Spain for the Sovereigns

Chapter V TOMÁS DE TORQUEMADA

In a cell in the Monastery of Santa Cruz in the town of Segovia, a gaunt man, dressed in the rough garb of the Dominican Order, was on his knees.

He had remained thus for several hours, and this was not unusual for it was his custom to meditate and pray alternately for hours at a time.

He prayed now that he might be purged of all evil and given the power to bring others to the same state of exaltation which he felt that he himself – with minor lapses – enjoyed.

‘Holy Mother,’ he murmured, ‘listen to this humble supplicant . . .’

He believed fervently in his humility and, if it had been pointed out to him that this great quality had its roots in a fierce pride, he would have been astonished. Tomás de Torquemada saw himself as the elect of Heaven.

Beneath the drab robe of rough serge he wore the hair shirt which was a continual torment to his delicate skin. He revelled in the discomfort it caused; yet after years of confinement in this hideous garment he had grown a little accustomed to it and he fancied that it was less of a burden than it had once been. The thought disturbed him, for he wanted to suffer the utmost discomfort. He slept on a plank of wood without a pillow. Soft beds were not for him. In the early days of his austerity he had scarcely slept at all; now he found that he needed very little sleep and, when he lay on his plank, he fell almost immediately into unconsciousness. Thus another avenue of self-torture was closed to him.

He ate only enough to keep him alive; he travelled barefoot wherever he went and took care to choose the stony paths. The sight of his cracked and bleeding feet gave him a similar pleasure to that which fine garments gave to other men and women.

He gloried in austerity with a fierce and fanatical pride – as other men delighted in worldly glitter.

It was almost sixty years ago that he had been born in the little town of Torquemada (which took its name from the Latin turre cremata – burnt tower) not far from Valla-dolid in North Castile.

From Tomás’s early days he had shown great piety. His uncle, Juan de Torquemada, had been the Cardinal of San Sisto, a very distinguished theologian and writer on religious subjects.

Tomás had known that his father, Pero Fernandez de Torquemada, hoped that he would make the care of the family estates his life work, as he was an only son, and Pero was eager for Tomás to marry early and beget sons that this branch of the family might not become extinct.

Tomás had inherited a certain pride in his family, and this may have been one of the reasons why he decided so firmly that the life he had been called upon to lead, by a higher authority than that of Pero, should be one which demanded absolute celibacy.

At a very early age Tomás became a Dominican. With what joy he cast aside the fine raiment of a prosperous nobleman! With what pleasure he donned the rough serge habit, even at that age refusing to wear linen so that the coarse stuff could irritate his skin! It was very soon afterwards that he took to wearing the hair shirt, until he discovered that he must not wear it continually for fear that he should grow accustomed to it and the torment of it grow less.

He had become Prior of Santa Cruz of Segovia, but the news of his austere habits had reached the Court, and King Henry IV had chosen him as confessor to his sister Isabella.

He had refused at first; he wanted no soft life at Court. But then he had realised that there might be devils to tempt him at Court who could never penetrate the sanctity of Santa Cruz; and there would be more spiritual joy in resisting temptation than never encountering it.

The young Isabella had been a willing pupil. There could rarely have been a young princess so eager to share her confessor’s spirituality, so earnestly desirous of leading a rigidly religious life.

She had been pleased with her confessor, and he with her.

He had told her of his great desire to see an all-Christian Spain and, in an access of fervour, had asked that she kneel with him and swear that, if ever it were in her power to convert to Christianity the realm over which she might one day rule, she would seize the opportunity to do so.

The young girl, her eyes glowing with a fervour to match that of her confessor, had accordingly sworn.

It often occurred to Tomás de Torquemada that the opportunity must soon arise.

Torquemada had kept the esteem of the Queen. She admired his piety; she respected his motives; in a Court where she was surrounded by men who sought temporal power, this ascetic monk stood out as a man of deep sincerity.

As Torquemada prayed there was a thought at the back of his mind: now that Castile had ceased to be tormented by civil war, the time had come when the religious life of the country should be examined, and to him it seemed that the best way of doing this was to reintroduce the Inquisition into Castile, a new form of the Inquisition which he himself would be prepared to organise, an Inquisition which should be supervised by men like himself – monks of great piety, of the Dominican and Franciscan orders.

But another little matter had intruded into Torquemada’s schemes, and he had been diverted. It was because of this that he now prayed so earnestly. He had allowed himself to indulge in pleasure rather than duty.

A certain Hernan Nuñez Arnalt had recently died, and his will had disclosed that he had named Tomás de Torquemada as its executor. Arnalt had been a very rich man, and had left a considerable sum for the purpose of building a monastery at Avila which should be called the Monastery of Saint Thomas.

To Tomás de Torquemada had fallen the task of carrying out his wishes and he found great joy in this duty. He spent much time with architects and discovered a great love of building; but so great was this pleasure that he began to be doubtful about it. Anything that made a man as happy as the studying of plans for this great work made him, must surely have an element of sin in it. He was suspicious of happiness; and as he looked back to that day when he had first heard of the proposed endowment, and that he had been entrusted to see the work carried out, he was alarmed.

He had neglected his duties at Santa Cruz; he had thought only occasionally of the need to force Christianity on every inhabitant of Castile; he had ceased to consider the numbers who, while calling themselves Christians, were reverting to the Jewish religion in secret. These sinners called for the greatest punishment that could be devised by the human mind; and he, the chosen servant of God and all his saints, had been occupying himself by supervising the piling of stone on stone, by deciding on the exquisite line of the cloisters, by taking sensuous enjoyment in planning with sculptors the designs for the chapel.

Torquemada beat his hands on his breast and cried: ‘Holy Mother of God, intercede for this miserable sinner.’

He must devise some penance. But long austerity had made him careless of what his body suffered. ‘Yet,’ he said, ‘the Monastery will be dedicated to the glory of God. Is it such a sin to erect a building where men will live as recluses, a spiritual life, in great simplicity and austerity, and so come close to the Divine presence? Is that sin?’

