kept unheated during the coldest weather. He felt great need to inflict punishment on himself.

It was true that he now lay in this luxurious bed, because here he must receive those who came to see him on matters of State and Church. At night he would leave this luxury and lie on his hard pallet bed with a log for his pillow.

He longed to torture his body, and deplored the fact that orders had come from the Pope commanding him to accept the dignity of his office. There had been many to lay complaints against him. They complained because he was often seen in his shabby Franciscan robe, which he had patched with his own hands. Was this the way for the Archbishop of Toledo to conduct himself? many demanded.

It was useless to tell them that it was the way of a man who wished to follow in the footsteps of his Master.

But instructions had come from Rome.

‘Dear brother,’ Alexander had written, ‘the Holy and Universal Church, as you know, like heavenly Jerusalem, has many and diverse adornments. It is wrong to seek them too earnestly, so it is also wrong to reject them too contemptuously. Each state of life has its appropriate conditions, which are pleasing to God and worthy of praise. Everyone, therefore, especially prelates of the Church, must avoid arrogance by excessive display, and superstition by excessive humility; for in both cases the authority of the Church will be weakened. Wherefore we exhort and advise you to order your life suitably to the rank which you hold; and since the Holy Father has raised you from humble station to that of Archbishop, it is reasonable that as you live in your conscience according to the rules of God (at which we feel great joy), so in your external life you should maintain the dignity of your rank.’

That was the command of the Pope and not to be ignored. So Ximenes had since worn the magnificent garments of an Archbishop, though beneath them had been the robe of the Franciscan, and beneath that the hair shirt itself.

Ximenes felt that there was something symbolic about the manner in which his emaciated body appeared to the public. The people saw the Archbishop, but beneath the Archbishop was the real man, the Franciscan friar.

But which was the real man? Often his fingers itched to deal with problems of State. He longed to see Spain great among the nations and himself at the helm guiding the great ship of state from one triumph to another until the whole world was under the domination of Spain … or Ximenes.

‘Ah,’ he would cry swiftly when such a thought came to him. ‘It is because I wish to see the Christian flag flying over all the Earth.’ He wished all lands to be governed as Spain was being governed since Torquemada had set the fires of the Inquisition burning in almost every town.

But now his thoughts must turn to Bernardín, for soon his brother would be with him and he would have to speak to him with the utmost sternness.

He rehearsed the words he would say: ‘You are my brother, but that does not mean that I shall treat you with especial leniency. You know my beliefs. I hate nepotism. I shall never allow it to be used in any of my concerns.’

And Bernardín would stand smiling at him in that lazy cynical way of his, as though he were reminding his powerful brother that he did not always live up to his own rigid code.

It was true that he had made exceptions. There was the case of Bernardín for one. He had taken him into his household with a lucrative post as steward. What folly!

‘Yet this was my brother,’ said Ximenes aloud.

And how had Bernardín shown his gratitude? By giving himself airs, by stirring up trouble, by extricating himself from those difficult situations which were of his own making, by truculently reminding those who sought justice: ‘I am the brother of the Archbishop of Toledo. I am greatly favoured by him. If you dare to bring any complaints against me, it will go ill with you.’

‘Oh shame!’ cried Ximenes. ‘This was the very weakness I deplore in others.’

And what had he done with Bernardín? Banished him to a monastery, and there Bernardín had drawn up complaints against his brother in which he had been supported by the Archbishop’s enemies – who were numerous.

There had been nothing to do but send Bernardín to prison. And how his conscience had suffered. ‘My own brother … in prison?’ he had demanded of himself. ‘Yes, but he deserves his fate,’ was the answer. ‘Your own brother! Oh, it is only little Bernardín who was always one for mischief.’

So he had brought him out of prison and taken him back as a steward, and had talked to him sternly, imploring him to lead a better life.

But what had been the use? Bernardín would not mend his ways. It had not been long before news had come to Ximenes that his brother had interfered with the justice of the Courts, threatening that if a judge did not give a certain verdict he would incur the displeasure of the Archbishop of Toledo.

This was the final disaster. For this reason he had sent for Bernardín, for all his peccadilloes of the past seemed slight compared with this interference with the justice of the Courts.

Ximenes raised himself and called Francisco Ruiz.

His nephew came hurrying to his bedside. How he wished that his brother were like this trustworthy man.

‘Francisco, when Bernardín comes, have him brought to me at once and leave us together.’

Ruiz bowed his head and, when Ximenes waved a hand, immediately left the sickroom.

