Spain for the Sovereigns

Chapter X THE ROYAL FAMILY

Throughout the kingdom of Granada there was mourning.

Never before had a Moorish Sultan fallen captive to a Christian army. Nor was Boabdil the only prisoner in the hands of the enemy. Many of the captured were powerful men and, as the character of Ferdinand was beginning to be known throughout Granada, it was calculated that large ransoms would be demanded before they were allowed to return.

‘Allah has turned his face from us,’ mourned the people. ‘The hostile star of Islam is scattering its malignant influences upon us. Can this mean the downfall of the Mussulman Empire?’

Muley Abul Hassan discussed the position with his brother, El Zagal.

‘Boabdil must be released without delay. The effect of his captivity on the people is becoming disastrous.’

El Zagal agreed with his brother. He was certain that Boabdil should be returned to them so that they might quash his rebellion.

‘Offer a ransom,’ he said. ‘Offer a sum which Ferdinand will find it difficult to refuse.’

‘It shall be done,’ said Muley Abul Hassan.

The Sultana Zoraya was torn between anger and anxiety. Her son, the captive of the Christians! He must be released at once.

She raged against Boabdil, who had never been a warrior. When all was well she would devote herself to the upbringing of Boabdil’s young son and make a warrior out of him.

It was imperative that Boabdil should not be allowed to remain in the hands of his captives. If he were, the people of Granada would forget they had called him their Sultan. She foresaw a return to the undisputed rule of Muley Abul Hassan. The Moors might, in their adversity, forget their differences. Then what would happen to Boabdil? Would he be left to fret in his Christian prison? What would happen to her?

When she heard that Muley Abul Hassan had offered a ransom, she was determined that further delay would be dangerous. Boabdil must not be delivered into the hands of his father.

‘What ransom has Muley Abul Hassan offered?’ she demanded to know. ‘No matter what it is, I must offer a greater.’

Ferdinand was gleeful. This was an unexpected stroke of good fortune. Boabdil was in the hands of General the Count of Cabra, having been captured by some of his men.

‘Highness,’ ran the Count’s message, ‘Boabdil, King of Granada, is now a prisoner in my castle of Baena. Here I am according him all the courtesy which his rank demands while I await Your Highness’s instructions.’

Ferdinand sat with Isabella in the Royal Council Chamber, and the fate of Boabdil was considered.

Isabella knew that Ferdinand was thinking of the large ransoms offered by Muley Abul Hassan and the Sultana Zoraya, and that he longed to lay his hands on their gold.

Ferdinand addressed the Council, saying that the ransom should be accepted and Boabdil sent back to his people.

There was an immediate outcry. Send back such a valuable prisoner! The King of Granada himself in their hands, and he to be sent back on the payment of a certain sum!

Isabella listened to the impassioned pleading, to the clash of opinion.

The Marquis of Cadiz rose and said: ‘Your Highnesses and Gentlemen of the Council, our one thought should be to weaken our enemy, to prepare him to our advantage for the final battle. What we have to consider is whether Boabdil is of more use to us here as our prisoner than there, free to cause trouble in his own kingdom.’

‘He is our captive!’ was the answer. ‘He, the leader, the King! What is an army without a leader?’

The Marquis answered: ‘But there were two leaders, other than Boabdil, in Granada – Muley Abul Hassan and El Zagal.’

Ferdinand had begun to speak and, as she listened to him, Isabella rejoiced in his shrewdness.

‘It is clear what must be done,’ said Ferdinand. ‘If Boabdil remains here there will soon be peace within Granada. Muley Abul Hassan will return to the throne with the support of his brother. There will only be one ruler . . . no longer the Old King and the Little King. By our capture of Boabdil we shall have ended civil war in Granada, and one of the greatest aids to our cause is the civil war in Granada.’

Isabella lifted her hand then and said: ‘I am sure that the path we must take is clear to us all now. The King is right. Boabdil must be returned to his people. We must not help to make peace within the kingdom of Granada. Return Boabdil to his people, and once more there, civil war will be intensified.’