The answer came from within. ‘It is sin to indulge in any earthly desire. It is sin to take pleasure. And you, Tomás de Torquemada, have exulted over these plans; you have made images of stone, works of exquisite sculpture; and you have lusted for these earthly baubles as some men lust for women.’

‘Holy Mother, scourge me,’ he prayed. ‘Guide me. Show me how I can expiate my sin. Shall I cut myself off from the work on the monastery? But it is for the glory of God that the monastery will be built. Is it such a sin to find joy in building a house of God?’

He would not visit the site of Avila for three weeks; he would look at no more plans. He would say: ‘My work at Santa Cruz demands all my energy. Castile is an unholy land, and I must do all in my power to bring sinners back to the Church.’

He rose from his knees. He had decided on the penance. He would shut his beautiful monastery from his mind for three weeks. He would live on nothing but dry bread and water; and he would increase his hours of prayer.

As he left his cell a monk came to him to tell him that two Dominicans from Seville had arrived at Santa Cruz, and they had come to speak with the Sacred Prior, Tomás de Torquemada.

Torquemada received the visitors in a cell which was bare of all furniture except a wooden table and three stools. On a wall hung a crucifix.

‘My brothers,’ said Torquemada in greeting, ‘welcome to Santa Cruz.’

‘Most holy Prior,’ said the first of the monks, ‘you know that I am Alonso de Ojeda, Prior of the monastery of Saint Paul. I would present our fellow Dominican, Diego de Merlo.’

‘Welcome, welcome,’ said Torquemada.

‘We are disturbed by events in Seville and, knowing of your great piety and influence with the Queen, we have come to ask your advice and help.’

‘I shall be glad to give it, if it should be in my power,’ was the answer.

‘Evil is practised in Seville,’ said Ojeda.

‘What evil is this, brother?’

‘The evil of those who work against the Holy Catholic Church. I speak of the Marrams.’

Torquemada’s face lost its deathlike pallor for an instant, and his blood showed pale pink beneath his skin; his eyes flashed momentarily with rage and hatred.

‘These Marrams,’ cried Diego de Merlo, ‘they abound in Seville . . . in Cordova . . . in every fair city of Castile. They are the rich men of Castile. Jews! Jews who feign to be Christians. They are Conversos. They are of the true faith; so they would imply. And in secret they practise their foul rites.’

Torquemada clenched his fists tightly and, although his face was bloodless once more, his eyes continued to gleam with fanatical hatred.

Ojeda began to speak rapidly. ‘Alonso de Spina warned us some years ago. They are here among us. They jeer at all that is sacred . . . in secret, of course. Jeer! If that were all! They are the enemies of Christians. In secret they practise their hideous rites. They spit upon holy images. You remember what Spina wrote of them?’

‘I remember,’ said Torquemada quietly.

But Ojeda went on as though Torquemada had not spoken: ‘They cook their food in oils, and they stink of rancid food. They eat kosher food. You can tell a Jew by his stink. Should we have these people among us? Only if they renounce their beliefs. Only if they are purified by their genuine acceptance of the Christian faith. But they cheat, I tell you.’

‘They are cheats and liars,’ echoed Diego de Merlo.

‘They are murderers,’ went on Ojeda. ‘They poison our wells; and worst of all they show their secret scorn of the Christian faith by committing hideous crimes. Only recently a little boy was missing from his home . . . a beautiful little boy. His body was discovered in a cave. He had been crucified, and his heart cut out.’

‘So these outrages continue,’ said Torquemada.

‘They continue, brother; and nothing is done to put an end to them.’

‘Something must be done,’ said de Merlo.

‘Something shall be done,’ replied Torquemada.

‘There should be a tribunal set up to deal with heretics,’ cried Ojeda.

‘The Inquisition is the answer,’ replied Torquemada; ‘but a new Inquisition . . . an efficient organization which would in time rid the country of heresy.’

‘There is no Inquisition in Castile at this time,’ went on Ojeda. ‘And why? Because, brother, it is considered that there are not enough cases of heresy existing in Castile to warrant the setting up of such an institution.’

Torquemada said: ‘There are Inquisitors in Aragon, in Catalonia and in Valencia. It is high time there were Inquisitors in Castile.’

‘And because of this negligence,’ said Ojeda, ‘in the town of Seville these knaves flourish. I would ask for particular attention to the men of Seville. Brother, we have come to ask your help.’

‘Readily would I give it in order to drive heresy from Spain,’ Torquemada told them.

‘We propose to ask an audience of the Queen to lay these facts before her. Holy Prior, can we count on your support with Her Highness?’

‘You may count on me,’ said Torquemada. His thin lips tightened, his eyes glistened. ‘I would arrest those who are suspect. I would wring confessions from them that they might implicate all who are concerned with them in their malpractices; and when they are exposed I would offer them a chance to save their souls before the fire consumed them.

Death by the fire! It is the only way to cleanse those who have been sullied by partaking in these evil rites.’ He turned to his guests. ‘When do you propose to visit the Queen?’

‘We are on our way to her now, brother, but we came first to you, for we wished to assure ourselves of your support.’

‘It is yours,’ said Torquemada. His eyes were shining. ‘The hour has come. It has been long delayed. This country has suffered much from civil war, but now we are at peace and the time has come to turn all men and women in Castile into good Christians. Oh, it will be a mighty task. And we shall need to bring them to their salvation through the rack, hoist and faggot. But the hour of glory is about to strike. Yes, yes, my friends, I am with you. Every accursed Jew in this kingdom, who has returned to the evil creed of his forefathers, shall be taken up, shall be put to the test, shall feel the healing fire. Go. Go to the Queen with my blessing. Call on me when you wish. I am with you.’

When his visitors had gone, Torquemada went to his cell and paced up and down.