‘I would be alone,’ Ximenes said gently as he went. ‘I want to pray.’

He was still praying when Bernardín was brought to him.

Ximenes opened his eyes and regarded his wayward brother, looking in vain for a sign of penitence in Bernardín’s face.

‘Well, brother,’ said Ximenes, ‘as you see I have been forced to take to my bed.’

‘I pray you do not ask for my sympathy,’ cried Bernardín. ‘You are ill because of this ridiculous life you lead. You could be well and strong if you allowed yourself to live in comfort.’

‘I have not summoned you to me that you may advise me on my way of life, Bernardín, but to remonstrate with you regarding your own.’

‘And what sins have I committed now?’

‘You will know so much better than I.’

‘In your eyes, brother, all human actions are sin.’

‘Not all, Bernardín.’

‘All mine. Your own, of course, are virtues.’

‘I found it necessary recently to have you imprisoned.’

Bernardín’s eyes glittered and he came nearer to the bed. ‘Do not attempt to do such a thing again. I swear to you that if you do you will live to regret the day.’

‘Your threats would never make me swerve from my duty, Bernardín.’

Bernardín leaned over the bed and seized Ximenes roughly by the shoulder. Ximenes tried to throw him off but failed to do so and lay panting helplessly on his pillows.

Bernardín laughed aloud. ‘Why, ’tis not I who am at your mercy, but you at mine. What is the Archbishop of Toledo but a skin full of bones! You are sick, brother. Why, I could put these two hands of mine about your neck and press and press … In a matter of seconds the Sovereigns would find themselves without their Archbishop of Toledo.’

‘Bernardín, you should not even think of murder.’

‘I will think what I will,’ cried Bernardín. ‘What good will you ever do me? What good have you ever done? Had you been a normal brother to me I should have been a Bishop by now. And what am I? Steward in your household! Brought before my Lord Archbishop to answer a charge. What charge? I ask you. A charge of getting for myself what most brothers would have given me.’

‘Have a care, Bernardín.’

‘Should I have a care? I … the strong man? It is you who should take care, Gonzalo Ximenes … I beg your pardon … The name our parents gave you is not good enough for such a holy man. Francisco Ximenes, you are at my mercy. I could kill you as you lie there. It is you who should plead with me for leniency … not I with you.’

A lust for power had sprung up in Bernardín’s eyes. What he said was true. At this moment his brilliant brother was at his mercy. He savoured that power, and longed to exercise it.

He will never do anything for me, he told himself. He is no good to our family … no good to himself. He might just as well have stayed in the hermitage at Castañar. A curse on him! He has no natural feeling.

All Bernardín’s dreams were remembered in that second. Ximenes could have made them come true.

Ximenes had recovered his breath and was speaking.

‘Bernardín, I sent for you because what I heard of your conduct in the Courts distressed and displeased me …’

Bernardín began to laugh out loud. With a sudden movement he pulled the pillow from under his brother’s head and laughing demoniacally he held it high. Then he pushed Ximenes back on the bed and brought the pillow down over his face and held it there.

He could hear Ximenes fighting for his breath. He felt his brother’s hands trying to pull at the pillow. But Ximenes was feeble and Bernardín was strong.

And after a while Ximenes lay still.

Bernardín lifted the pillow; he dared not stop to look at his brother’s face, but hurried from the room.

Tomás de Torquemada had left the peace of his monastery of St Thomas in Avila and was travelling to Madrid. This was a great wrench for him as he was a very old man now and much of the fire and vitality had gone from him.

Only the firm belief that his presence was needed at Court could have prevailed upon him to leave Avila at this time.

He loved his monastery – which was to him one of the greatest loves in his life. Perhaps the other was the Spanish Inquisition. In the days of his health they had fought together for his loving care. What joy it had been to study the plans for his monastery; to watch it built; to glory in beautifully sculptured arches and carvings of great skill. The Inquisition had lured him from that love now and then; and the sight of heretics going to the quemadero in their hideous yellow sanbenitos gave him as much pleasure as the cool, silent halls of his monastery.

Which was he more proud to be – the creator of St Thomas in Avila or the Inquisitor General?

The latter was more or less a title only nowadays. That was because he was growing old and was plagued by the gout. The monastery would always stand as a monument to his memory and none could take that from him.

He would call first on the Archbishop of Toledo at Alcalá de Henares. He believed he could rely on the support of the Archbishop for the project he had in mind.

Painfully he rode in the midst of his protective cavalcade. Fifty men on horseback surrounded him, and a hundred armed men went on foot before him and a hundred marched behind.