‘And we shall have the ransom money,’ added Ferdinand with a gay smile. ‘Zoraya’s ransom money, for naturally he must be returned to his mother, who will help him to reorganise his forces against his father and uncle. And by God’s good grace the ransom money which she offers is greater than that suggested by Muley Abul Hassan. Heaven is with us.’ The Council then declared itself to be in agreement with Ferdinand’s suggestion; and Ferdinand took the Queen’s hand and they, with a few of their highest ministers, retired to draw up the treaty with Boabdil.

Ferdinand received Boabdil at Cordova, determined to charm his captive into a ready acceptance of his proposals.

When Boabdil would have knelt, Ferdinand put out his hand to prevent his doing so.

‘We meet as kings,’ said Ferdinand.

The two kings sat side by side in chairs which had been set for them.

‘You are blessed with a mother who gives all she has for your sake,’ said Ferdinand.

‘It is true,’ Boabdil replied.

‘And, because she has pleaded with us so touchingly, the Queen and myself are inclined to grant her request.’

‘Your Highness is munificent,’ Boabdil murmured.

Ferdinand did not deny it. ‘I will tell you briefly what terms we have drawn up, and when you have agreed to them, and your mother has sent the ransom, we shall hold you here no longer, but shall allow you to depart; for if you give us your word that you will accept these terms we shall trust you.’

Boabdil bowed his head in grateful thanks.

‘We grant a truce of two years’ standing to such territory within the kingdom of Granada which is under your dominion.’

‘I gratefully accept that,’ answered Boabdil.

‘You have been captured in battle, and it will be necessary for you to make some reparation,’ said Ferdinand smoothly. ‘Our people would not be pleased if you did not.’

‘It is understandable,’ agreed Boabdil.

‘Then you shall return to us four hundred Christian slaves for whom we shall pay no ransom.’

‘They shall be yours.’

‘You shall pay annually twelve thousand gold doblas to the Queen and myself.’

Boabdil looked less pleased, but he had known that Ferdinand would require some such reward for his clemency, and there was nothing to be done but to grant it.

‘We must ask you for a free passage through your kingdom, should we wish it while making war on your father and your uncle.’

Boabdil was taken aback by this suggestion. Ferdinand was calmly suggesting that he should play the traitor to his own country; and although Boabdil was ready to make war on his father, he hesitated before agreeing to allow the Christians a free passage through his land.

Ferdinand passed on quickly: ‘Then you may go free; but should I wish to see you at any time to discuss the differences between our kingdoms, you must come immediately to my command; and I shall require you to give your son into my possession together with the sons of certain of your nobles, that we may hold them as sureties of your good faith.’

Boabdil was stunned by these terms. But he saw the need to escape from captivity, and that there was nothing to be done but to accept them.

So Ferdinand took the ransom offered by the Sultana, and Boabdil returned to his people, bewildered, humiliated, aware that he had agreed to act as Ferdinand’s pawn to be moved at his will; and he could be certain that those moves would be made for the aggrandisement of the Sovereigns and the detriment of his own people.

Boabdil, saddened and chastened, wished that he had never listened to his mother’s advice, wished that he was now fighting the Christians on the side of his father.

Ferdinand was saying his farewell to Isabella before he set out on his journey to Aragon.

Isabella was doing her best to be patient, but it was not easy. They had made great strides in the war against the Moors; Boabdil could be said to be their creature, yet they lacked the means to continue the war against the Moors in a way which could be conclusive.

‘Always,’ cried Ferdinand, ‘we are faced with this lack of money.’

Isabella agreed that this was so and, agreeing, forgave Ferdinand his preoccupation with possessions. She knew there was a reproach in his words. She was in a position to replenish the royal coffers, yet she steadfastly refused to act. She was determined that her rule should be just, and that she would give no favours in exchange for bribes. Even though the moment seemed ripe for the attack on the Moors, she would not resort to dishonourable means of raising money. She was certain that God would turn His favour from her if she did.

‘What can we do?’ he demanded now. ‘Merely destroy their crops, merely attack their small hamlets, lay waste their land, set fire to their vineyards! This we will do, but until we have the means of raising a mighty army we can never hope for complete conquest.’

‘We shall raise that army,’ said Isabella. ‘Have no doubt of that.’

‘It is to be hoped that, by the time we do, we shall not have lost the advantage we now hold.’