‘Holy Mother,’ he cried, ‘curse all Jews. Curse those who deny the Christ. Give us power to uncover their wickedness and, when they are exposed in all their horror, we shall know how to deal with them in your holy name and that of Christ your son. We will take them. We will set them on the rack. We will tear their flesh with red-hot pincers. We will dislocate their limbs on the hoist. We will torture their bodies that we may save their souls.

‘A curse on the Marranos. A curse on the Conversos. I hate all practising Jews. I suspect all those who call themselves New Christians. Only when we have purged this land of their loathsome presence shall we have a pure Christian country.’

He fell to his knees and one phrase kept hammering in his brain: I hate all Jews.

He shut his mind to thoughts which kept intruding. It was not true. He would not accept it. His grandmother had not been a Jewess. His family possessed the pure Castilian blood. They were proud of their limpieza.

Never, never would Alvar Fernandez de Torquemada have introduced Jewish blood into the family. It was an evil thought; it was like a maggot working in his brain, tormenting him.

It was impossible, he told himself.

Yet, during the period in which his grandfather had been married, persecution of the Jews was rare. Many of them occupied high posts at Court and no one cared very much what blood they had in their veins. Grandfather Alvar Fernandez had carelessly married, perhaps not thinking of the future trouble he might be causing his family.

Tomás de Torquemada refused to believe it. But the thought persisted.

He remembered early days. The sly knowledge and sidelong looks of other boys, the whispers: ‘Tomás de Torquemada – he boasts of his Castilian blood. Oh, he is so proud of his limpieza – but what of his old grandmother? They say she is a Jewess.’

What antidote was there against this fear? What but hatred?

‘I hate the Jews!’ he had said continually. He forced himself to show great anger against them. Thus, he reasoned, none would believe that he was in the slightest way connected with them. Thus he could perhaps convince himself.

Alonso de Spina, who, almost twenty years before, had tried to arouse the people’s anger against the Jews, was himself a Converso. Did he, Tomas de Torquemada, whip himself to anger against them for the same reason?

Torquemada threw himself onto his knees. ‘Give me strength,’ he cried, ‘strength to drive all infidels and unbelievers to their death. Give me strength to bring the whole of Castile together as one Christian state. One God. One religion. And to the fire with all those who believe otherwise.’

Torquemada – who feared there might be a trace of Jewish blood in his veins – would emerge as the greatest Catholic of Castile, the punisher of heretics, the scourge of the Jews, the man who worked indefatigably to make an all-Christian Castile.

Ferdinand was with Isabella when she received Alonso de Ojeda and Diego de Merlo.

Isabella welcomed the monks cordially and begged them to state their business.

Ojeda broke into an impassioned speech in which he called her attention to the number of Converses living in Seville.

‘There are many Conversos throughout Castile,’ said Isabella quietly. ‘I employ some of them in my own service. I rejoice that they have become Christians. It is what I would wish all my subjects to be.’

‘Highness, my complaint is that while many of these Conversos in Seville profess Christianity they practise the Jewish religion.’

‘That,’ said Isabella, ‘is a very evil state of affairs.’

‘And one which,’ put in Diego de Merlo, ‘Your Highness would doubtless wish to end at the earliest possible moment.’

Isabella nodded slowly. ‘You had some project in mind, my friends?’ she said.

‘Highness, the Holy Office does not exist in Castile. We ask that you consider installing it here.’

Isabella glanced at Ferdinand. She saw that the pulse in his temple had begun to hammer. She felt sad momentarily, and almost wished that she did not understand Ferdinand so well. He was possessed by much human frailty, she feared. It had been a great shock to discover that not only had he an illegitimate son but that he had appointed him, at the age of six, Archbishop of Saragossa. That boy was not the only child Ferdinand had had by other women. She had discovered that a noble Portuguese lady had borne him a daughter. There might be others. How should she hear of them?

Now his eyes glistened, and she understood why. The Inquisition had been set up in Aragon and because of it the riches of certain condemned men had found their way into the royal coffers. Money could make Ferdinand’s eyes glisten like that.

‘Such procedure would need a great deal of consideration,’ said Isabella.

‘I am inclined to believe,’ said Ferdinand, his eyes still shining and with the flush in his cheeks, ‘that the installation of the Holy Office in Castile is greatly to be desired.’

The monks had now turned their attention to Ferdinand, and Ojeda poured out a storm of abuse against the Jews. He spoke of ritual murders, of Christian boys, three or four years old, who had been kidnapped to take part in some loathsome rites which involved the crucifixion of the innocent child and the cutting out of his heart.

Ferdinand cried: ‘This is monstrous. You are right. We must have an inquiry immediately.’

‘Have the bodies of these children been discovered?’ asked Isabella calmly.

‘Highness, these people are crafty. They bury the bodies in secret places. It is a part of their ritual.’

‘I think it would be considered necessary to have proof of these happenings before we could believe them,’ said Isabella.

Ferdinand had turned to her. She saw the angry retort trembling on his lips. She smiled at him gently. ‘I am sure,’ she said quietly, ‘that the King agrees with me.’

‘An inquiry might be made,’ said Ferdinand. His voice sounded aloof, as it did when he was angry.

‘An inquiry, yes,’ said Isabella. She turned to the monks. ‘This matter shall have my serious consideration. I am indebted to you for bringing it to my notice.’

She laid her hand on Ferdinand’s arm. It was a command to escort her from the chamber.

When they were alone, Ferdinand said: ‘My opinion would appear to count for little.’

‘It counts for a great deal,’ she told him.

‘But the Queen is averse to setting up the Inquisition in Castile?’

‘I have not yet given the matter sufficient consideration.’

‘I had always believed that it was one of your dearest wishes to see an all-Christian Castile.’

‘That is one of my dearest wishes.’

‘Why, then, should you be against the extirpation of heretics?’

‘Indeed I am not against it. You know it is part of our plans for Castile.’

‘Then who is best fitted to track them down? Surely the Inquisitors are the men for that task?’

