She ran her hand through her short curls. They would grow again in all their beauty. But she must act quickly, before it was too late.
It was dusk as she slipped out of the convent.
On an errand of mercy, it was believed. They did not know her secret thoughts.
And when she was outside those grey walls she made her way to her father’s house.
It was a foolish thing to do. There was no one belonging to him there.
She stood looking at the house and, as she looked, a man passed by. He stared at her. Her hood had fallen back, showing her short, glistening curls; and her face was no less beautiful than it had been in the days when she had sat on her father’s balcony and fanned herself.
‘Forgive me,’ said the man. His voice and manner told her he was of the nobility. ‘You are in distress?’
‘I have escaped from a convent,’ she told him. ‘I have nowhere to go.’
‘But why did you escape? Do you mean you have simply walked out and decided not to go back again?’
‘I escaped because the life of a nun is not the life for me.’
Then he looked at her face, at the slumbrous dark eyes, at the sensual lips.
He said: ‘You are very beautiful.’
‘It is long since I was told so,’ she answered.
‘If you come with me I will give you shelter,’ he told her. ‘Then you can tell me your story and make your plans. Will you come?’
She hesitated for a moment. His eyes, though courteous, were bold. She knew she was taking a step along a certain path. She must make up her mind now whether she would continue on that road to which he was beckoning her.
Her hesitation was brief.
It was for this that she had left her convent. This man pleased her; and he was offering to be her protector.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I will come with you.’
She turned her back on the house which had been her father’s, and she was smiling as she walked beside her new protector.
* * *
In his residence at Alcalá de Henares, Alfonso Carillo, the Archbishop of Toledo, had left his laboratories and retired to his own apartments.
He said to his servants: ‘I will go to my bed, for I am very tired.’
They were astonished because they had never before seen him so resigned. It was as though all the militancy had gone out of him and that he had no longer any interest in the affairs of the country, nor in the discoveries he might make through the scientific experiments in the pursuit of which he had squandered his vast fortunes.
‘I think it is time,’ he said, ‘for me to make my peace with God, for I am an old man and I do not think there is much time left to me.’
So his servant hurried away to arrange for the last rites, and the old Archbishop lay back on his bed thinking of the past.
‘She is a great Queen, this Isabella of ours,’ he murmured to himself. ‘She has set the fires burning all over Castile. She will rid Castile of heretics and, it may well be, of all infidels, for she is determined to drive the Moors from Granada, and I have a feeling that what our Isabella sets out to achieve she will.
‘And but for me she would never have attained the throne. Yet here I live in disgrace, cut off from the affairs which were once the whole meaning of life to me. I have been foolish. I should have taken no offence at Ferdinand’s treatment of me. I should have shown no rancour towards Mendoza, the sly old fox! They are only waiting for my death to make him Primate of Spain.
‘Yes, I have been foolish. After raising her up, I thought I could dash her down. But I was mistaken. I did not know Isabella. I could not guess the strength of this woman. And who can blame me? Was there ever such gentleness disguising such strength?’
He fell into a doze and, when he awoke, he saw the priests at his bedside. They had come to administer Extreme Unction. The end of his turbulent life was near.
* * *
Isabella was with her month-old baby, Maria, when news from Loja was brought to her.
Muley Abul Hassan, the King of Granada, had taken fright at the loss of Alhama, and throughout the city of Granada there had been great mourning. But the Arabs were a warlike people and they remembered defeats of the past which had been turned into victories.
So they rallied and met the Christians at Loja.
Perhaps the Christians had allowed the success of Alhama to go to their heads; perhaps they had underestimated the resourcefulness of their enemies.
At Loja, that July, there was such a rout of the Christian armies that, had reinforcements come more quickly from Granada, Muley Abul Hassan would have wiped out all that was left of Ferdinand’s army.
Isabella received the news without changing her expression, although her heart was filled with anxiety.
She sent for Cardinal Mendoza and, when he was with her, she told him the news.
He bowed his head and there were a few seconds of silence.
Then Isabella spoke. ‘I think this may be sent as a warning to us. We were too confident; we believed that we owed our victories to our own arms and skill, and not to God.
Mendoza gave the Queen a look which she construed as conveying his agreement with her. But in fact Mendoza was marvelling at her ability to see the guiding hand of God in all that befell her.
All over Castile the dread Inquisition was establishing itself. In many towns the atmosphere had changed almost overnight. The people walked the streets, furtive and afraid. The Cardinal guessed that their nights were uneasy. For who could know when there would be that knock at the door, those dreaded words: ‘Open in the name of the Inquisition.’
