‘I trust, O Lord,’ murmured Torquemada, ‘that I have done my work well and shall find favour in Your sight. I trust You have noted the number of souls I have brought to You, the numbers I have saved, as well as those I have sent from this world to hell by means of the fiery death. Remember, O Lord, the zeal of Your servant, Tomás de Torquemada. Remember his love of the Faith.’
When he thought over his past life he had no qualms about death. He was certain that he would be received into Heaven with great glory.
His sub-prior came to him, as he lay there, with news from Rome.
He read the dispatch, and his anger burned so fiercely that it set his swollen limbs throbbing.
He and Alexander were two men who were born to be enemies. The Borgia had schemed to become Pope not through love of the Faith but because it was the highest office in the Church. His greatest desire was to shower honours on his sons and daughter, whom, as a man of the Church, he had no right to have begotten. This Borgia, it seemed, could be a merry man, a flouter of conventions. There were evil rumours about his incestuous relationship with his own daughter, Lucrezia, and it was well known that he exercised nepotism and that his sons, Cesare and Giovanni, swaggered through the towns of Italy boasting of their relationship to the Holy Father.
What could a man such as Torquemada – whose life had been spent in subduing the flesh – have in common with such as Roderigo Borgia, Pope Alexander VI? Very little.
Alexander knew this and, because he was a mischievous man, he had continually obstructed Torquemada in his endeavours.
Torquemada remembered early conflicts.
As far back as four years ago he had received a letter from the Pope; he could remember the words clearly now.
Alexander cherished him in ‘the very bowels of affection for his great labours in raising the glory of the Faith’. But Alexander was concerned because from the Vatican he considered the many tasks which Torquemada had taken upon himself, and he remembered the great age of Torquemada and he was not going to allow him to put too great a strain upon himself. Therefore he, Alexander, out of love for Torquemada, was going to appoint four assistants to be at his side in this mighty work of establishing and maintaining the Inquisition throughout Spain.
There could not have been a greater blow to his power. The new Inquisitors, appointed by the Pope, shared the power of Torquemada and the title Inquisitor General lost its significance.
There was no doubt that Alexander in the Vatican was the enemy of Torquemada in the monastery of Avila. It may have been that the Pope considered the Inquisitor General wielded too much power; but Torquemada suspected that the enmity between them grew from their differences – the desire of a man of great carnal appetites, which he made no effort to subdue, to denigrate one who had lived his life in the utmost abstention from all worldly pursuits.
And now, when Torquemada was near to death, Alexander had yet another snub to offer.
The Pope had held an auto de fe in the square before St Peter’s, and at this had appeared many of those Jews who had been expelled from Spain. If the Pope had wished to do the smallest honour to Torquemada he would have sent those Jews to the flames or inflicted some other severe punishment.
But Alexander was laughing down his nose at the monk of Avila. Sometimes Torquemada wondered whether he was laughing at the Church itself which he used so shamefully to his advantage.
Alexander had ordered that a service should be read in the square, and the one hundred and eighty Judaizers, and fugitives from Torquemada’s wrath were dismissed. No penalties. No wearing of the sanbenito. No imprisonment. No confiscation of property.
Alexander dismissed them all to go about their business like good citizens of Rome.
Torquemada clenched his fists tightly together as he thought of it. It was a direct insult, not only to himself but to the Spanish Inquisition; and he believed that the Pope was fully aware of this and it was his main reason for acting as he had.
‘And here I lie,’ he mused, ‘in this my seventy-eighth year of life, my body crippled, unable to protest.’
His heart began to beat violently, shaking his spare frame. The walls of the cell seemed to close in upon him.
‘My life’s work is done,’ he whispered and sent for his sub-prior.
‘I feel my end is near,’ he told the man. ‘Nay, do not look concerned. I have had a long life and in it I think I have served God well. I would not have you bury me with pomp. Put me to rest in the common burial ground among the friars of my monastery. There I would lie happiest.’
The sub-prior said quickly: ‘You are old in years, Excellency, but your spirit is strong. There are years ahead of you.’
‘Leave me,’ Torquemada commanded; ‘I would make my peace with God.’
He waved the man away, but he did not believe it was necessary to make his peace with God. He believed that there would be a place in Heaven for him as there had been on Earth.
He lay quietly on his pallet while the strength slowly ebbed from him.
He thought continually of his past life, and as the days went on his condition grew weaker.
It was known throughout the monastery that Torquemada was dying.
On the 16th of September, one month after the death of the Queen of Portugal, Torquemada opened his eyes and was not sure where he lay.
He dreamed he was ascending into Heaven to the sound of music – music which was composed of the cries of heretics as the flames licked their limbs, the murmurs of a band of exiles who trudged wearily, from the land which had been their home for centuries, to what grim horrors they could not know but only fear.
