Daughters of spain, p.2
Daughters of Spain, page 2
He was indeed a man – a brave soldier, a wily statesman; a man who loved little on this Earth as he loved gold and treasure. Yet he had affection to spare for his family. The children loved him. Not as they loved their mother of course. But, thought Isabella, it is the mother who bore them who is closer to them than any father could be. That was not the answer. Her children loved her because they were aware of the deeper devotion which came from her; they knew that, when their husbands were chosen, their father would rejoice at the material advantages those marriages would bring; his children’s happiness would rank only as secondary. But their mother, who would also wish grand marriages for them all, would suffer even as they did from the parting.
They loved their mother devotedly. They alone knew of the tenderness which was so often hidden beneath the serenity, for it was only for them that Queen Isabella would lift the veil with which she hid her true self from the world. Now she was staring at the document which lay on the table before her and she was deeply conscious of Ferdinand’s attention which was riveted on it.
They must speak of it. She knew that he was going to ask her outright to destroy it.
She was right. His mouth hardened and for a moment she could almost believe that he hated her. ‘So you intend to make this appointment?’ Isabella was stung by the coldness of the tone. No one could convey more hatred and contempt in his voice than Ferdinand.
‘I do, Ferdinand.’
‘There are times,’ went on Ferdinand, ‘when I wish you would listen to my advice.’
‘And how I wish that I could take it.’
Ferdinand made an impatient gesture. ‘It is simple enough. You take the document and tear it in two. That could be an end to the matter.’
He had leaned forward and would have taken it, but Isabella’s plump white hand was immediately spread across it, protecting it.
Ferdinand’s mouth was set in a stubborn line which made him look childish.
‘I am sorry, Ferdinand,’ said Isabella.
‘So once again you remind me that you are Queen of Castile. You will have your way. And so … you will give this … this upstart the highest post in Spain, when you might …’
‘Give it to one who deserves it far less,’ said the Queen gently; ‘your son … who is not my son.’
‘Isabella, you talk like some country wife. Alfonso is my son. I have never denied that fact. He was born when you and I were separated … as we were so often during those early days. I was young … hot blooded … and I found a mistress as young men will. You must understand.’
‘I have understood and forgiven, Ferdinand. But that does not mean that I can give your bastard the Archbishopric of Toledo.’
‘So you’re giving it to this half-starved monk … this simple man … this low …’
‘He is of good family, Ferdinand. It is true he is not royal. But at least he is the legitimate son of his father.’
Ferdinand brought his fist down on the table. ‘I am weary of these reproaches. It has nothing to do with Alfonso’s birth. Confess it. You wish to show me … as you have so often … that you are Queen of Castile and Castile is of greater importance to Spain than is Aragon; therefore you stand supreme.’
‘Oh Ferdinand, that has never been my wish. Castile … Aragon … what are they compared with Spain? Spain is now united. You are its King; I its Queen.’
‘But the Queen will bestow the Archbishopric of Toledo where she wishes.’
Isabella looked at him sadly.
‘Is that not so?’ he shouted.
‘Yes,’ said Isabella, ‘that is so.’
‘And this is your final decision on the matter?’
‘It is my final decision.’
‘Then I crave Your Highness’s permission to retire.’ Ferdinand’s voice was heavy with sarcasm.
‘Ferdinand, you know …’ But he would not wait. He was bowing now and strutting from the room.
Isabella remained at her table. This scene was reminiscent of so many which had occurred during their married life. There was this continual jostling for the superior position on Ferdinand’s part; as for herself, she longed to be the perfect wife and mother. It would have been so easy to have said: Have it your own way, Ferdinand. Give the Archbishopric where you will.
But that gay young son of his was not suited to this high post. There was only one man in Spain whom she believed to be worthy of it, and always she must think first of Spain. This was why she was now determined that the Franciscan Ximenes should be Primate of Spain, no matter how the appointment displeased Ferdinand.
She rose from the table and went to the door of the apartment.
‘Highness!’ Several of the attendants who had been waiting outside sprang to attention.
‘Go and discover whether Fray Francisco Ximenes de Cisneros is in the Palace. If he is, tell him that it is my wish that he present himself to me without delay.’
Fray Francisco Ximenes de Cisneros was praying silently as he approached the Palace. Beneath the rough serge of his habit the hair shirt irritated his skin. He took a fierce delight in this. He had eaten nothing but a few herbs and berries during his journey to Madrid from Ocaña, but he was accustomed to long abstinence from food.
His nephew, Francisco Ruiz, whom he loved as dearly as he could love anyone, and who was closer to him than his own brothers, glanced anxiously at him.
‘What,’ he asked, ‘do you think is the meaning of the Queen’s summons?’
‘My dear Francisco, as I shall shortly know, let us not waste our breath in conjecture.’
But Francisco Ruiz was excited. It had so happened that the great Cardinal Mendoza, who had occupied the highest post in Spain – that of the Archbishop of Toledo – had recently died and the office was vacant. Was it possible that such an honour was about to be bestowed on his uncle? Ximenes might declare himself uninterested in great honours, but there were some honours which would tempt the most devout of men.
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.
