Spain for the Sovereigns

Chapter VIII INSIDE THE KINGDOM OF GRANADA

The most beautiful and the most prosperous province of Spain was Granada. It contained rich resources; there were minerals in its mountains; its Mediterranean ports were the most important in the whole of Spain; its pasture lands were well watered; and the industry of its people had made it rich.

The most beautiful city in Spain was the capital of the kingdom, Granada itself. Enclosed in walls with a thousand and thirty towers and seven portals, it appeared to be impregnable. The Moors were proud of their city and had reason to be. Its buildings were exquisite; its streets were narrow and the lofty houses were decorated with metal which shone in sun and starlight, giving the impression that they were jewelled.

The most handsome building in Granada – and in the whole of Spain – was the mighty Alhambra, fortress and palace, set on a hill. Not only was this enchanting to the eye, with its brilliant porticos and colonnades, not only did it, with its patios and baths, speak of luxury and extravagance, it was also useful and could house, should the need arise, an army of forty thousand.

Granada had been the centre of Moorish culture since 1228, when a chieftain of the tribe of Beni Hud had decided to make himself ruler of this fair city and had received rights of sovereignty from the Caliph of Baghdad, that he might reign under the titles of Amir ul Moslemin and Al Mutawakal (the Commando of the Moslems and the Protected of God).

There had been many to come after him, and their reigns had been turbulent; there were continual affrays with the Christian forces, and in 1464 a treaty was made with Henry IV in which it was arranged that Mohammed, the reigning King, should put Granada under the protection of Castile, and for this protection should pay to the kings of Castile an annual tribute of 12,000 gold ducats. It was this sum that the acquisitive Ferdinand had sought to bring to the Castilian coffers, for, when the affairs of Castile became anarchical during the latter years of the disastrous reign of Henry IV, the Moors had allowed the tribute to lapse, and the Castilians had not been in a position to enforce it.

Mohammed Ismail died in 1466, and when his son Muley Abul Hassan came to the throne the affairs of Granada were becoming almost as turbulent as those in the nearby province of Castile.

Even so, the Moors were a warlike people and determined to defend what they considered to be theirs. It was seven hundred years since the Arabs had conquered the Visigoths and settled in Spain. After seven hundred years the Moors felt that they could call Granada their own country.

Unfortunately for the Moorish population of Spain they faced defeat, not only because of the enemy without but on account of their troubles within.

There was treason in the very heart of the royal family.

From behind the hangings the Sultana Zoraya, the Star of the Morning, looked out onto the patio where the Sultan’s favourite slave sat trailing her fingers in the water. Zoraya was full of hatred.

The Greek was beautiful, with a strange beauty never seen before in the harem; and the Sultan visited her often.

Zoraya was not disturbed by this. Let the Sultan visit the Greek when he wished. Zoraya was no longer young, and she had lived long enough in the harem to know that the favour of Sultans passed quickly.

The great ambition of the Sultan’s wives should be to have a son, and Zoraya had her son, her Abu Abdallah, known as Boabdil.

Her fear was that the Greek’s son should be put above Boabdil; and that she would never allow. She would be ready to kill any who stood between her son and his inheritance, and she was determined that the next Sultan of Granada should be Boabdil.

It was for this reason that she watched the Greek; it was for this reason that she intrigued within the Alhambra itself – a difficult feat for a woman who, a wife of the Sultan, must live among women guarded by eunuchs.

But Zoraya was no humble Arab woman, and she did not believe in the superiority of the male.

She had been educated in her home in Martos, when she had been intended for a brilliant marriage, so it was surprising that she should have lived so many years of her life in a Sultan’s palace.

Yet it had not been a bad life. She would have no regrets once she had set Boabdil on the throne of Granada.

It was not difficult to arrange for messages to be passed from the harem to other parts of the palace. She who had been such a beautiful woman in her youth was now a forceful one. And Muley Abul Hassan was growing old and feeble. It was his brother, who was known by the name of El Zagal, the Valiant One, whom she feared.

Zoraya was proud. She had had her way often enough with the old Sultan. She had demanded special privileges from the moment when she had been brought before him in chains, and Muley Abul Hassan had denied her little in those days.

She was allowed to visit her son, Boabdil, though it should have been clear to the old Sultan that she sought to set a new Sultan in his place.

She despised Muley Abul Hassan as much as she feared his brother.

Now, as she watched the Greek slave, she asked herself what she had to fear. The Greek was beautiful, but Zoraya had more than beauty.