‘If so, we shall gain others,’ answered Isabella. ‘It is the will of God that we shall rule over an all-Christian Spain, and I have never for a moment doubted it.’

‘And in the meantime we must tarry. We must show ourselves as being too weak, too poor, to prosecute the war.’

‘Alas that it should be so!’

‘But it need not be.’

Isabella gave him that firm yet affectionate smile. ‘When the time comes God and all Heaven will be beside us,’ she said. ‘Why, now your presence is needed in Aragon, so it is no bad thing that we had not planned to make our great attack on Granada.’

Ferdinand was inclined to be sullen. This was one of those occasions when he blamed her methods as the cause of their inability to prosecute the war.

But she was convinced that she was right. She must act honourably and according to her own lights, or she would lose that belief in her destiny. God was with her, she was sure, and He would only support that which was just. If He had been slow in giving her the means of attacking the Moors, she must wait in patience, telling herself that the ways of Heaven were often inscrutable.

She wondered now whether she should tell Ferdinand that she hoped she was pregnant once more. It was early yet, and perhaps it would be unwise to raise his hopes. He would begin to plan for another son. And of her four children only one was a boy, so perhaps her fifth would also be a girl.

No, she would keep this little matter to herself. She would watch him ride away with Torquemada into Aragon, whence reports had come that heretics abounded; Torquemada had been denouncing them and was eager that the methods which were being used in Castile should be put into force in Aragon. Away with the old easy-going tribunals! Torquemada’s Inquisition should be taken to Aragon.

‘It may well be,’ she told Ferdinand, ‘that God wishes to see how we bring tormented souls back to His kingdom, before He helps us to take possession of those of the Moors.’

‘It may be so,’ agreed Ferdinand. ‘Farewell, my Queen and wife.’

Once more he embraced her, but even as he did so she wondered whether, when he reached Aragon, he would make his way to the mother of that illegitimate son, of whom he had been so besottedly fond that he had made him an Archbishop at the age of six.

During that summer Isabella found time to be with Beatriz de Bobadilla.

‘It would seem,’ she said to her friend, ‘that it is only when I am about to have a child that I have an opportunity of being with my family and friends.’

‘Highness, when the Holy War is over, when the Moors have been driven from Spain, then you will have a little more time for us. It will be a great joy and pleasure to us all.’

‘To me also. And, Beatriz, I believe that day is not so far off as I once feared it might be. Now that the Inquisition is working so zealously throughout Castile, I feel that one part of our plan is succeeding. Beatriz, bring the altar-cloth I am working on. I will not waste time while we talk.’

Beatriz sent a woman for the needlework and, when it was brought, they settled down to it.

Isabella worked busily with the coloured threads. She found the work very soothing.

‘How do matters go in Aragon?’ asked Beatriz.

Isabella frowned down at her work. ‘I hear that there is opposition there to the Inquisition, but Ferdinand and Torquemada are determined that it shall be established and that it shall become as effective as it is here in Castile.’

‘There are many New Christians in Aragon.’

‘Yes, and I believe they have been practising Jewish rites in private. Otherwise why should they fear the coming of the Inquisition?’

Beatriz murmured: ‘They fear that accusations may be brought against them, and that they may not be able to prove their innocence.’

‘But,’ said Isabella mildly, ‘if they are innocent, why should they not be able to prove it?’

‘Perhaps torture might force a victim to confess not only what is true but what is completely untrue. Perhaps it is this they fear.’

‘If they tell the truth immediately, and name those who have shared their sins, the torture will not be applied. I expect we shall have a little trouble in Aragon, although I do not doubt that it will be promptly quelled, as the Susan affair was in Seville.’

‘Let us hope so,’ said Beatriz.

‘My dear friend, Tomás de Torquemada, has sent two excellent men into Aragon. I know he has the utmost confidence in Arbues and Juglar.’

‘Let us hope that they are not over-stern – at first,’ said Beatrix quietly. ‘It is the sudden change from lethargy to iron discipline that seems to terrify the people.’

‘They cannot be too stern in the service of the Faith.’ Isabella spoke firmly.

Beatriz thought it might be wise to change the subject, and after a slight pause asked after the health of the Infanta Isabella.