The Queen herself had implored him to take adequate care when he travelled. He saw the wisdom of this. People whose loved ones had fed the fires of the Inquisition might consider revenge. He could never be sure, as he rode through towns and villages or along the lonely roads, whether the men and women he met bore grudges against him.

Fear attacked him often, now that he was growing infirm. A sound in the night – and he would call to his attendants.

‘Are the doors guarded?’

‘Yes, Excellency,’ would be the answer.

‘Make sure to keep them so.’

He would never have anyone with Jewish blood near him. He was afraid of those with Jewish blood. It was but a few years ago that all Jews who would not accept the Christian faith had been mercilessly exiled from Spain on his decree. Many Jews remained. He thought of them sometimes during the night. He dreamed they stole into his room.

He had every dish which was put before him first tasted in his presence before he ate.

When a man grew old he contemplated death often, and Torquemada, who had sent thousands to their deaths, was now afraid that someone who had suffered through him would seek to hurry him from life.

But duty called; and he had a plan to lay before the Sovereigns.

He reached Alcalá in the late afternoon. The residence of Ximenes was very sombre.

Ruiz received Torquemada in the place of his master.

‘Does aught ail Fray Francisco Ximenes de Cisneros?’ Torquemada asked.

‘He is recovering from an illness which has been most severe.’

‘Then perhaps I should not delay but continue my journey to Madrid.’

‘Let me tell him that Your Excellency is here. If he is well enough he will certainly wish to see you. Allow me to inform him of your arrival after I have shown you to an apartment where you can rest while I have refreshment sent to Your Excellency.’

Torquemada graciously agreed to this proposal and Ruiz hurried to the bedside of Ximenes who had not left his bed since that horrifying encounter with Bernardín.

He opened his eyes and looked at Ruiz as he entered. To this nephew he owed his life. Ruiz had dashed into the apartment as Bernardín had hurried out because Ruiz, who knew Bernardín well, had feared he might harm his brother. It was Ruiz who had revived his half-dead uncle and brought him back to life.

Ximenes had since been wondering what action to take. Clearly he could not have Bernardín back in his household, but justice should be done. There should be punishment for such a crime. But how could he denounce his own brother as a would-be murderer?

Ruiz came to stand by the bed.

‘Uncle,’ he said, ‘Tomás de Torquemada is with us.’

‘Torquemada! Here!’ Ximenes attempted to raise his weakened body. ‘What does he want?’

‘To have a word with you if you are well enough to see him.’

‘It must be some important business which brings him here.’

‘It must be. He is a sick man and suffering greatly from the gout.’

‘You had better bring him to me, Ruiz.’

‘If you do not feel strong enough I can explain this to him.’

‘No. I must see him. Have him brought to me.’

Torquemada entered Ximenes’s bedchamber and coming to the bed embraced the Archbishop.

They were not unalike – both had the stern look of the man who believes himself to have discovered the righteous way of life; both were ascetic in the extreme, emaciated through hardship; both were well acquainted with semi-starvation and the hair shirt – all of which they believed necessary to salvation. Both had to fight with their own particular demon, which was a pride greater than that felt by most men.

‘I am sad to see you laid low, Archbishop,’ said Torquemada.

‘And I fear you yourself are in no fit state to travel, Inquisitor.’ Inquisitor was the title Torquemada enjoyed hearing more than any other. It was a reminder that he had set up an Inquisition the like of which had never been seen in Spain before.

‘I suffer from the gout most cruelly,’ said Torquemada.

‘A strange sickness for one of your habits,’ answered Ximenes.

‘Strange indeed. And what is this latest illness of yours?’

Ximenes answered quickly: ‘A chill, I suspect.’

He was not going to tell Torquemada that he had been almost suffocated by his own brother, for if he had Torquemada would have demanded that Bernardín should be brought to trial and severely punished. Torquemada would doubtless have behaved with rigorous justice if he had been in the place of Ximenes.

Perhaps, thought Ximenes, I lack his strength. But he has had longer in which to discipline himself.

Ximenes went on: ‘But I believe you have not come here to talk of illness.’

‘No, I am on my way to Court and, because I know I shall have your support in the matter which I have decided to bring to the notice of the Sovereigns, I have called to acquaint you with my mission. It concerns the Princess Isabella, who has been a widow too long.’

‘Ah, you are thinking that with the Habsburg marriages, the eldest daughter should not be forgotten.’

‘I doubt she is forgotten. The Princess is reluctant to go again into Portugal.’