She thought of the day she had been brought to the Alhambra. She, the proud daughter of the proud governor of the town of Martos.

A strange day of heat and tension, a day which stood out in her life as one in which everything had changed, when she had stepped from one life to another – from one civilization to another. How many women were destined to live the life of a sheltered daughter of a Castilian nobleman and that of one of several wives in the harem of a Sultan!

But on that day Dona Isabella de Solis had become Zoraya, the Star of the Morning.

All through the day the battle had raged, and it was in the late afternoon when the Moors had stormed her father’s

residence. In a room in one of the towers, which could only be reached by a spiral staircase, she had cowered with her personal maid, listening to the shouts of the invaders, the death-cries of men, the screams of the women.

‘We cannot escape,’ she had said again and again. ‘How is it possible for us to escape? Will they not search every room, every corner?’

She was right. There was no escape. And when she heard footsteps on the spiral staircase she pushed her trembling maid behind her and confronted the intruder. He was a man of high rank in the Moorish army. He stood looking at her, his bloody scimitar in his hand, and he saw that she was beautiful. Her dignity – that ingrained Castilian quality – was not lost on her captor. He took her maid. She would be for him, but when he set the chains on the wrists of Dona Isabella de Solis, he said to her: ‘You are reserved for the Sultan himself.’

And so she was taken in chains to Granada, into the mighty fortress which was to be her home. And there, she stood before Muley Abul Hassan, as proud as a visiting queen.

This amused him. He had taken her to his harem. She should be one of his wives. It was clearly an honour due to a high-born lady of such dignity.

Then she became his Star of the Morning and she bore him Boabdil; and from that time she determined that the next Sultan of Granada should be her son.

She had no fear that this would not be so. But the Greek had come, and the Greek was full of wiles. She also had a son.

Boabdil stood before his mother. He had the face of a dreamer. He wished that life would run more peacefully.

‘Boabdil, my son,’ said Zoraya, ‘you seem unmoved. Do you not understand that that woman plots against us?’

‘She will not succeed, oh my mother,’ said Boabdil. ‘For I am the eldest son of my father.’

‘You do not know how women will fight for their children.’

Boabdil smiled at her. ‘But do I not see you, my mother, fighting for yours?’

‘I will find a means of removing her from the palace. We will trick her. We will lure her into a situation from which she cannot escape. She shall be slain in the manner of an unfaithful woman. Boabdil, where is your manhood? Why do you not wish to fight for what is yours?’

‘When Allah decides, I shall be Sultan of Granada, my mother. If Allah wished me to be Sultan at this time, he would make me so.’

‘You accept your fate. That is your Moorish blood, my son. My people take what they want.’

‘Yet it was they who were taken,’ said Boabdil gently.

‘You anger me,’ said Zoraya. She came closer to him: ‘Boabdil, my son, there are men in Granada who would take up arms for you if you set yourself in opposition to your father.’

‘You would ask me to take up arms against my father?’

‘There is your uncle, El Zagal, whose plan it is to take the crown from you. Your father is weak. But you would have your supporters. You do not ask me how I know this, but I will tell you. I have my spies in the streets. Messages are brought to me. I know what we could do.’

‘You endanger your life by such action, my mother.’

She stamped her foot and threw back her still handsome head. Boabdil looked at her with affection, admiration and exasperation. He had never known a woman like his mother.

She narrowed her eyes and whispered: ‘If I thought that any might succeed in taking the throne from you, I would put you at the head of an army . . . this very day.’

‘My mother, you talk treason.’

Her eyes flashed. ‘I owe loyalty to none. I was taken from my home against my will. I was brought here in chains. I was forced to lead the life of an Arab slave. I . . . the daughter of a proud Castilian. I owe no loyalty to any. Others ruled my life; now I say my reward is a crown for my son. You shall be Sultan of Granada even if we must make war on your father to put the crown on your head.’

‘But why should we fight for that which must, when Allah wills it, be ours?’

‘My foolish son,’ answered Zoraya, ‘do you not understand that others intrigue to take the crown of Granada instead of you? The Greek wants it for her son. She is sly. How can we know what promises she wrings from a besotted old man? Your uncle looks covetously towards the crown. He wants it for himself. Allah helps those who help themselves. Have you not yet learned that, Boabdil?’

‘I hear voices.’

‘Go then and see who listens to us.’

‘I beg of you, my mother, do not speak treasonably in case any should hear.’

But even as he spoke guards had entered the apartment.