The Queen frowned slightly. ‘Her health does give me cause for anxiety. She is not as strong, I fear, as the other three. In fact, our baby, young Maria, seems to be the healthiest member of the family. Do you think so, Beatriz?’

‘I think that Maria has perfect health, but so have Juan and Juana. As for Isabella, she certainly has this tendency to catch cold. But I think that will pass as she grows older.’

‘Oh, Beatriz,’ said Isabella suddenly, ‘I do hope this one will be a boy.’

‘Because Ferdinand wishes it?’ asked Beatriz.

‘Yes, perhaps that is so. For myself, I would be content with another girl. Ferdinand wants sons.’

‘He has one.’

‘He has more than one,’ said Isabella after some hesitation. ‘And that is a great sorrow to me. I know of one illegitimate son. It is the Archbishop who succeeded to the See of Saragossa when he was but six years old. Ferdinand dotes on him. I have heard it whispered that there is another son. And I know there are daughters.’

‘These things will happen, Highness. They have always been so.’

‘I am foolish to think too much of them. We are often apart, and Ferdinand is not a man who could remain faithful to one woman.’

Beatriz laid her hand on that of the Queen.

‘Highness, may an old friend speak frankly?’

‘You know you may.’

‘My thoughts are taken back to the days before your marriage. You made an ideal of Ferdinand. You made an image – a man who had all the virtues of a great soldier, king and statesman, and yet was as austere in his nature as you are yourself. You made an impossible ideal, Highness.’

‘You are right, Beatriz.’

‘Such a person as you conjured up is not to be found in Christendom.’

‘Then I should be content with what I have.’

‘Highness, you should be content indeed. You have a partner who has many qualities to bring to this governing of your country; you have children. Think of the kings who long for children and cannot get them.’

‘Beatriz, my dear, you have done me much good. I will be thankful for what I have. I will not ask for more. If God sees fit to give me another girl, I shall be happy. I shall forget that I longed for a son.’

Isabella was smiling. She had decided that for the next few months she would give herself up to the enjoyment of her family; she would spend much time in the nurseries with her children; and it would be as though she were not Queen of Castile but merely the mother of a boy and three girls, awaiting the arrival of a new baby.

Ferdinand had returned from Aragon, reluctantly, Isabella believed.

It was natural, Isabella told herself, that his first thoughts should have been for Aragon, and she believed his presence had been needed there.

When he returned to her after a long absence he was always the passionate lover: a state of affairs which had delighted her in their earlier relationship, but which she now knew to be due to Ferdinand’s love of change.

He was an adventurer in all respects. And she accepted him not as the embodiment of an ideal, but as the man he was.

He had risen from their bed, although only the first streaks of dawn were in the sky. He was restless, she saw, and found it difficult to lie still.

He sat on the bed, his embroidered robe about him, while she sat up and studied him gravely.

‘Ferdinand,’ she said, ‘do you not think it would be better if you confided your troubles to me?’

He smiled at her ruefully. ‘Ours is a troublous realm, Isabella,’ he said. ‘We are sovereigns of two states, and it would seem that in order to serve one we must neglect the other.’

Isabella said firmly: ‘Events in Castile are moving towards a climax. Since the capture of Boabdil we have made such great strides towards victory that surely it cannot be long delayed.’

‘Granada is a mighty kingdom which I have likened to a pomegranate. I have sworn to pluck the pomegranate dry, but there are still more juicy seeds to be taken. And meanwhile the French hold my provinces of Rousillon and Cerdagne.’

Isabella was startled. ‘Ferdinand, we cannot face a war on two fronts.’

‘A war against the French would be a just one,’ urged Ferdinand.

‘The war against the Moors is a holy one,’ Isabella replied.

Ferdinand was a little sullen. ‘My presence is needed in Aragon,’ he said.

She wondered then whether it was herself whom he wanted to leave for some other woman, whether he longed to be with another family, not the one he had through her. She felt sick at heart to contemplate his infidelity; yet as she looked at him, so handsome, so virile, she remembered Beatrix’s words. She had greatly desired marriage with him. Young and handsome, he had appealed to her so strongly when she compared him with other suitors who had been selected for her.

No, she thought, it is not some other woman, some other family which calls him: it is Aragon. He is too firm a ruler, too clever a diplomatist ever to allow his personal emotions to interfere with his ambitions.

