And why not? Ruiz demanded of himself. The Queen thinks highly of her confessor – and rightly so. She can never have had such a worthy adviser since Torquemada himself heard her confessions. And she loves such men, men who are not afraid to speak their minds, men who are clearly indifferent to worldly riches.
Torquemada, suffering acutely from the gout, was now an old man with clearly very little time left to him. He was almost entirely confined to the monastery of Avila. Ximenes on the other hand was at the height of his mental powers.
Ruiz was certain that it was to bestow this great honour on his uncle that they were being thus recalled to Madrid.
As for Ximenes, try as he might, he could not thrust the thought from his mind.
Archbishop of Toledo! Primate of Spain! He could not understand this strange feeling which rose within him. There was so much about himself which he could not understand. He longed to suffer the greatest bodily torture, as Christ had suffered on the cross. And even as his body cried out for this treatment, a voice within him asked: ‘Why, Ximenes, is it because you cannot endure that any should be greater than yourself? None must bear pain more stoically. None must be more devout. Who are you, Ximenes? Are you a man? Are you a God?
‘Archbishop of Toledo,’ the voice gloated within him. ‘The power will be yours. You will be greater than any man under the Sovereigns. And the Sovereigns may be swayed by your influence. Have you not had charge of the Queen’s conscience; and is not the Queen the real ruler of Spain?
‘It is for your own vanity, Ximenes. You long to be the most powerful man in Spain; more powerful than Ferdinand whose great desire is to fill his coffers and extend his Kingdom. Greater than Torquemada who has set the holy fires scorching the limbs of heretics throughout the land. More powerful than any. Ximenes, Primate of Spain, the Queen’s right hand. Ruler of Spain?’
I shall not take this post if it is offered to me, he told himself.
He closed his eyes and began to pray for strength to refuse it, but it was as though the Devil spread the kingdoms of the Earth at his feet.
He swayed slightly. There was little nourishment in berries, and when he travelled he never took food or money with him. He relied on what he could find growing by the wayside, or the help from the people he met.
‘My Master did not carry bread and wine,’ he would say, ‘and though the birds had their nests and the foxes their lairs there was no place in which the Son of Man might lay his head.’
What his Master had done Ximenes must do also.
When they entered the Palace the Queen’s messenger immediately called to him.
‘Fray Francisco Ximenes de Cisneros?’
‘It is I,’ answered Ximenes. He felt a certain pride every time he heard his full title; he had not been christened Francisco but Gonzalo, and had changed his first name that he might bear the same one as the founder of the Order in which he served.
‘Her Highness Queen Isabella wishes you to wait upon her with all speed.’
‘I will go to her presence at once.’
Ruiz plucked at his sleeve. ‘Should you not wipe away the stains of the journey before presenting yourself to the Queen’s Highness?’
‘The Queen knows I have come on a journey. She will expect me to be travel-stained.’
Ruiz looked after his uncle in some dismay. The lean figure, the emaciated face with the pale skin tightly drawn across the bones were in great contrast to the looks of the previous Archbishop of Toledo, the late Mendoza, sensuous, good-natured epicure and lover of comfort and women.
Archbishop of Toledo! thought Ruiz. Surely it cannot be!
Isabella gave a smile of pleasure as her confessor entered the apartment.
She waved her hand to the attendant and they were alone.
‘I have brought you back from Ocaña,’ she said almost apologetically, ‘because I have news for you.’
‘What news has Your Highness for me?’
His manner lacked the obsequiousness with which Isabella was accustomed to being addressed by her subjects, but she did not protest. She admired her confessor because he was no great respecter of persons.
But for the truly holy life this man led, it might have been said that he was a man of great pride.
‘I think,’ said Isabella, ‘that this letter from His Holiness the Pope will explain.’ She turned to the table and took up that document which had caused such displeasure to Ferdinand, and put it into the hands of Ximenes.
‘Open it and read it,’ urged Isabella.