‘I am not sure, Ferdinand, that I wish to see the Inquisition in Castile. I would wish first to assure myself that, by installing the Inquisition here, I should not give greater power to the Pope than he already has. We are the sovereigns of Castile, Ferdinand. We should share our power with no one else.’

Ferdinand hesitated. Then he said: ‘I am sure we could set up our Inquisition – our own Inquisition which should be apart from Papal influence. I may tell you, Isabella, that the Inquisition can bring profit to the crown. Many of the Conversos are rich men, and it is one of the rules of the Inquisition that those who are found guilty of heresy forfeit land . . . wealth . . . all possessions.’

‘The treasury is depleted,’ said Isabella. ‘We need money. But I would prefer to replenish it through other means.’

‘Are the means so important?’

She looked at him almost coldly. ‘They are of the utmost importance.’

Ferdinand corrected himself quickly. ‘Providing the motive is a good one . . .’ he began. ‘And what better motive than to bring salvation to poor misguided fools? What nobler purpose than to lead them into the Catholic Church?’

‘It is what I would wish to see, but as yet I am inclined to give this matter further consideration.’

‘You will come to understand that the Inquisition is a necessity if you are to make an all-Catholic Castile.’

‘You may be right, Ferdinand. You often are.’ She smiled affectionately. Come, she seemed to be saying, let us be friends.

This marriage of ours has brought disappointments to us both. I am a woman who knows she must rule in her own way; you hoped I would be different. You are a man who cannot be faithful to his wife; I hoped you would be different. But here we are – two people of strong personalities which we cannot change, even for the sake of the other. Let us be content with what we have been given. Do not let us sigh for the impossible. For our marriage is more than the union of two people. What matters it if in our hearts we suffer these little disappointments? What are they, compared with the task which lies before us?

She went on: ‘I wish to show you our new device. I trust it will please you, for it gives me so much pleasure. I am having it embroidered on a banner, and I did not mean to show you until it was finished; but soon it will be seen all over Castile, and when the people see it they will know that you and I stand together in all things.’

He allowed himself to be placated; and she called to one of her pages to bring the piece of embroidery to her.

When it was brought she showed him the partly finished pattern.

She read in her quiet voice, which held a ring of triumph: ‘Tanto monta, monta tanto – Isabel como Fernando.’

She saw a slow smile break out on Ferdinand’s face. As much as the one is worth, so much is the other – Isabella as Ferdinand.

She could not say more clearly than that how she valued him, how she looked upon him as her co-ruler in Castile.

Still he knew that in all important matters she considered herself the sole adjudicator. Whatever their device, whatever her gentleness, she still remained Queen in her own right. She held supreme authority in Castile.

As for the installation of the Inquisition, thought Ferdinand, in time she would agree to it. He would arrange for Torquemada to persuade her.

With Ferdinand on one side to show what material good the Inquisitors could bring them, with Torquemada on the other to speak of the spiritual needs of Castile – they would win. But it would not be until they had convinced Isabella that the Inquisition was necessary to Castile.

Isabella sent for Cardinal Mendoza and commanded that it should be a completely private audience.

‘I pray you sit down, Cardinal,’ she said. ‘I am deeply disturbed, and I wish you to give me your considered opinion on the matter I shall put before you.’

The Cardinal waited respectfully; he guessed the matter was connected with the visit of the two Dominicans.

‘Alonso de Ojeda and Diego de Merlo,’ began Isabella, ‘are deeply concerned regarding the behaviour of Marrams in Seville. They declare that there are many men and women who, proclaiming themselves to be Christians, cynically practise Jewish rites in secret. They even accuse them of kidnapping and crucifying small boys. They wish to set up the Inquisition in Castile. What is your opinion of this, Cardinal?’

The Cardinal was thoughtful for a few seconds. Then he said: ‘We have fanatics in our midst, Highness. I am deeply opposed to fanaticism. It warps the judgement and destroys the peace of the community. Through the centuries the Jewish communities have been persecuted, but there is no evidence that such persecution has brought much good to the countries in which it was carried out. Your Highness will remember that in the fourteenth century Fernando Martinez preached against the Jews and declared that they were responsible for the Black Death. The result – pogroms all over Spain. Many suffered, but there is no evidence of any good that this brought. From time to time rumours spring up of the kidnapping and crucifixion of small boys, but we should ask ourselves what truth there is in these rumours. It was not very long ago that Alonso de Spina published his account of the evil doings of Conversos. Strange, when he himself was a Converse. One feels that he wished it to be widely known that he was a good Catholic . . . so good, so earnest that he was determined to expose his fellows. Very soon afterwards rumours of kidnappings and crucifixions occurred again. I think, Highness, knowing your desire for justice, that you would wish to examine these rumours with the utmost care before accepting them as truth.’

‘You are right. But should they not be examined? And in that case, who should be the examiners? Should this task not be the duty of Inquisitors?’

‘Can we be sure, Highness, that this desire to set up the Inquisition in Castile does not come from Rome?’

Isabella smiled faintly. ‘It is as though you speak my thoughts aloud.’

‘May I remind you of the little controversy which recently occurred?’

‘There is no need to remind me,’ answered Isabella. ‘I remember full well.’

Her thoughts went to that recent incident, when she had asked for the appointment of one of her chaplains, Alonso de Burgos, to the bishopric of Cuenca; but because the nephew of Pope Sixtus, Raffaele Riario, had desired the post it had gone to him. As Isabella had on two previous occasions asked for appointments for two of her proteges – which had gone to the Pope’s candidates – she was angry and had recalled her ambassador from the Vatican. With Ferdinand’s help she had proposed to get together a council, that the conduct of the Pope might be examined. Sixtus, alarmed that his nepotism would be exposed in all its blatancy, gave way to Isabella and Ferdinand, and bestowed the posts they had demanded on their candidates.

It was quite reasonable to suppose therefore that Sixtus would have his alert eyes on Isabella and Ferdinand and would seek some means of curbing their power. How could this be done with greater effect than by installing the Inquisition – an institution which was apart from the state and had its roots in Rome? The Inquisition could grow up side by side with the state, gradually usurping more and more of its power. It could be equivalent to a measure of Roman rule in Spain.