Not another woman, not the mother of the Archbishop of Saragossa, nor the Archbishop himself, nor any of those other mistresses whom he had doubtless found more to his taste than his chaste wife Isabella – it was Aragon.

As for herself, she longed to please him. There were times when she almost wished that she could have changed her nature, that she could have been more like what she imagined the others to be – voluptuously beautiful, as brimming over with sensual passion as he was himself. But she would suppress such thoughts.

Such a life was not for her. She was a queen – the Queen of Castile – and her duty came before any such carnal pleasure, the safety of her kingdom before a contented life.

She resisted an impulse to put out a hand and take his, to say to him: ‘Ferdinand, love me . . . me only; you may have anything in exchange that I could give you.’

She thought then of Christ’s temptation in the wilderness, and she said coldly: ‘The Holy War must be continued at the expense of all else.’

And Ferdinand rose from the bed. He walked to the window and looked out, watching the dawn encroach on the darkness.

His back was towards her, but she saw that there was an angry gesture in the way he held his head.

It was a scene which had been repeated so many times in their life together. It was the Queen of Castile in command, not only of her own nature, but of the lesser ruler of Aragon.

The children, with the exception perhaps of Juana, were delighted to have their mother with them. Juana was the wild one, the one who could not conform to the high standard set by her mother, the one who fidgeted during church services, who refused to confess all her sins to her confessor, the one who struck a certain cold fear into her mother’s heart on many occasions.

Isabella was six months pregnant, and it was during her pregnancies that she relaxed her stern hold upon herself to some extent.

I am, after all, a mother, she excused herself, and these children of mine will one day be rulers of some part of this earth. I must treat them as a very important part of my life.

If at this time it had been possible to continue with the war against the Moors with vigour, she would have neglected everything to do so. But it was not possible; it would take several years to build up the army they needed. There was nothing she could do at present to speed up matters in that direction. What she must think of was having a healthy pregnancy and recovering her strength as soon as possible. So for these few months she gave herself to domesticity more wholeheartedly than she usually could.

She loved her children devotedly. She wanted to make sure that they were receiving the best education which could be provided for them – remembering how she herself had missed it. At the same time their spiritual education must not be neglected. She wanted the girls to be both good rulers and good wives and parents; she insisted that they sit with her and learn to embroider; and there was nothing which made her more contented than to have her children with her while she and the girls worked on an altar-cloth, and Juan sat on a stool close by and read aloud to them.

This they were now doing, and again and again her eyes would stray from her work to rest on one or other of her children. Her pale and lovely daughter, Isabella, her firstborn, who still coughed a little too frequently for her mother’s comfort, was beautiful, bending over her work. They would have to find a husband for her soon.

It will be more than I can bear, to lose her, thought Isabella.

And there was Juan – perhaps the best loved of them all. Who could help loving Juan? He was the perfect child. Not only was he the boy for whom Ferdinand had longed, he had the sweetest nature of all the children; he was docile, yet excelled in all those sports in which Ferdinand wished to see him excel. His tutors discovered in him a desire to please, which meant that he learned his lessons quickly and well. He was beautiful – at least in the eyes of his mother. She felt her love overflowing as she looked at him. In her thoughts she had long called him Angel. She had even done so openly, and consequently he was beginning to be known in the family circle by that name.

There was Juana – little Suegra. Almost defiantly Isabella insisted on the nickname. It was as though she wished to emphasise the resemblance between this child and her grandmother, Ferdinand’s sprightly and clever mother. Isabella tried not to see a subtler resemblance, that between her own sad mother and this child.

It was difficult to avoid this comparison. If there was trouble Juana would be in it. She had charm; it was in her very wildness. The others were serene children; perhaps they took after their mother. Yet little Juana, though she might have the features of Ferdinand’s mother, had that in her – at least, so Isabella often told herself – which bore a terrifying similarity to the frailty of the poor sick lady at Arevalo.

And little Maria, the plain one, stolid, reliable, good little Maria! She would give her parents little concern, Isabella guessed. Strangely enough – for this very reason – she did not give her mother the same delight as did the others.

Isabella wondered whether she herself, when a child, had been rather like Maria – quiet, serene, docile . . . and not very attractive.

