Daughters of Spain - Plaidy Jean - Страница 31

When she was once more alone with Emanuel she held out the letters to him. Her face was white, her hands trembling.

‘I pray you, Emanuel, read them for me.’

‘They are meant for your eyes, my dear.’

‘I know, but my hands shake so, and my eyes will not take in the words.’

As Emanuel broke the seal and read the letters, Isabella, watching him intently, saw his face whiten.

She said quickly: ‘What is it, Emanuel? You must tell me quickly.’

‘The child was stillborn,’ he said.

Isabella gave a gasp and sank down on to a stool. The room appeared to swim round her, and she seemed to hear those malicious voices – the voices of a thousand tormented and persecuted people – whispering to her.

‘But Margaret is well,’ went on Emanuel.

There was silence and Isabella lifted her face to her husband’s. ‘There is something else?’ she asked. ‘I pray you keep nothing back.’

‘Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘there is something else. Juana and Philip have proclaimed themselves heirs to Castile.’

‘Juana! But that is impossible. She is younger than I.’

‘That is what your parents say.’

‘How could Juana do such a thing?’

‘Because she has a very ambitious husband.’

‘But this is terrible. This will break my mother’s heart. This is like quarrelling within the family itself.’

‘You need have no fear,’ soothed Emanuel. ‘Your parents will know how best to deal with such pretensions. They want us to prepare to leave Lisbon at once for Spain. They are going to have you publicly proclaimed heir of Castile.’

A weariness assailed Isabella. She put her hand to her aching head. In that moment she thought: I want none of these quarrels. I want to be left in peace to have my child.

Then she felt the child within her, and her mood changed. A Queen must not think of her own personal desires.

It occurred to her that the child in her womb might well be heir to the whole of Spain and all those dependencies of Spain, those lands of the New World.

There was no time in her busy life for lassitude. She had to fight for the rights of this child, even against her own sister.

Her voice was firm as she said: ‘When could we be ready to leave for Spain?’

TORQUEMADA AND THE KING OF ENGLAND

Tomas de Torquemada lay on his pallet breathing heavily. His gout was a torture and he was finding it increasingly difficult to move about.

‘So many things to do,’ he murmured. ‘So little time in which to do them.’ Then because his words might have seemed like a reproach to the Almighty, he murmured: ‘But Thy will be done.’

He thought often. of Ximenes, Archbishop of Toledo, who, he told himself, might one day wear the mantle of Torquemada. There was a man who he believed would one day overcome carnality to such an extent that he would, before his end, do as great a work as that which had been done by himself.

Torquemada could look back on the last thirty years with complacence. He could marvel now that it was not until he was fifty-eight years of age that he had emerged from the narrow life of the cloister and had begun to write his name in bold letters in the history of his country. His great achievements were the introduction of the Inquisition and the expulsion of the Jews.

He exulted when he remembered this. Alas, that his body was failing him. Alas, that he had his enemies. He wished that he had seen more of this man Ximenes. He believed that such a man could be trusted to guide the Sovereigns in the way they should go, that in his hands could safely be placed the destiny of Spain.

‘I could have moulded him,’ he murmured. ‘I could have taught him much. Alas, so little time.’

He was weary because he had just taken his leave of the chief Inquisitors whom he had summoned to Avila that he might give them the new instructions, in the form of sixteen articles, which he had compiled for the use of the Inquisition. He was continually thinking of reforms, of strengthening the organization, making it more difficult for sinners to elude the alguazils.

He believed some eight thousand sinners against the Church had been burned at the stake since that glorious year of 1483, when he had established his Inquisition, until this day when he now lay on his painful pallet wondering how much longer was left to him.

‘Eight thousand fires,’ he mused. ‘But there were many more brought to judgement. Somewhere in the region of one hundred thousand people were found guilty and suffered the minor penalties. A good record.’

He was astonished that a man such as himself should have enemies within the Church, and that perhaps the greatest of these should be the Pope himself.

How different it had been when the easy-going Innocent VIII had worn the Papal crown! Torquemada did not trust the Borgia Pope. There were hideous rumours in circulation regarding the life led by Roderigo Borgia, Pope Alexander VI. He had his mistresses, it was said, and had a family of children of whom he was very proud and on whom he showered the highest honours.

To Torquemada, devotee of the hard pallet and the hair shirt, this was shocking; but more so was the fact that the sly and shrewd Borgia seemed to take an almost mischievous delight in frustrating Torquemada in every way possible.

‘Perhaps it is inevitable that a whoremonger and evil liver should wish to bring down one who has always followed the holy life,’ mused Torquemada. ‘But pity of pities that such a one should be the Holy Father himself!’

Torquemada’s eyes gleamed in his pale face. What pleasure it would give him to jostle for power against that man. Even at this moment he was expecting his messengers to return from England, whither he had sent them with a special message for King Henry VII, who might have cause to be grateful to Torquemada.

The wily King of England knew what power the Inquisitor wielded over the Sovereigns. His spies would let him know that Isabella and Ferdinand often visited him at Avila when he was too crippled by the gout to go to them. He would know that the body of Juan had been brought to him at Avila for burial – a mark of the respect the Sovereigns felt for him. It was comforting – particularly in view of the irritations he received from Rome – to know that England knew him for the influential man he was.

It was while he was lying on his pallet brooding on these matters that his messengers arrived from England, and as soon as he learned that they were in the monastery, he had them brought to him with all speed.

The messengers trembled in his presence; there was that in this man to set others trembling. His cold accusing eyes might see some heresy of which a victim had been unaware; those thin lips might rap out a question, the answer to which might cost the one who made it the loss of his possessions, torture, or death.

To stand in the presence of Torquemada was to bring to the mind the gloomy dungeons of pain, the dismal ceremonies of the auto de fe; the smell of scorching human flesh.

‘What news of the King of England?’ demanded Torquemada.

‘Your Excellency, the King of England sends his respects to you and wishes you to know that he desires to be your friend.’

‘And you told him of my request?’

‘Your Excellency, we told him and we had his answer from his own lips. The King of England will not allow in his Kingdom any man, woman or child who asks refuge from the Holy Office.’

‘Did he say this lightly or did he swear it as an oath?’

‘Excellency, he put his hands on his breast and swore it. He swore too that he would persecute any Jew or heretic who sought refuge in his Kingdom, should the Inquisition call attention to such a person.’