Zoraya was shocked. She demanded: ‘What do you here? Do you not know what the punishment is for forcing your way into the apartments of the Sultana?’

The guards bowed low. They spoke to Boabdil. ‘My lord, we come on the command of Muley Abul Hassan, Sultan of Granada. We must humbly request you to allow us to put these chains upon you, for it is our unhappy duty to conduct you and the Sultana to the prison in the palace.’

Zoraya cried: ‘You shall put no chains on me.’

But it was useless; the guards had seized her. Her eyes flashed with contempt when she saw her son Boabdil meekly hold out his hands to receive the chains.

In her prison Zoraya did not cease to intrigue. As Sultana and mother of Boabdil, recognised heir to the crown of Granada, there were many to work for her. The rule of Muley Abul Hassan was not popular. It was well known throughout the kingdom that the Christian armies were gathering against Mussulmans and that the Castile of today was a formidable province – no less so because, through the marriage of Isabella with Ferdinand, it was allied with Aragon.

‘The Sultan is old. He is finished. Can an old man defend Granada against the growing danger?’ That was the message which Zoraya had caused to be circulated through Granada. And in the streets the people whispered: ‘We are a kingdom in peril and a kingdom divided against itself. Old men are set in old ways. Our future is in the hands of our youth.’

Zoraya and her son, although prisoners, did not suffer any privations. They were surrounded by servants and attendants. Thus Muley Abul Hassan had made it easy for Zoraya to continue to work for his dethronement and the succession of her son, Boabdil.

She sent her spies into the streets to spread abroad the scandals of the palace, to whisper of the bravery of Zoraya and Boabdil whom others sought to rob of their inheritance. Here was a brave mother fighting for the rights of her son; they could depend upon it that Allah would not turn his back upon her.

News was brought to her that the people in the streets were no longer whispering but saying aloud: ‘Have done with the old Sultan. Give us the new!’ And Zoraya judged the moment had come. She summoned all her servants and attendants to her. She made the women take off their veils, the eunuchs their haiks.

Then she, with Boabdil and a very few of her most trusted servants, tied these end to end, making a long rope, which they secured and hung from a window.

First she descended the rope, followed by Boabdil.

She had arranged that they should be expected. No sooner had Boabdil reached the ground than several of their supporters were on the spot greeting Boabdil as their Sultan, honouring Zoraya as the great Sultana and mother, a woman whose name, they believed, would be a legend in the history of the Mussulmans, because she, in her maternal love, by her bravery and resource, had delivered their new Sultan from the tyranny of the old one.

There was war in Granada. Thousands rallied to the cause of Boabdil.

In the streets of the beautiful city of Granada, Moor fought Moor and the battle was fierce.

Muley Abul Hassan was taken by surprise, first by the treachery of his family, then by the force of their supporters. And although the fortress of the Alhambra itself remained faithful to him, the city was against him. Chivalry turned the men of Granada to the brave Sultana and her young son.

Prudence weighed the matter and decided that Muley Abul Hassan had had his day and that the times needed the vigour of a young Sultan; and Muley Abul Hassan was driven from Granada, whence he fled to the city of Malaga, which had declared itself for him.

Thus while the Christian armies were gathering against them there was civil strife in the kingdom of Granada.

Isabella was thoughtful as she sat at her needlework. This was one of the rare occasions when she could find a brief hour’s escape from state duties; and it was pleasant to have Beatriz with her at such a time.

Beatriz had her duties to her husband and was not in constant attendance on Isabella, so that those opportunities of being together were especially precious.

Isabella was now thinking of Ferdinand, who had seemed to be brooding on some secret matter. She wondered if his thoughts were with the events in Granada as hers were; but perhaps they were with some woman, some family of his, which existed unknown to her. It seemed strange that Ferdinand might have other families, women who loved him, children who aroused his affection even as her Isabella, Juan, Juana and little Maria did – a strange, disturbing and unhappy thought.

She looked at Beatriz, who, not with any great pleasure, was working on a piece of needlework. Beatriz was too active a woman to find delight in such a sedentary occupation. Isabella would have enjoyed talking of these matters which disturbed her to a sympathetic friend like Beatriz; but she refrained from doing so; not even to Beatriz would she speak of matters, so derogatory, she believed, to the dignity of herself and Ferdinand as sovereigns of Castile and Aragon.

Beatriz herself spoke, for on these occasions Isabella had asked her friend to dispense with all ceremony, and that they should behave as two good wives come together for a friendly gossip.

‘How go affairs in Navarre?’ asked Beatriz.