Ximenes obeyed. As he read the first words a change passed across his features. He did not grow more pale – that would have been impossible – but his mouth hardened and his eyes narrowed; for a few seconds a mighty battle was raging within his meagre frame.
The words danced before his eyes. They were in the handwriting of Pope Alexander VI himself, and they ran as follows:
‘To our beloved son, Fray Francisco Ximenes de Cisneros, Archbishop of Toledo …’
Isabella was waiting for him to fall on his knees and thank her for this great honour; but he did no such thing. He stood very still, staring before him, oblivious of the fact that he was in the presence of his Queen. He was only aware of the conflict within himself, the need to understand what real motives lay behind his feelings.
Power. Great power. It was his to take. For what purpose did he want power? He was unsure. He was as unsure as he had been years ago when he had lived as a hermit in the forest of Castañar.
Then it seemed to him that devils mocked him. ‘You long for power, Ximenes,’ they said. ‘You are a vain and sinful man. You are ambitious, and by that sin fell the angels.’
He put the paper on to the table and murmured: ‘There has been a mistake. This is not for me.’ Then he turned and strode from the room, leaving the astonished Queen staring after him.
Her bewilderment gave way to anger. Ximenes might be a holy man but he had forgotten the manner in which to behave before his Queen. But almost immediately her anger disappeared. He is a good man, she reminded herself. He is one of the few about me who do not seek personal advantage. This means he has refused this great honour. What other man in Spain would do this?
* * *
Isabella sent for her eldest daughter.
The young Isabella would have knelt before her mother but the Queen took her into her arms and held her tightly against her for a few seconds.
Holy Mother of God, thought the Princess, what can this mean? She is suffering for me. Is it a husband that I shall be forced to take? Is that why she is so sorry for me?
The Queen put the Princess from her and composed her features.
‘My dearest,’ she said, ‘you do not look as well as I would wish. How is your cough?’
‘I cough now and then, Highness, as I always have.’
‘Isabella, my child, now that we are alone together, let us throw aside all ceremony. Call me Mother. I love to hear the word on your lips.’
The Princess began: ‘Oh, my Mother …’ and then she was sobbing in the Queen’s arms.
‘There, my precious child,’ murmured Isabella. ‘You still think of him then? Is it that?’
‘I was so happy … happy. Mother, can you understand? I was so frightened at first, and when I found that … we loved … it was all so wonderful. We planned to live like that for the rest of our lives …’
The Queen did not speak; she went on stroking her daughter’s hair.
‘It was cruel … so cruel. He was so young. And when we went out into the forest that day it was like any other day. He was with me but ten minutes before it happened … laughing … with me. And then there he was …’
‘It was God’s will,’ said the Queen gently.
‘God’s will? To break a young body like that! Wantonly to take one so young, so full of life and love!’
The Queen’s face set into stern lines. ‘Your grief has unnerved you, my child. You forget your duty to God. If it is His wish to make us suffer
we must accept suffering gladly.’
‘Gladly! I will never accept it gladly.’
The Queen hastily crossed herself, while her lips moved in prayer. Isabella thought: She is praying that I may be forgiven my wicked outburst. However much she suffered she would never give way to her feelings as I have done.
She was immediately contrite. ‘Oh, Mother, forgive me. I know not what I say. It is like that sometimes. The memories come back and then I fear …’
‘You must pray, my darling, for greater control. It is not God’s wish that you should shut yourself away from the world as you do.’
‘It is not my father’s wish, you mean?’ demanded Isabella.
‘Neither the wish of your heavenly nor your earthly father,’ murmured the Queen soothingly.
‘I would to God I could go into a convent. My life finished when his did.’
‘You are questioning the will of God. Had He wished you to end your life He would have taken you with your husband. This is your cross, my darling; think of Him and carry it as willingly as He carried His.’
‘He had only to die. I have to live.’