She saw that Juana was not working, and that her part of the altar-cloth was not as neat as that of the others.

Isabella leaned forward and tapped the child on her knee.

‘Come, Suegra,’ she said, ‘there is work to be done.’

‘I do not like needlework,’ said Juana, which made young Isabella catch her breath in horror. Juana went on: ‘It is no use scowling at me, sister. I do not like needlework.’

‘This, my child,’ said the Queen, ‘is for the altar. Do you not wish to work for a holy purpose?’

‘No, Highness,’ said Juana promptly.

‘That is very wrong,’ said the Queen sternly.

‘But Your Highness asked me what I wanted,’ Juana pointed out. ‘I must tell the truth, for if I did not that would be a lie, and I should have to confess it, and do a penance. It is very wrong to tell lies.’

‘Come here,’ said Isabella; and Juana came to her. Isabella held the child by her shoulders and drew her close to her. ‘It is true,’ she went on, ‘that you must not tell lies. But it is true also that you must discipline yourself. You must learn to like doing what is good.’

Juana’s eyes, which now bore a strong resemblance to those of Ferdinand, flashed in rebellion. ‘But Highness, if you do not like . . .’ she began.

‘That is enough,’ said Isabella. ‘Now you will work on this cloth tomorrow until you have completed your share of it, and if it is badly done you will unpick your stitches and do them again until it is well done.’

Juana’s lower lip protruded and she said defiantly: ‘I shall not be able to go to Mass if I must sit over my needlework.’

The Queen was aware of a tension among the children, and she said: ‘What has been happening here?’

Her eldest daughter looked uncomfortable; so did Juan.

‘Come,’ said Isabella, ‘I must know the truth. You, Angel, you tell me.’

‘Highness, I do not know of what you speak.’

‘I think you do, my son. Your sister Juana has been wicked in some way. I pray you tell me what she has done.’

‘I . . . I could not say, Highness,’ said Juan; but his beautiful face had turned a shade paler and he was afraid that he was going to be forced to say something which he would rather not.

Isabella could not bear to hurt him. His kindly nature would not allow him to betray his sister; and at the same time he was anxious not to disobey his mother.

She turned to Isabella; Isabella also did not wish to betray her sister.

The Queen was faintly irritated and yet proud of them. She would not have them tellers of tales against each other. She respected this family loyalty.

And fortunately she was saved from forcing an answer, by Juana herself – bold, fearless Juana, with the wild light in her eyes.

‘I will tell you, Highness,’ she said. ‘I often do not go to church. I run away and hide, so that they cannot find me. I do not like to go to church. I like to dance and sing. So I hide . . . and they cannot find me, and so they go without me.’

Isabella surveyed this defiant child with a stern expression which would have filled the others with terror. But Juana merely stood her ground, her handsome little head held high, her eyes brilliant.

‘So,’ said Isabella slowly, ‘you have been guilty of this wickedness. I am ashamed that a child of mine could behave thus. You, the daughter of the Sovereigns of Castile and Aragon! You whose father is the greatest soldier in the world and who has brought peace within these kingdoms! You are a Princess of the royal house. You would seem to forget this.’

‘I do not forget,’ said Juana, ‘but it does not make me want to go to church.’

‘Juan,’ said the Queen to her son, ‘go and bring to me your sister’s governess.’

Juan, white-faced, obeyed. As for Juana, she stood regarding her mother with eyes that dilated with a certain fear. She believed that she was to be beaten, and she could not endure corporal punishment; not that she feared the pain; it was the attack upon her dignity which was so upsetting.

She turned and would have run from the room, but the Queen had caught her skirt. This was a very embarrassing situation for the Queen to encounter, and she felt a physical sickness which she found it difficult to control.

She told herself that it was due to her pregnancy; but there was a deep fear within her; and as she held the struggling child in a firm grip she felt a great love for this wild daughter come over her. She wanted to hold the child to her breast and weep over her; she wanted to comfort her, to soothe her, to beg the others to kneel with her and pray that Juana might not go the way of her grandmother.

‘Let me go!’ cried Juana. ‘Let me go! I don’t want to stay here. I don’t want to go to Mass.’