Isabella looked with grateful affection at the Cardinal, who had been thinking on the same lines and who saw the issues at stake as clearly as she did herself.

‘I know Your Highness will agree with me that we must be continually watchful of the power of Rome. Here in Castile Your Highness is supreme. It is my urgent desire that you should remain so.’

‘You are right as usual,’ answered Isabella. ‘But I am disturbed that some of my subjects should revile the Christian faith.’

The Cardinal was thoughtful. In his heart – although this was something he could never explain to Isabella, for he knew she would never understand him – he believed in taking his religion lightly. He was aware that belief – to be real belief – must be free. It was something which could not be forced. This was contrary to the accepted notion, he was fully aware, and for this reason he must keep his thoughts to himself. He wished life to be comfortably pleasant and, above all, dignified. The Inquisition in Aragon, Valencia and Catalonia was, he realised, at this stage a lethargic institution. Its officers lived easily and did not much concern themselves with the finding of heretics. If such were discovered they could, no doubt, by the means of a little bribery and diplomacy, escape disaster.

But when he thought of this earnest young Queen who, by her single-minded purpose and strict punishment of all offenders, had changed a state of anarchy into one of ever-growing law and order, he could imagine what such a new and terrifying institution as the Inquisition could become under the sway of Isabella and such men as Tomás de Torquemada, whom it was almost certain, Isabella would nominate – perhaps with himself – as her chief adviser if she should establish the Inquisition in Castile.

Isabella and Torquemada were stern with themselves; they would be more dreadfully so with others.

To a man who loved luxury, who cared for good living, who was devoted to the study of literature and enjoyed translating Ovid, Sallust and Virgil into verse, the thought of forcing opinions on men who were reluctant to receive them, and would only do so under threat of torture and death, was abhorrent.

Cardinal Mendoza would have enjoyed calling to his presence those men of different opinion, discussing their views, conceding a point, setting forth his own views. To force his opinions on others was nauseating to a man of his culture and tolerance. As for the thought of torture, it disgusted him.

This he could not explain to Isabella. He admired Isabella. She was shrewd; she was earnest; she was determined to do what was right. But, in the Cardinal’s opinion, she was uneducated; and he deplored her lack of education, which had resulted in a narrow mind and a bigotry which prevented her from meeting the Cardinal on his own intellectual level.

The Cardinal was going to fight against the installation of the Inquisition with certain enthusiasm. He could not, however, bring to bear the fervour of a Torquemada, for he was not of the same fervent nature. But he would certainly attempt to lead Isabella away from that line of action.

He said: ‘Highness, let us give a great deal of thought to this matter. Before we decide to bring in the Inquisitors, let us warn the people of Seville that they place themselves in danger by denying the faith.’

Isabella nodded. ‘We will prepare a manifesto . . . a special catechism in which we will explain the duties of a true Christian. This could be set up in all churches in Seville and preached from all pulpits.’

‘Those who do not conform,’ said the Cardinal, ‘will be threatened with the fires of hell.’

‘It may well be,’ said Isabella, ‘that this will be enough to turn these men and women of Seville from their evil ways.’

‘Let us pray that it will serve,’ said the Cardinal. ‘Is it Your Highness’s wish that I should prepare this catechism?’

‘None could do it so well, I am sure,’ said Isabella.

The Cardinal withdrew, well pleased. He had – for the time at least – foiled the attempt of the Dominicans to install the Inquisition in Castile. Now he would produce his catechism, and he hoped that it would bring about the required effect.

Shortly afterwards Mendoza’s Catecismo de la Doctrina Cristiana was being widely circulated throughout the erring town of Seville.

When Torquemada heard that Mendoza’s Catecismo was being circulated in Seville he laughed aloud, and laughter was something he rarely indulged in. But this laughter was scornful and ironical.

‘There is a great deal you have to learn about the wickedness of human nature, Cardinal Mendozal!’ he murmured to himself.

Torquemada was sure that the heretics of Seville would pretend to study the catechism; they would feign belief in the Christian faith; then they would creep away and jeer at Mendoza, at Isabella, at all good Christians while they practised their Jewish rites in secret.

‘This is not the way to cleanse Seville!’ cried Torquemada; and he was on his knees asking for Divine help, imploring the Virgin to intercede for him, that he might be given the power to cleanse not only Seville but the whole of Castile of the taint of heresy.

In time, he told himself, understanding will dawn on the Queen – even on the Cardinal who, though a good Catholic himself, leads a far from virtuous life. Scented linen, frequent baths, amours . . . indulgence in the sensuous enjoyment of music and literature! The Cardinal would on his deathbed have to ask remission of many sins.

Torquemada embraced himself, pressing his arms round his torso so that the hair shirt came into even more painful contact with his long-suffering body. Secretly he thanked God and the saints that he was not as other men.

It seemed to him then that he had a glimmer of the Divine will. His time would come. The Cardinal would fail, and into the hands of Torquemada would be placed the task of bringing Castile to repentance.

Until then he might concern himself with the building of the monastery of St Thomas. So to Avila he travelled with a good conscience. He was sure that soon he would receive the call to desert pleasure for duty.

Isabella had journeyed to Seville.

It had been the custom of the Kings of Castile to sit in the great hall of the Alcazar and pronounce judgement on offenders who were brought before them.

Each day Isabella attended in the great hall. Occasionally Ferdinand accompanied her and they sat side by side administering justice.

These sessions were conducted in a ceremonial manner, and Isabella was sumptuously dressed for the purpose. She took little delight in fine clothes, but was always ready to see the need for splendour. It was imperative that she be recognised in this turbulent city as the great Queen of Castile; and in this place, where the inhabitants had lived among the remains of Moorish splendours, it was necessary to impress them with her own grandeur.

Isabella proved herself to be a stern judge.