‘They give us cause for anxiety,’ answered Isabella. ‘One can never be sure what tortuous plan is in Louis’s mind.’

‘Surely even he could not arrange that the vows La Beltraneja has taken should be swept aside.’

‘He is very powerful. And I do not trust Pope Sixtus. We have had our differences. And bribes can work wonders with a man such as he is, I fear.’

‘Bribes or threats,’ murmured Beatriz. ‘Francis Phoebus is, I hear, a beautiful creature. They say that he is rightly called Phoebus and that his hair is like golden sunshine.’

‘Doubtless,’ answered Isabella, ‘they exaggerate. Phoebus is a family name. It may well be that he is handsome, but he is also a king, and the beauty of kings and queens often takes its lustre from their royalty.’

Beatriz smiled at her friend. ‘My Queen,’ she said, ‘I believe your natural good sense is equal to your beauty – and you are beautiful, Isabella, Queen or not!’

‘We were talking of Francis Phoebus,’ Isabella reminded her.

‘Ah, yes, Francis Phoebus, who is as beautiful as his name. I wonder what he feels about marrying the released nun of doubtful parentage.’

‘If that marriage is made,’ said Isabella grimly, ‘there will be many to assure him that there is no doubt whatsoever of her parentage. Oh, Beatriz, the tasks before us seem to grow daily. I had hoped that ere long we should be making war. . . real war . . . on Granada. But now that it would seem favourable to do so, there is trouble in Navarre. If Louis suggests removing La Beltraneja from her convent, having her released from her vows and married to his nephew of Navarre, make no mistake about it, his first plan will be to take Navarre under the protection of France, and his second to win my crown for La Beltraneja.’

‘Even Louis would never succeed.’

‘He would not succeed, Beatriz, but there would be another bitter war. A War of the Succession has already been fought and won. I pray hourly that there may not be another.’

‘That you may devote your energies to the war against the Moors.’

Isabella thoughtfully continued with her needlework.

It was shortly afterwards that Ferdinand entered her apartment. He came without ceremony, but Beatriz, realising that he would not wish her to greet him with the informality which Isabella allowed, was on her feet and gave him a deep curtsey.

Isabella saw that Ferdinand was excited. His eyes shone in his bronzed face and his mouth twitched slightly.

‘You have news, Ferdinand, good news?’ she asked. ‘Please do not consider the presence of Beatriz. You know she is our very good friend.’

Beatriz waited for his dismissal, but it did not come.

He sat down on the chair beside the Queen, and Isabella signed to Beatriz that she might return to her chair.

Ferdinand said: ‘News from Navarre.’

‘What news?’ asked Isabella sharply.

‘The King of Navarre is dead.’

An almost imperceptible look of triumph stole across Ferdinand’s face.

Beatriz caught her breath. She had visualised so clearly the young man known as Francis Phoebus who had been likened to the Sun God himself, and only a few moments ago she had considered him in his golden beauty; now she must adjust the picture and see a young man lying on his bier.

‘How did he die?’ Isabella asked.

‘Quite suddenly,’ said Ferdinand; and, try as he might to look solemn, he could not manage it. The triumph remained on his face.

Beatriz’s eyes went to Isabella’s face, but as usual the Queen’s expression told her nothing.

What does she think of murder? wondered Beatriz. How can I know, when she does not betray herself? Does she accept the murder of a young man, as beautiful as his name implies, because his existence threatens the throne of Castile? Will she say Thank God? Or in her prayers will she ask forgiveness because, when she hears that murder has been done at the instigation of her husband, she has rejoiced?

‘Then,’ said Isabella slowly, ‘the danger of a marriage between Navarre and La Beltraneja no longer exists.’

‘That danger is over,’ agreed Ferdinand.

He folded his arms and smiled at his Queen. He looked invincible thus, thought Beatriz. Isabella realises this; and perhaps she says to herself: Unfaithful husband though you are, murderer though you may be, you are a worthy husband for Isabella of Castile!

‘Now who rules Navarre?’ asked Isabella.

‘His sister Catharine has been proclaimed Queen.’

‘A child of thirteen!’

‘Her mother rules until she is older.’

‘There is one thing we must do with all speed,’ said Isabella. ‘Juan shall be betrothed to Catharine of Navarre.’

‘I agree,’ said Ferdinand. ‘But I have news that Louis has not been idle. He is making preparations to seize Navarre. In which case it may very well be that they will not accept our son for Catharine.’

‘We must act against Louis at once,’ said Isabella.