‘Such reluctance is understandable,’ said Ximenes.

‘I cannot understand it,’ Torquemada retorted coldly. ‘It is clearly her duty to make this alliance with Portugal.’

‘It has astonished me that it has not been made before,’ Ximenes put in.

‘The Queen is a mother who now and then turns her face from duty.’

They, who had both been confessors to Isabella the Queen, exchanged nods of understanding.

‘She is a woman of great goodness,’ Torquemada acceded, ‘but where her children are concerned she is apt to forget her duty in her desire to please them.’

‘I know it well.’

‘Clearly,’ Torquemada went on, ‘the young Isabella should be sent immediately into Portugal as the bride of Emanuel. But there should be one condition, and it is this which I wish to put before the Sovereigns.’

‘Condition?’

‘When I drove the Jews from Spain,’ said Torquemada, ‘many of them found refuge in Portugal.’ His face darkened suddenly; his eyes gleamed with wild fanaticism; they seemed like living things in a face that was dead. All Torquemada’s hatred for the Jewish race was in his eyes, in his voice at that moment. ‘They pollute the air of Portugal. I wish to see them driven from Portugal as I drove them from Spain.’

‘If this marriage were made we should have no power to dictate Emanuel’s policy towards the Jews,’ Ximenes pointed out.

‘No,’ cried Torquemada triumphantly, ‘but we could make it a condition of the marriage. Emanuel is eager for this match. He is more than eager. It is not merely to him a grand marriage … union with a wealthy neighbour. This young King is a weak and emotional fellow. Consider his tolerance towards the Jews. He has strange ideas. He wishes to see all races living in harmony side by side in his country following their own faiths. You see he is a fool; he is unaware of his duty to the Christian Faith. He wishes to rule with what he foolishly calls tolerance. But he is a love-sick young man.’

‘He saw the Princess when she went into Portugal to marry Alonso,’ murmured Ximenes.

‘Yes, he saw her, and from the moment she became a widow he has had one plan: to make her his wife. Well, why not? Isabella must become the Queen of Portugal, but on one condition: the expulsion of the Jews from that country as they have been expelled from our own.’

Ximenes lay back on his pillows exhausted and Torquemada rose.

‘I am tiring you,’ he said. ‘But I rely on your support, should I need it. Not that I shall.’ All the fire had come back to this old man who was midway in his seventies. ‘I shall put this to the Queen and I know I shall make her see her duty.’

When Torquemada had taken his leave of Ximenes the Archbishop lay back considering the visit.

Torquemada was a stronger man than he was. Neither of them thought human suffering important. They had sought to inflict it too often on themselves to be sorry for others who bore it.

But at this time Ximenes was more concerned with his own problem than that of Isabella and Emanuel. He had decided what he must do with Bernardín. He would send his brother back to his monastery; he would give him a small pension; but it should be on condition that he never left his monastery and never sought to see his brother again.

I am a weak man where my own are concerned, thought Ximenes. And he wondered at himself who could contemplate undisturbed the hardships which would certainly befall the Jews of Portugal if Emanuel accepted this new condition, yet must needs worry about a man who, but for chance, might have committed fratricide – and all because that man happened to be his own brother.

The Princess Isabella looked from her mother to the stern face of Torquemada.

Her throat was dry; she felt that if she had tried to protest the words would not come. Her mother had an expression of tenderness yet determination. The Princess knew that the Queen had made up her mind – or perhaps that this stern-faced man who had once been her confessor had made it up for her as he had so many times before. She felt powerless between them. They asked for her consent, but they did not need it. It would be as they wished, not as she did.

She tried once more. ‘I could not go into Portugal.’

Torquemada had risen, and she thought suddenly of those men and women who were taken in the dead of night to his secret prisons and there interrogated, until from weariness – and from far worse, she knew – agreed with what he wished them to say.

‘It is the duty of a daughter of Spain to do what is good for Spain,’ said Torquemada. ‘It is sinful to say “I do not wish that.” “I do not care to do that.” It matters not. This is your duty. You must do your duty or imperil your soul.’

‘It is you who say it is my duty,’ she answered. ‘How can I be sure that it is?’

‘My daughter,’ said the Queen, ‘that which will bring benefit to Spain is your duty and the duty of us all.’

‘Mother,’ cried the Princess, ‘you do not know what you are asking of me.’

‘I know full well. It is your cross, my dearest. You must carry it.’