Determined as she was to eradicate crime in her kingdom, she showed little mercy to those who were found guilty. She believed that the slightest leniency on her part might send certain of her subjects back to a life of crime, and that, she was determined, should not happen. If she could not make them reform for the love of virtue she would make them do so from the fear of dire punishment.

Executions were numerous, and a daily ceremony.

The people were beginning to understand that this woman, who was their Queen, was far stronger than the male rulers of the past years. Four thousand robbers escaped across the frontiers, while Isabella dealt with those who had been caught and found guilty. They would suffer as they had made others suffer, and they should be an example to all.

It was in the great hall of the Seville Alcazar that a party of weeping women, led by the Church dignitaries of Andalucia, came to her and implored her for mercy.

Isabella received them gravely. She sat in regal state, her face quite impassive, while she watched those women in their anguish.

They were the mothers and daughters of men who had offended against the laws of the land.

‘Highness,’ cried their spokesman, ‘these people admit that their loved ones have sinned and that the Queen’s rule is just, but they implore your mercy. Grant them the lives of their husbands and fathers on condition that they swear never to sin again.’

Isabella considered the assembly.

To her there was only wrong and right – completely clear cut. She could condemn malefactors to great suffering and be quite unmoved; Isabella had not much imagination, and it would never occur to her to see herself in another’s place. Therefore she could contemplate the utmost suffering unperturbed.

But her aim was not punishment in itself, but only as a means to law and order; and, as she studied these weeping women, it occurred to her that if they would be responsible for the good conduct of their men she had no wish to punish them.

‘My good people,’ she said, ‘you may go your way in peace. My great desire is not to inflict harsh punishment on you and your folk, but to ensure for you all a peaceful land. I therefore grant an amnesty for all sinners – except those who have committed serious crimes. There is a condition. Those who are freed must give an undertaking to live in future as peaceful citizens. If they do not, and are again brought before myself or any of the judges, their punishment will be doubly severe.’

A great cry went up in the hall. ‘Long live Isabella!’ In the streets, the cry was taken up; and as a tribute to her strength they added: ‘Long live King Isabella!’

From Andalucia to Galicia went Ferdinand and Isabella. Galicia was a turbulent province, ready to give trouble to Isabella as Catalonia had given trouble to Aragon.

But how different was the state of the country! Already there were signs of prosperity where there had been desolation. Travellers no longer had their fear of robbers which had once made travelling a nightmare. The inns were looking prosperous and almost gay.

Isabella felt a wave of exultation as she rode through the countryside and received the heartfelt gratitude of her subjects.

Ferdinand, riding beside her, said: ‘We see a prosperous country emerging from the chaos. Let us hope that soon it will be not only a prosperous but an all-Christian country.’

Isabella knew that this was a reference to her refusal to establish the Inquisition in Castile, but she feigned ignorance of the meaning behind his words. ‘I share that hope,’ she said gently.

‘It will not be until we have defeated Muley Abul Hassan and have set the holy banner flying over Granada.’

‘I fear not, Ferdinand.’

‘He showed his defiance of us when he asked for a peace treaty and refused to pay the tribute I demanded on your behalf. Because he had paid none to your brother, that did not mean that we should allow him to pay none to you. You remember his insolent answer.’

‘I remember it very well,’ answered Isabella. ‘“Tell the Queen and King of Castile that we do not coin gold but steel in Granada.”’

‘An insolent threat,’ cried Ferdinand, ‘made by Muley Abul Hassan because he knew that we were not in a position to chastise him for it. But the position is changing, eh, Isabella.’

She smiled at him. He was restive, always eager for action. It was as though he said: Since we cannot have the Inquisition installed in Castile let us make immediate war on Granada.

She said, continuing her thoughts aloud: ‘We have recently emerged from one war. There is nothing that saps a country’s resources so surely as war, there is nothing so fraught with danger.’

‘This would be a holy war,’ said Ferdinand piously. ‘We should have Heaven on our side.’

‘A holy war,’ mused Isabella.

She was thinking of herself as a young Princess, kneeling with Tomás de Torquemada, who had said: ‘You must swear that if ever you have the power you will work with all your might to make an all-Christian Spain.’ And she had replied: ‘I swear.’

‘I swear,’ now said Isabella the Queen.

In Galicia Isabella dispensed justice with the same severity as she did in Castile. For those who had robbed and murdered she showed little mercy; and she dealt justice alike to rich and poor.

Often Ferdinand would be on the point of making suggestions to her. She did her utmost to avoid this; one of the things she hated most was to have to deny Ferdinand what he asked; yet she never hesitated to do so if she felt that justice demanded it.

It was thus in the case of Alvaro Yañez de Lugo. De Lugo was a very wealthy knight of Galicia who had been found guilty of turning his castle into a robber’s den; travellers had been lured there to be robbed and murdered; and Isabella had judged that his punishment should be death.

She had left the judgement hall for her apartments when she heard that a man was imploring an audience with her on a matter of extreme importance.

Ferdinand was with her, and she asked that the man be brought to her presence immediately.

When he came, he looked furtively about him, and Isabella gave the order for all except Ferdinand to retire.

The man still looked apprehensive, and Isabella said: ‘I pray you tell me your mission. Have no fear, none but the King and myself will hear what you have to say.’

‘Highnesses,’ said the man falling on his knees, ‘I come from Don Alvaro Yañez de Lugo.’

Isabella frowned. ‘The robber,’ she said coldly, ‘who is under sentence of death?’

‘Yes, Highness. He has rich and powerful friends. They offer you a large sum of money if you will spare his life.’

Isabella indignantly replied: ‘How could his life be spared when he has been justly sentenced to death?’

‘How much money?’ Ferdinand had found it impossible to prevent himself asking that question.

The answer came promptly. ‘Forty thousand doblas of gold.’

‘Forty thousand doblas!’ Ferdinand echoed the words almost unbelievingly. ‘Have his friends so large a sum?’