‘My dearest, have a care. I will double my prayers for you this night and every night. I fear your sufferings have affected your mind. But in time you will forget.’
‘It is four years since it happened, Mother. I have not forgotten yet.’
‘Four years! It seems long to you because you are young. To me it is like yesterday.’
‘To me it will always be as though his death happened yesterday.’
‘You must fight against such morbid thoughts, my darling. It is a sin to nurse a grief. I sent for you because I have news for you. Your father-in-law has died and there is a new King of Portugal.’
‘Alonso would have been King had he lived … and I his Queen.’
‘But he did not live, yet you could still be Queen of Portugal.’
‘Emanuel …’
‘My dear daughter, he renews his offer to you. Now that he has come to the throne he does not forget you. He is determined to have no wife but you.’
Emanuel! She remembered him well. Kindly, intelligent, he was more given to study than his gay young cousin Alonso had been; but she had known that he envied Alonso his bride. And now he was asking for her hand once more.
‘I would rather go into a nunnery.’
‘We might all feel tempted to do that which seems easier to us than our duty.’
‘Mother, you are not commanding me to marry Emanuel?’
‘You married once, by the command of your father and myself. I would not command you again; but I would have you consider your duty to your family … to Spain.’
Isabella clenched her hands tightly together. ‘Do you realise what you are asking of me? To go to Lisbon as I did for Alonso … and then to find Emanuel waiting for me and Alonso … dead.’
‘My child, pray for courage.’
‘I pray each day, Mother,’ she answered slowly. ‘But I cannot go back to Portugal. I can never be anything but Alonso’s widow as long as I live.’
The Queen sighed as she drew her daughter down to sit beside her; she put an arm about her and as she rested her face against her hair she was thinking: In time she will be persuaded to go to Portugal and marry Emanuel. We must all do our duty; and though we rebel for a while it avails us little.
* * *
Ferdinand looked up as the Queen entered. He smiled at her and his expression was slightly sardonic. It amused him that the Franciscan monk who, in his opinion so foolishly, had been offered the Archbishopric of Toledo, should merely have fled at the sight of his title in the Pope’s handwriting. This should teach Isabella to think before bestowing great titles on the unworthy. The fellow was uncouth. A pleasant prospect! The Primate of Spain a monk who was more at home in a hermit’s hut than a royal Palace. Whereas his dear Alfonso – so handsome, so dashing – what a Primate he would have made! And if he were unsure at any time, his father would have been at hand to help him.
Ferdinand could never look at his son Alfonso without remembering voluptuous nights spent with his mother. What a woman! And her son was worthy of her.
Fond as he was of young Juan he almost wished that Alfonso was his legitimate son. There was an air of delicacy about Juan, whereas Alfonso was all virility. Ferdinand could be sure that this bastard of his knew how to make the most of his youth, even as his father had done.
It was maddening to think that he could not give him Toledo. What a gift that would have been from father to son.
Still, he did not despair. Isabella might admit her folly now that the monk had run away.
‘I have spoken to Isabella,’ said the Queen.
‘I hope she realises her great good fortune.’
‘She does not call it such, Ferdinand.’
‘What! Here’s Emanuel ready to do a great deal for her.’
‘Poor child; can you expect her to enjoy returning to the place where she has once been so happy?’
‘She’ll be happy there again.’
Isabella studied her husband quizzically. Ferdinand would be happy were he in his daughter’s place. Such a marriage would mean to him a kingdom. He could not see that it made much difference that the bridegroom would be Emanuel instead of Alonso.
The Queen stifled the sorrow which such a thought roused. It was not for her to feel regrets; she was entirely satisfied with her fate.
‘You made our wishes known to her, I hope?’ went on Ferdinand.
‘I could not command her, Ferdinand. The wound has not yet healed.’
Ferdinand sat down at the polished wood table and beat his fist on it. ‘I understand not such talk,’ he said. ‘The alliance with Portugal is necessary for Spain. Emanuel wants it. It can bring us great good.’