Isabella held the child’s head against her; she was aware of the shocked and wondering eyes of Isabella and Maria.

‘Be quiet, my daughter,’ she warned. ‘Be still. It will be better for you if you are.’

The quiet tones of her mother soothed the little girl somewhat, and she laid her head against the Queen’s breast and stayed there. Isabella thought she was like an imprisoned bird, a wild bird who knew that it was hopeless to struggle.

Juan had returned with the governess, who looked very frightened to have been summoned thus to the presence of the Queen.

Isabella, still holding her daughter against her, acknowledged the governess’s deep curtsey and said in a clear expressionless voice: ‘Is it true that the Infanta Juana has not been attending church?’

The governess stammered: ‘Highness, it was unavoidable.’

‘Unavoidable! I do not understand how that can be. It must not happen again. It must be avoided.’

‘Yes, Highness.’

‘How many times has this occurred?’ asked the Queen.

The governess hesitated, and the Queen went on quickly: ‘But it is enough that it has occurred once. The soul of the Infanta has been put in jeopardy. It must never occur again. Take the Infanta away now. She is to be beaten severely. And if she attempts to absent herself from church again, I wish to be told. Her punishment then will be even more severe.’

Juana had lifted her head and was staring at her mother pleadingly: ‘No!’ she cried. ‘Please, Highness, no!’

‘Take the Infanta away now and do my bidding. I shall satisfy myself that my orders have been carried out.’

The governess dropped a deep curtsey and laid her hand on Juana’s arm. Juana clung to the chair and would not move. The governess took her arm and pulled and Juana’s face grew scarlet with exertion as she clung to the chair.

The Queen smartly slapped the small hand. Juana let out a great wail; then the governess seized her and dragged her from the room.

There was silence in the nursery as the door closed on them.

The Queen said: ‘Come, my daughters, we have this cloth to finish. Juan, continue to read to us.’

And Juan obeyed, and the girls sewed, while in the distance they heard the loud protesting screams as Juana’s strokes were administered.

The children took covert looks at their mother, but she was placidly sewing as though she did not hear.

They did not know that she was praying silently, and the words which kept repeating themselves in her brain were: ‘Holy Mother of God, save my darling child. Help me to preserve her from the fate of her grandmother. Guide me. Help me to do what is right for her.’

A rider had come galloping to Cordova from Saragossa. There was news which he must impart immediately to Ferdinand.

Isabella knew of his arrival, but she did not seek out Ferdinand; she would wait until he told her what was happening. She herself was determined to remain the ruler of Castile; she left the governing of Aragon to him.

She knew that this trouble might well be concerned with the setting up of the Inquisition in Aragon. The first auto de fe, under the new Inquisition over which Torquemada presided, had taken place in May; this had been followed by another in June. She had heard that the people of Aragon regarded these ceremonies with the same sentiments as the people of Castile had done. They looked on in horrified bewilderment; they seemed stunned; they accepted the installation of the

Inquisition almost meekly. But in Seville their meekness had been proved to be part of their shock; and, when that had subsided, men, such as Diego de Susan, had sought to rise against the Holy Office.

Isabella had warned Ferdinand that they must be equally watchful in Aragon.

She discovered that she had been right, for Ferdinand came quickly to tell her the news. She knew he was anxious and she always rejoiced that in times of crisis they stood together, all differences forgotten.

‘Trouble,’ said Ferdinand, ‘trouble in Saragossa. A plot among the New Christians against the Inquisition.’

‘I trust that the Inquisitors are safe.’

‘Safe!’ cried Ferdinand. ‘Murder has been done. By the Holy Mother of God, these criminals shall pay for their crimes.’

He then told her the news which had been brought to him from Saragossa. It appeared that, as in Seville, the wealthy New Christians of Saragossa had believed that they could drive the Inquisition out of their town. Their plan was to assassinate the Inquisitors, Gaspar Juglar and Pedro Arbues de Epila, who had been working so zealously to provide victims for the hideous spectacles which had taken place in the town.

Several attempts had been made to murder these two men and they, being aware of this, had taken special precautions. They wore armour under their robes, but this had not saved them.

The conspirators had planned to murder their victims in the church, and had lain in wait for them there. Gaspar Juglar had not attended the church because he had become suddenly and mysteriously ill. It was evident that another plan had been put into action concerning him. So Arbues went to the Metropolitan church alone.