‘Indeed yes, Highness. And it is at your disposal. All that is asked in return is the life of Alvaro Yanez de Lugo.’

‘His is a very valuable life,’ said Ferdinand with a smile, and to her horror Isabella saw the acquisitive light in his eyes.

‘In gold, Highness,’ whispered the man. ‘Half to be delivered on your Highnesses’ promise, the other half when Don Alvaro is free.’

Isabella spoke then. She said: ‘It seems to have been forgotten that this man is guilty of crimes so great that the death penalty has been imposed on him.’

‘That is why,’ explained Ferdinand, not without some impatience, ‘a great sum is offered for his release.’

‘It would seem to me,’ said Isabella quietly, ‘that this money, which is doubtless stolen property, would be highly tainted.’

‘We would wash it free of all taint,’ said Ferdinand, ‘if . . .’

‘We shall not put ourselves to such pains,’ answered Isabella decisively. ‘You may return to your friends,’ she went on, addressing the man, ‘and tell them that this is not the way the Queen of Castile dispenses justice.’

‘Highness . . . you refuse!’

‘The friends of Alvaro Yañez de Lugo do not know me, or they would not have dared bring such a dishonourable proposal to me. You should leave immediately before I decide to have you arrested for attempted bribery.’

The man bowed and hurried from the apartment.

Ferdinand’s face was white with anger.

‘I see that you do not wish to pursue this holy war against the Moors.’

‘I wish it with all my heart,’ Isabella replied mildly.

‘And as we are debarred from fighting this war because of the low state of the treasury you turn your back on forty thousand gold doblas!’

‘I turn my back on bribery.’

‘But forty thousand doblas . . .’

‘My kingdom shall be built on justice,’ Isabella told him simply. ‘How could that be if I brought to justice only those who could not buy their release?’

Ferdinand lifted his hands in an exasperated gesture. ‘We need money . . . desperately.’

‘We need honour more,’ she told him with dignity.

Ferdinand turned away from her. He could not trust himself to speak. Money . . . gold was in question; and Isabella was learning that her husband loved gold with a fervour he rarely bestowed on anything else.

Alonso de Ojeda had returned to the Monastery of St Paul in Seville a disappointed man. He had hoped by this time to have seen the Inquisition flourishing in Seville; and he feared that since Torquemada – who he knew desired, as much as he did himself, to see the Inquisition set up – could not persuade the Queen to it, there was little hope that anyone else could.

The fiery Ojeda stormed at his fellow Dominicans; he harangued the saints in his prayers. ‘How long, how long,’ he demanded, ‘must you look on at the sin of this city? How long before to us there is given a means of punishing these heretics that they may have a chance of salvation? Give me a sign . . . a sign.’

Then – so Ojeda believed – came the sign, when there arrived at the monastery a young man who asked that he might be allowed an interview with the Prior, as he was deeply disturbed by something he had witnessed. He needed immediate advice.

Ojeda agreed to see him.

The man was young and good looking, and Ojeda, recognising him immediately as a member of the noble house of Guzman, took him into a small cell-like apartment.

‘Now, my son,’ said the Prior, ‘you look distraught. What is this you want to confess, and why did you not take the matter to your own confessor?’

‘Most Holy Prior, I feel this matter to be more than a confession. I feel it could be of the utmost importance. I know that you journeyed to Court recently and saw the Queen. For this reason, I believed I should come to you.’

‘Well, let me hear the nature of this confession.’

‘Holy Prior, I have a mistress.’

‘The lusts of the flesh must be subdued. You must do penance and sin no more.’

‘She is a Marram.’

Ojeda’s lids fell over his eyes, but his heart leaped with excitement.

‘If she is a true Christian her Jewish blood should be of small account.’

‘Holy Prior, I believed her to be a true Christian. Otherwise I should never have consorted with her.’

Ojeda nodded. Then he said: ‘She lives in the Jewish quarter?’

‘Yes, Holy Prior. I visited her father’s house in the juderia. She is very young, and it is naturally against the wishes of her family that she should take a lover.’

‘That is understandable,’ said Ojeda sternly. ‘And you persuaded her to defy her father’s commands?’

‘She is very beautiful, Holy Prior, and I was sorely tempted.’

‘How was it that you visited her father’s house when he had forbidden her to take a lover?’

‘I went in secret, Holy Prior.’

‘Your penance must be harsh.’

‘It may be, Holy Prior, that my sin will be readily forgiven me because had I not gone in secret I should never have discovered the evil that was going on in the house of my mistress.’

Ojeda’s voice shook with excitement. ‘Pray continue,’ he said.

‘This is Holy Week,’ went on the young man. ‘I had forgotten that it was also the eve of the Jewish Passover.’

‘Go on, go on,’ cried Ojeda, unable now to suppress his eagerness.

‘My mistress had secreted me in her room, and there we made love. But, Holy Prior, I became aware of much bustle in the house. Many people seemed to be calling, and this was not usual. There were footsteps outside the room in which I lay with my mistress, and I grew alarmed. It occurred to me that her father had discovered my presence in the house and was calling together his friends to surprise us and perhaps kill me.’

‘And this was what they were doing?’

‘They had not a thought of me, Holy Prior, as I was to discover. I could no longer lie there, so I rose hastily and dressed. I told my mistress that I wished to leave as soon as I could, and she, seeming to catch my fear, replied that the sooner I was out of the house the better. So we waited until there was quietness on the stairs, and then we slipped out of her room. But as we reached the hall we heard sounds in a room nearby, and my mistress, in panic, opened a door and pushed me into a cupboard and shut the door. She was only just in time, for her father came into the hall and greeted friends who had just arrived. They were close to the cupboard in which I was hidden, and they did not lower their voices; so I heard all that was said. The friends had arrived at the house to celebrate the Passover. My mistress’s father laughed aloud and jeered at Christianity. He laughed because he, a professing Christian, in secret practised the Jewish religion.’