‘Give her a little time,’ murmured Isabella; but in such a way that Ferdinand knew that, whatever he wished, their daughter would be given a little time.
He sighed. ‘We are fortunate in our children, Isabella,’ he said. ‘Through them we shall accomplish greatness for Spain. I would we had many more. Ah, if we could have been together more during those early years of our marriage …’
‘Doubtless you would have had more legitimate sons and daughters,’ agreed Isabella.
Ferdinand smiled slyly, but this was not the moment to bring up the matter of Alfonso and the Archbishopric of Toledo.
Instead he said: ‘Maximilian is interested in my proposals.’
Isabella nodded sadly. At such times she forgot she was ruler of a great and expanding country; she could only think of herself as a mother.
‘They are young yet …’ she began.
‘Young! Juan and Juana are ready for marriage. As for our eldest, she has had time enough in which to play the widow.’
‘Tell me what you have heard from Maximilian.’
‘Maximilian is willing for Philip to have Juana and for Juan to have Margaret.’
‘They would be two of the grandest marriages we could arrange for our children,’ mused Isabella. ‘But I feel that Juana is as yet too young … too unsteady.’
‘She will soon be too old, my dear; and she will never be anything but unsteady. No, the time is now. I propose to go ahead with my plans. We will tell them what we propose. There is no need to look gloomy. I’ll warrant Juana will be excited at the prospect. As for your angel son, he’ll not have to leave his mother’s side. The Archduchess Margaret will come to Juan. So it is only your poor unsteady Juana who will have to go away.’
‘I wish we could persuade Philip to come here … to live here.’
‘What, Maximilian’s heir! Oh, these are great matches, these marriages of our son and daughter to Maximilian’s. Have you realised that Philip’s and Juana’s offspring will hold the harbours of Flanders, and in addition will own Burgundy and Luxembourg, to say nothing of Artois and Franche Comté? I would like to see the face of the King of France when he hears of this match. And when Isabella marries Emanuel we shall be
able to relax our defences on the Portuguese frontier. Oh yes, I should like to see the French King’s face.’
‘What do you know of Maximilian’s children … Philip and Margaret?’
‘Nothing but good. Nothing but good.’ Ferdinand was rubbing his hands together and his eyes gleamed.
Isabella nodded slowly. Ferdinand was right, of course. Both Juan and Juana were due for marriage. She was allowing the mother to subdue the Queen when she made wild plans to keep her children with her for ever.
Ferdinand had begun to laugh. ‘Philip will inherit the Imperial crown. The house of Habsburg will be bound to us. France’s Italian projects will have little success when the German dominions stand with us against them.’
He is always a statesman first, thought Isabella, a father second. To him Philip and Margaret are not two human beings – they are the House of Habsburg and the German Dominions. But she had to admit that his plan was brilliant. Their empire overseas was growing, thanks to their brilliant explorers and adventurers. But Ferdinand’s dream had always been of conquests nearer home. He planned to be master of Europe; and why should he not be? Perhaps he would be master of the world.
He was the most ambitious man she had ever known. She had watched his love of power grow with the years. Now she asked herself uneasily whether this had happened because she had found it necessary so often to remind him that she was the Queen of Castile, and in Castile her word should be law. Had his amour propre been wounded to such a degree that he had determined to be master of all the world outside Castile?
She said: ‘If these marriages were made it would seem that all Europe would be your friend with the exception of that little island – that pugnacious, interfering little island.’
Ferdinand kept his eyes on her face as he murmured: ‘You refer to England, do you not, my Queen. I agree with you. That little island can be one of the greatest trouble spots. But I have not forgotten England. Henry Tudor has two sons, Arthur and Henry. It is my desire to marry Arthur, Prince of Wales, to our own little Catalina. Then, my dear, the whole of Europe will be bound to me. And what will the King of France do then? Tell me that.’
Daughters of Spain Page 2