‘It was quiet in the church,’ cried Ferdinand in anger, ‘and they waited as bloodthirsty wolves wait for the gentle lamb.’

Isabella bowed her head in sorrow, and it did not occur to her that it was a little incongruous to describe as a gentle lamb, the man who had been hustling the people of Saragossa into the prisons of the Inquisition, into the dungeons where their bodies were racked and their limbs dislocated that they might inform on their friends.

She would have replied had this been put to her: the Inquisitors are working for Holy Church and the Holy Inquisition, and everything they do is in the name of the Christian Faith. If they find it necessary to inflict a little pain on those who have offended against Holy Church, of what importance can this be, since these people are destined for eternal damnation? The body suffers transient pain, but the soul is in danger of eternal torment. Moreover, there is always the hope that the heretic’s soul may be saved through his earthly torments.

She said to Ferdinand: ‘I pray you tell me what evil deed was done in the church.’

‘He came into the church from the cloisters,’ said Ferdinand, his face working with emotion. ‘It was dark, for it was midnight, and there was no light except that from the altar lamp. These wicked men fell upon Arbues, and although he wore mail under his robes, although there was a steel lining to his cap, they wounded him . . . to death.’

‘They have been arrested?’

‘Not yet, but we shall discover them.’

A messenger came to the apartment to tell them that Tomás de Torquemada was outside and implored immediate admission.

‘Bring him to us,’ said Ferdinand. ‘We need his help. We shall bring these criminals to justice. We will show them what punishment will be meted out to those who lay hands on God’s elected.’

Torquemada’s emaciated face was twisted with emotion.

‘Your Highnesses, this terrible news has been brought to me.’

‘The Queen and I are deeply distressed and determined that these murderers shall be brought to justice.’

Torquemada said: ‘I am dispatching three of my most trusted Inquisitors to Saragossa with all speed. Fray Juan Colvera, Doctor Alonso de Alarcon and Fray Pedro de Monterubio . . . all good men. I trust this meets with Your Highnesses’ approval.’

‘It has our approval,’ said Ferdinand.

‘I fear,’ said Isabella, ‘that there will be some delay, and that these good servants cannot hope to arrive in time to prevent the escape of all the criminals.’

‘I shall discover them,’ said Torquemada, his lips tightly compressed. ‘If I have every man and woman in Saragossa on the rack, I’ll discover them.’

Isabella nodded.

Torquemada went on: ‘The people of Saragossa have been deeply shocked by this murder. The whole town is in an uproar.’

‘Yes,’ said Ferdinand; and quite suddenly all the anger went out of his voice, and it was soft, almost caressing. ‘I hear that riots were avoided by the prompt action of one of its citizens.’

‘Is that so?’ said Isabella. ‘An important citizen, he must have been.’

‘Yes,’ said Ferdinand. ‘He left his palace and summoned the justices and grandees. He placed himself at the head of them and rode bravely to meet those who threatened to burn and pillage the city. He is but seventeen, and I fear he endangered his life; but he was very brave.’

‘He should be rewarded,’ Isabella declared.

‘So shall he be,’ answered Ferdinand.

He had moved towards the window as though deep in thought, and that tender smile still curved his mouth.

Isabella turned to Torquemada. ‘You know who this young man is?’ she asked.

‘Why, yes, Highness. It is the young Archbishop of Saragossa.’

‘Oh,’ said Isabella. ‘I believe I have heard of this young man. It was a brave action and one which delights the King of Aragon.’

And she thought: How he loves his son! Rarely have I seen his face so gentle as when he spoke of him; never have I seen him so quickly turned from anger.

She felt an impulse to ask questions about this young man, to demand of Ferdinand how often they met, what further honours he had showered upon him.

It is because of the child within me, she told herself. I am a very weak woman at these times.

Then she began to talk to Torquemada of this terrible occurrence in Saragossa, and how she was in complete agreement with his determination to meet opposition with greater severity.

Ferdinand joined them; he had recovered from the emotion which the mention of his beloved natural son had caused him.

The three of them talked earnestly of the manner in which they would deal with the rebels of Saragossa.