Ojeda clenched his fists and closed his eyes. ‘And so we have caught them,’ he cried; ‘we have caught them in all their wickedness. You did right, my friend; you did right to come to me.’

‘Then, Holy Prior, I am forgiven?’

‘Forgiven! You are blessed. You were led to that house that you might bring retribution on those who insult Christianity. Be assured the holy saints will intercede for you. You will be forgiven the sin you have committed, since you bring these evil doers to justice. Now tell me, the name of your mistress’s father? The house where he lives? Ah, he will not long live in his evil state!’

‘Holy Prior, my mistress . . .’

‘If she is innocent all will be well with her.’

‘I would not speak against her.’

‘You have saved her from eternal damnation. Living in such an evil house, it may well be that she is in need of salvation. Have no fear, my son. Your sins are forgiven you.’

The Marrano family was brought before Ojeda.

‘It is useless,’ he told them, ‘to deny your sins. I have evidence of them which cannot be refuted. You must furnish me with a list of all those who took part with you in the Jewish Passover.’

The head of the house spoke earnestly to Ojeda. ‘Most Holy Prior,’ he said, ‘we have sinned against the Holy Catholic Church. We reverted to the religion of our Fathers. We crave pardon. We ask for our sins to be forgiven and that we may be taken back into the Church.’

‘There must have been others who joined in these barbarous rites with you. Who were these?’

‘Holy Prior, I beg of you, do not ask me to betray my friends.’

‘But I do ask it,’ said Ojeda.

‘I could not give their names. They came in secrecy and they were promised secrecy.’

‘It would be wiser for you to name them.’

‘I cannot do it, Holy Prior.’

Ojeda felt a violent hatred rising in his heart. It should be possible now to take this man to the torture chambers for a little persuasion. Oh, he could stand there very nobly defending his friends. How would he fare if he were put on the rack, or had his limbs dislocated on the hoist? That would be a very different story.

And here am I, thought Ojeda, with a miserable sinner before me; and I am unable to act.

‘Your penance would be less severe if you gave us the names of your friends,’ Ojeda reminded him.

But the man was adamant. He would not betray his friends.

Ojeda imposed the penance, and since these Marranos begged to be received back into the Christian Church, there was nothing to be done but admit them.

When he was alone Ojeda railed against the laws of Castile. Had the Inquisition been effective in Castile, that man would have been taken to a dungeon; there he would have been questioned; there he would have betrayed his friends; and instead of a few penances, a few souls saved, there might have been hundreds. Nor would they have escaped with a light sentence. They would have been found guilty of heresy, and the true punishment for heresy was surely death . . . death by fire that the sinner might have a foretaste of Hell’s torment for which he was destined.

But as yet the Inquisition had not been introduced into Castile.

Ojeda set out for Avila, where Torquemada was busy with the plans for the monastery of Saint Thomas.

He received Ojeda with as much pleasure as it was possible for him to show, for Ojeda was a man after his own heart.

Ojeda lost no time in coming to the point.

‘I am on my way to Cordova, where the sovereigns are at this time in residence,’ he explained. ‘I have uncovered certain iniquity in Seville which cannot be passed over. I shall ask for an audience and then implore the Queen to introduce the Inquisition into this land.’

He then told Torquemada what had happened in the house in the juderia.

‘But this is deeply shocking,’ cried Torquemada. ‘I could wish that the young Guzman had gone to the house on a different mission – but the ways of God are inscrutable. In the cupboard he heard enough to condemn these people to death – if as much consideration had been given here in Spain to spiritual life as has been given to civil laws. The facts should be laid before the Queen without delay.’

‘And who could do that more eloquently than yourself? It is for this reason that I have come to you now. I pray you accompany me to Cordova, there to add your pleas to mine.’

Torquemada looked with some regret at the plans he had been studying. He forced his mind from a contemplation of exquisite sculpture. This was his duty. The building of a Christian state from which all heresy had been eliminated – that was a greater achievement than the finest monastery in the world.

Torquemada stood before the Queen. A few paces behind her stood Ferdinand, and behind Torquemada was Ojeda.

Ojeda had recounted the story of what the young man had heard in the cupboard.

‘And this,’ cried Torquemada, ‘is an everyday occurrence in Your Highness’s city of Seville.’

‘I cannot like the young man’s mission in that house,’ mused Isabella.

‘Highness, we deplore it. But his discovery is of the utmost importance; and who shall say whether or not this particular young man was led to sin, not by the devil, but by the saints? Perhaps in this way we have been shown our duty?’

Isabella was deeply shocked. To her it seemed sad that certain of her subjects should not only be outside the Christian faith but that they should revile it. Clearly some action must be taken.

She did not trust Sixtus. Yet Ferdinand was eager for the setting up of the Inquisition. She knew, of course, that his hope was that by its action riches would be diverted, from those who now possessed them, to the royal coffers. She knew that many of the New Christians were rich men, for the Jews had a way of enriching themselves. She needed money. But she would not so far forget her sense of honour and justice as to set up the Inquisition for the sake of monetary gain.

She hesitated. Three pairs of fanatical eyes watched her intently while the fate of Spain hung in the balance.

Ojeda and Torquemada believed that torture and death should be the reward of the heretic. Isabella agreed with them. Since they were destined for eternal Hell fire, what was a little baptismal burning on earth? Ferdinand was a fanatic too. When he thought of money and possessions his eyes flashed every bit as fiercely as Torquemada’s did for the faith.

Isabella remembered the vow she had once made before Torquemada; he was reminding her of it now.

An all-Christian Spain. It was her dream. But was she to give the Pope more influence than he already had?

Yet, considering her recent victories over him, she believed she – and Ferdinand with her – could handle him, should the occasion arise. Therefore why should she hesitate to set up the Inquisition in Castile that the land might be purged of heretics?

She turned to Ferdinand. ‘We will ask His Holiness for permission to set up the Inquisition in Castile,’ she said.

The waiting men relaxed.

Isabella had decided the fate of Spain, the fate of thousands.