‘You carry a two-edged sword for Spain,’ said Torquemada. ‘You can make this marriage which will secure our frontiers, and you can help to establish firmly the Christian Faith on Portuguese soil.’

‘I am sure Emanuel will never agree to the expulsion of the Jews,’ cried Isabella. ‘I know him. I have talked with him. He has what are called liberal ideas. He wants freedom of thought in Portugal. He said so. He will never agree.’

‘Freedom for sin,’ retorted Torquemada. ‘He wishes for this marriage. It shall be our condition.’

‘I cannot do it,’ said Isabella wearily.

‘Think what it means,’ whispered her mother. ‘You will have the great glory of stamping out heresy in your new country.’

‘Dearest Mother, I do not care …’

‘Hush, hush!’ It was the thunderous voice of Torquemada. ‘For that you could be brought before the tribunal.’

‘It is my daughter to whom you speak,’ the Queen put in with some coldness.

‘Highness, it is not the first time I have had to remind you of your duty.’

The Queen was meekly silent. It was true. This man had a more rigorous sense of duty than she had. She could not help it if her love for her family often came between her and her duty.

She must range herself on his side. Ferdinand would insist on this marriage taking place. They had indulged their daughter too long. And, if they could insist on this condition, that would be a blow struck for Holy Church, so she must forget her tenderness for her daughter and put herself on the side of righteousness.

Her voice was stern as she addressed her daughter: ‘You should cease to behave like a child. You are a woman and a daughter of the Royal House. You will prepare yourself to accept this marriage, for I shall send a dispatch to Emanuel this day.’

Torquemada’s features were drawn into lines of approval. He did not smile. He never smiled. But this expression was as near to a smile as he could come.

When her mother spoke like that, Isabella knew that it was useless to protest; she lowered her head and said quietly: ‘Please, may I have your leave to retire?’

‘It is granted,’ said the Queen.

Isabella ran to her apartment. She did not notice little Catalina whom she passed.

‘Isabella, Isabella,’ called Catalina, ‘what is wrong?’

Isabella took no notice but ran on; she had one concern – to reach her bedroom before she began to weep, for it seemed to her in that moment the only relief she could look for was in tears.

She threw herself on to her bed and the storm burst.

Catalina had come to stand by the side of her bed. The child watched in astonishment, but she knew why Isabella cried. She shared in every sob; she knew exactly how her sister felt. This was like a rehearsal of what would one day happen to her.

At length she whispered very softly: ‘Isabella!’

Her sister opened her eyes and saw her standing there.

‘It is Catalina.’

Catalina climbed on to the bed and lay down beside her sister.

‘It has happened then?’ asked the little girl. ‘You are to go?’

‘It is Torquemada. That man … with his schemes and his plots.’

‘He has made this decision then?’

‘Yes. I am to marry Emanuel. There is to be a condition.’

‘Emanuel is a kind man, Isabella. He loves you already. You will not be unhappy. Whereas England is a strange place.’

Isabella was silent suddenly; then she put her arms about Catalina and held her close to her.

‘Oh Catalina, it is something we all have to endure. But it will be years before you go to England.’

‘Years do pass.’

‘And plans change.’

Catalina shuddered, and Isabella went on: ‘It is all changed now, Catalina. I wish I had gone before. Then Emanuel would have loved me. He did, you know, when I was Alonso’s wife.’

‘He will love you now.’

‘No, there will be a shadow over our marriage. You did not know what happened here when the Jews were driven out. You were too young. But I heard the servants talking of it. They took little children away from their parents. They made them leave their homes. Some died … some were murdered. There was great suffering throughout the land. Emanuel will hate to do in his country what was done in ours … and if he does not do it there will be no marriage.’

‘Who said this?’

‘Torquemada. He is a man who always has his way. You see, Catalina, if I go to Portugal it will not be the same any more. There will be a great shadow over my marriage. Perhaps Emanuel will hate me. They cursed us … those Jews, as they lay dying by the roadside. If I go to Portugal they will curse me.’

‘Their curses cannot hurt you, for you will be doing what is good.’

‘Good?’

‘If it is what our mother wants, it will be good.’

‘Catalina, I’m frightened. I think I can hear their curses in my ears already.’

They lay in silence side by side. Isabella was thinking of the roads of Portugal filled with bands of exiles, broken-hearted men and women looking for a home, prepared to find death on the highway, at the hands of murderers or from exposure.

‘This is my marriage with Emanuel,’ she whispered.

Catalina did not hear her; she was thinking of a ship which would sail away to a land of fogs and strangers; and she was a passenger on that ship.