‘All this in Thy name …’ murmured Torquemada and, because he was too weak to control his feelings, a smile of assurance and satisfaction touched his lips.
The sub-prior came to him a little later, and he knew that it was time for the last rites to be administered.
* * *
Isabella roused herself from her bed of sickness and grief. She had her duty to perform.
The little Prince Miguel must be shown to the citizens and accepted by the Cortes as heir to the throne. So the processions began.
The people of Saragossa, who had declined to accept his mother, assembled to greet little Miguel as their future King.
Ferdinand and Isabella swore that they would be his faithful guardians, and that before he was allowed to assume any rights as Sovereign he should be made to swear to respect those liberties to which the proud people of Aragon were determined to cling.
‘Long live the lawful heir and successor to the crown of Aragon!’ cried the Saragossa Cortes.
This ceremony was repeated not only throughout Aragon and Castile but in Portugal, for this frail child would, if he came to the throne, unite those countries.
Isabella took her leave of the sorrowing Emanuel.
‘Leave the child with me,’ she said. ‘You know how deeply affected I have been by the loss of my daughter. I have brought up many children. Give me this little one who will be our heir, that he may help to assuage my grief.’
Emanuel was stricken with pity for his stoical mother-in-law. He knew that she was thinking it could not be long before her remaining daughters were taken from her. Moreover, his Spanish inheritance would be of greater importance to little Miguel than that which would come from his father.
‘Take the child,’ he said. ‘Bring him up as you will. I trust he will never give you cause for anxiety.’
Isabella held the child against her and, as she did so, she felt a stirring of that pleasure which only her own beloved family could give her.
It was true that the Lord took away, but He also gave.
She said: ‘I will take him to my city of Granada. There he shall have the greatest care that it is possible for any child to have. Thank you, Emanuel.’
So Emanuel left the child with her, and Ferdinand was delighted that they would be in a position to supervise his upbringing.
Isabella gently kissed the b
aby’s face, and Ferdinand came to stand beside her.
If I could only be as he is, thought Isabella, and feel as he does that the death of our daughter Isabella was not such a great tragedy, since their child lives.
‘Emanuel will need a new wife,’ Ferdinand mused.
‘It will be a long time yet. He dearly loved our Isabella.’
‘Kings have little time for mourning,’ answered Ferdinand. ‘He said nothing of this matter to you?’
‘Taking a new wife! Indeed he did not. I am sure the thought has not occurred to him.’
‘Nevertheless it has occurred to me,’ retorted Ferdinand. ‘A King in need of a wife. Have you forgotten that we have a daughter as yet not spoken for?’
Isabella gave him a startled look.
‘Why should not our Maria be Queen of Portugal?’ demanded Ferdinand. ‘Thus we should regain that which we have lost by the death of Isabella.’
* * *
‘Farewell,’ said Margaret. ‘It grieves me to leave you, but I know that I must go’
Catalina embraced her sister-in-law. ‘How I wish that you would stay with us.’
‘For how long?’ asked Margaret. ‘My father will be making plans for a new marriage for me. It is better that I go.’
‘You have not been very happy here,’ said Maria quietly.
‘It was not the fault of the King and Queen, nor of any of you. You have done everything possible to make me happy. Farewell, my sisters. I shall think of you often.’
Catalina shivered. ‘How life changes!’ she said. ‘How can we know where any of us will be this time next year … or even this time next month?’
Catalina was terrified every time envoys came from England. She knew that her mother was putting off the day when her youngest daughter would leave her home; but it could not be long delayed. Catalina was too fatalistic to believe that was possible.
‘Farewell, farewell,’ said Margaret.
And that day she was on her way to the coast, to board the ship which would take her back to Flanders.
* * *
Isabella’s great delight was her little grandson. He was too young as yet to accompany her on all her journeys throughout the country so, after his acceptance by the Cortes of Castile and Aragon, he was left with his nurses in the Alhambra at Granada. Isabella often discussed his future with Ferdinand, and it was her desire that as soon as he was old enough he should always be with them.
‘He cannot learn his state duties too early,’ she said; but what she really meant was that she was not going to be separated from the child more than she could possibly help.
Ferdinand smiled indulgently. He was ready to pass over Isabella’s little weaknesses as long as they did not interfere with his plans.
The Court was on its way to Seville, and naturally Isabella would call first at Granada to see her little Miguel.
Catalina, who was with the party, was delighted to note her mother’s recovery from despair, and she herself thought as tenderly of Miguel as Isabella did. Miguel was the means of making the Queen happy again; therefore Catalina loved him dearly.
Leisurely the Court moved southwards, and with them travelled the Archbishop of Toledo.