Yet if he asked her what had happened to her towns she would have answered: ‘They are being cleansed of heretics.’ And she would believe that she was carrying out the wishes of God by setting up the Inquisition in Spain.
She will succeed in all she does, pondered Mendoza. There is a fire and fervency beneath that gende facade which is unbeatable. She does not question the rightness of what she does. She is Isabella of Castile, and therefore rules by Divine will.
‘The Moors are strong,’ said the Cardinal. ‘The task before us would seem insuperable – except by our brave and wise Queen.’
Isabella accepted the compliment. Mendoza was too gallant, too courteous. He lacked the honesty of men such as Talavera and Torquemada; but his company was perhaps more pleasant, and she must forgive him his light-mindedness. He was a wise man in spite of the life he led; and disapproving of that as she did, she was still ready to accept him as her leading minister.
In affairs of state, she told herself, one must not overlook people because of their licentious habits. This man was a statesman, shrewd and wise, and she had need of him.
She said: ‘We shall prosecute the war with success. And now, my friend, I have news from Alcalá de Henares for you. Alfonso Carillo is dead. Poor Alfonso Carillo, he has died deeply in debt, I fear. He could never restrain himself – neither in politics nor in his scientific experiments. It was always so. He did me great harm, yet I am saddened because I remember those days when he was my friend.’
‘Your Highness should not grieve. He was your friend when he felt it expedient to be so.’
‘You are right, Archbishop.’
The Cardinal looked at her, and she smiled at him in her gentle way.
‘Who but you should be Archbishop of Toledo, and Primate of Spain? Who else could be trusted at the head of affairs in the years before us?’
Mendoza knelt and took her hand.
He was an ambitious man and was overcome with admiration and respect for a Queen as bigoted as herself, who could choose a man of his reputation because she knew he was her ablest statesman.
* * *
Ferdinand was pacing up and down the Queen’s apartment. The defeat at Loja had greatly upset him. He had believed that victory over the Moors was almost within their grasp; and he could not face setbacks with the calm which was his wife’s.
But Isabella hersel
f – although she did not show this – was uneasy on account of the latest item of news which had now been brought to them.
They had thought La Beltraneja safe in her convent. Had she not taken the veil?
Ferdinand cried: ‘How can one be sure what Louis will do next? He has his eyes on Navarre. Make no mistake about that. Navarre shall belong to us. It is mine . . . through my father.’
Isabella considered the position. The first wife of Ferdinand’s father, Blanche, daughter of Charles III of Navarre, had on her death left Navarre to her son Carlos, who had been murdered to make way for Ferdinand. Navarre had then passed to Blanche, elder sister of Carlos and repudiated wife of Henry IV of Castile. Poor Blanche, like her brother, had met an untimely death; this was at the instigation of her sister Eleanor, who wanted Navarre for her son, Gaston de Foix.
On the death of John of Aragon, who had retained the title of King of Navarre, Eleanor had greedily seized power, but her glory was short-lived, for she died three weeks after her father.
Eleanor had arranged the murder of her sister Blanche, that her son, Gaston de Foix, might inherit Navarre, but Gaston had been killed during a tourney at Lisbon some years before the death of Eleanor, and the next heir was Gaston’s son, Francis Phoebus.
Gaston’s wife had been the Princess Madeleine, sister of Louis XI of France; thus Louis had his eye on Navarre and was determined that it should not go back to the crown of Aragon.
Ferdinand now told Isabella the cause of his alarm.
‘Who can guess what Louis plans next? He now suggests a marriage between Francis Phoebus, King of Navarre, and La Beltraneja!’
‘That is quite impossible,’ cried Isabella. ‘La Beltraneja has taken the veil and will spend the rest of her days in the convent of Santa Clara at Coimbra.’
‘Do you think the vows of La Beltraneja will stop Louis’s making this marriage if he wishes it?’
‘You may be right,’ said Isabella. ‘Doubtless he wishes to put Navarre under French rule and then, if La Beltraneja were the wife of his nephew, Francis Phoebus, he would support her claims to my crown.’
‘Exactly!’ agreed Ferdinand. ‘We plan to make war on the Moors. Louis knows this. Doubtless he has heard of what happened at Loja. The crafty old man is choosing the right moment to strike at us.’
‘We must stop him, Ferdinand. Nothing should now stand in the way of our campaigns in this Holy War.’
‘Nothing shall,’ said Ferdinand.
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 n
obleman 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?’
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