‘Your short respite is over,’ Ferdinand told her ruefully.

‘I will leave at once for the frontier,’ Isabella replied. ‘We must show Louis that, should he attempt to move into Navarre, we have strong forces to resist him.’

Isabella folded up her needlework as though, thought Beatriz, she were a housewife, preparing to perform some other domestic duty.

She handed the work to Beatriz. ‘It must be set aside for a time,’ she said.

Beatriz took the work, and understanding that they wished to discuss plans from which she was excluded, she curtsied and left Ferdinand and Isabella alone together.

Boabdil rode into battle against the Christian army.

Muley Abul Hassan and his brother El Zagal were fighting their own war, also against the Christians. They had made several attacks near Gibraltar and had had some success.

The people of Granada were beginning to say: ‘It may be that Muley Abul Hassan grows old and feeble, but with El Zagal beside him he can still win victories. Perhaps it is not the will of Allah that we throw him aside for the new Sultan, Boabdil.’

‘Boabdil must go into action,’ cried Zoraya. ‘He must show the Arab kingdom that he can fight as poor Muley Abul Hassan, and even El Zagal, never could.’

So it was that Boabdil rode into action against the Christians. He was confident of success. Brilliantly clad in a mantle of crimson velvet embroidered with gold, he was an impressive figure, for beneath the cloak his damascened steel armour caught and reflected the light and glistened.

Out of the town of Granada he rode to the cheers of the people; and those cheers were still ringing in his ears when he took the road to Cordova.

He met the Christian forces on the banks of the Xenil, and the fighting was fierce.

Boabdil had not been born to be a fighter. He was a man who longed for peace; and but for his forceful mother he would never have found himself in the position he was in that day. His men sensed the lack of resolution in their leader; and the Christians were determined.

And there on the banks of the Xenil, Boabdil saw his Moors defeated and, realising that he himself in his rich garments and on his milk-white horse was conspicuous as their leader, he sought a way to hide himself and escape death or what would be more humiliating, capture.

He saw his men mowed down, his captains slaughtered; and he knew the battle was lost.

The river had risen during the night and it was impossible for him to ford it; so he dismounted and, abandoning his horse, hid himself among the brush which bordered the river.

As he cowered there among the reeds, a passing soldier caught a glimpse of the bright scarlet of his cloak and came to investigate.

Boabdil stood up, his scimitar in his hand, and prepared to fight for his life. But his discoverer, a soldier named Martin Hurtado, realising that here was a man of high rank, yelled to his comrades and, at once, Boabdil was surrounded.

Now his scimitar was of no use against so many and, in an endeavour to save his life, he cried: ‘I am Boabdil, Sultan of Granada.’

That made the soldiers pause. Here was a prize beyond their wildest hopes.

‘Stay your swords, my friends,’ cried Martin Hurtado. ‘We will take this prize to King Ferdinand. I’ll warrant we’ll be richly rewarded for it.’

The others agreed, although it went against the grain to relinquish that scarlet velvet cloak, that shining armour and all the other treasures which, it was reasonable to believe, such a personage might have upon him.

So in this way was Boabdil brought to Ferdinand a prisoner.

Isabella was at the frontier town of Logrono, when news was brought to her of the death of Louis.

She fell on her knees and gave thanks for this deliverance.

The King of France, she heard, had died in great fear of the hereafter, for he had committed many sins and the memory of these tortured him.

Yet, thought Isabella, he worked for his country. France was put first always. Perhaps his sins would be forgiven because of that one great virtue.

His son, Charles VIII, was a minor and there would be troubles enough in his country to keep French eyes off Navarre for some time.

It is yet another miracle, pondered Isabella. It is further evidence that I have been selected for the great tasks before me.

Now she need no longer stay on the borders of Navarre. She could join Ferdinand; they could prosecute the war against the Infidel with all their resources.

As she travelled towards Cordova more exhilarating news was brought to her.

The Moors had been routed on the banks of the Xenil, and Boabdil himself was Ferdinand’s prisoner.

‘Let us give thanks to God and his saints,’ cried Isabella to her attendants. ‘The way is being made clear to us. Our Inquisitors are bringing the heretic to justice. Now we shall drive the Infidel from Granada. If we do this we shall not have lived in vain, and there will be rejoicing in Heaven. Our sins will be as molehills beside the mountain of our achievements.’

And she was smiling. For the first time since she had heard of it she was no longer disturbed by the thought of bright and beautiful Francis Phoebus, lying dead at the hand of a poisoner.