Ximenes had been deeply affected by the death of Tomás de Torquemada. There was a man who had written his name large across a page of Spanish history. He had clearly in his heyday been the most important man in his country, for he had guided the King and Queen and in the days of his strength had had his will.
It was due to him that the Inquisition was now a power in the land and that there was not a man, woman or child who did not dread the knock on the door in the dead of night, the entry of the alguazils and the dungeons of torture.
That was well, thought Ximenes, for only through torture could man come to God. And for those who had denied God the greatest torture man could devise was not bad enough. If these people burned at the stake, it was but a foretaste of the punishment which God would give them. What were twenty minutes at the stake compared with an eternity in Hell?
Riding south towards Granada, Ximenes was conscious of a great desire: to do, for Spain and the Faith, work which could be compared with that of Torquemada.
He thought of those who were in this retinue, and it seemed to him that the conduct of so many left much to be desired.
Ferdinand was ever reaching for material gain; Isabella’s weakness was her children. Even now she had Catalina beside her. The girl was nearly fifteen years old and still she remained in Spain. She was marriageable, and the King of England grew impatient. But for her own gratification – and perhaps because the girl pleaded with her – Isabella kept her in Spain.
Ximenes thought grimly that her affection for the new heir, young Miguel, must approach almost idolatry. The Queen should keep a sharp curb on her affections. They overshadowed her devotion to God and duty.
Catalina had withdrawn herself as far as possible from the stern-faced Archbishop. She read his thoughts and they terrified her. She hoped he would not accompany them to Seville; she was sure that, if he did, he would do his utmost to persuade her mother to send her with all speed to England.
Granada, which some had called the most beautiful city in Spain, was before them. There it lay, a fairy-tale city against the background of the snow-tipped peaks of the Sierra Nevada. High above the town was the Alhambra, that Moorish Palace, touched by a rosy glow, a miracle of architecture, strong as a fortress, yet so daintily and so delicately fashioned and carved, as Catalina knew.
There was a saying that God gives His chosen people the means to live in Granada; and Catalina could believe that was so.
She hoped that Granada would bring happiness to them all, that the Queen would be so delighted with her little grandson that she would forget to mourn, that there would be no news from England; and that, for the sunny days ahead, her life and that of her family would be as peacefully serene as this scene of snowy mountains, of rippling streams, the water of which sparkled like diamonds and was as clear as crystals.
She caught the eye of the Archbishop fixed upon her and felt a tremor of alarm.
She need not have worried. He was not thinking of her.
He was saying to himself: It is indeed our most beautiful city. It is not surprising that the Moors clung to it until the last. But what a tragedy that so many of its inhabitants should be those who deny the true faith. What sin that we should allow these Moors to practise their pagan rites under that blue sky, in the most beautiful city in Spain.
It seemed to Ximenes that the ghost of Torquemada rode beside him. Torquemada could not rest while such blatant sin existed in this fair city of Spain.
Ximenes was certain, as he rode with the Court into Granada, that the mantle of Torquemada was being placed about his shoulders.
* * *
While Isabella was happy in the nursery of her grandson, Ximenes lost no time in examining the conditions which existed in Granada.
The two most influential men in the city were Iñigo Lopez de Mendoza, the Count of Tendilla, and Fray Fernando de Talavera, Archbishop of Granada; and one of Ximenes’s first acts was to summon these men to his presence.
He surveyed them with a little impatience. They were, he believed, inclined to be complacent. They were delighted at the peaceful conditions prevailing in this city, which, they congratulated themselves, was in itself near the miraculous. This was a conquered city; a great part of its population consisted of Moors who followed their own faith; yet these Moors lived side by side with Christians and there was no strife between them.
Who would have thought, Ximenes demanded of himself, that this could possibly be a conquered city!
‘I confess,’ he told his visitors, ‘that the conditions here in Granada give me some concern.’
Tendilla showed his surprise. ‘I am sure, my lord Archbishop,’ he said, ‘that when you have seen more of the affairs in this city you will change your mind.’
Tendilla, one of the illustrious Mendoza fa
mily, could not help but be conscious of the comparatively humble origins of the Archbishop of Toledo. Tendilla lived graciously and it disturbed him to have about him those who did not. Talavera, who had been a Hieronymite monk and whose piety was indisputable, was yet a man of impeccable manners. Tendilla considered Talavera something of a bigot but it seemed to him that such an attitude was essential in a man of the Church; and in his tolerance Tendilla had not found it difficult to overlook that in Talavera which did not fit in with his own views. They had worked well together since the conquest of Granada, and the city of Granada was a prosperous and happy city under their rule.
Both resented the tone of Ximenes, but they had to remember that as Archbishop of Toledo he held the highest post in Spain under the Sovereigns.
‘I could not change my mind,’ went on Ximenes coldly, ‘while I see this city dominated by that which is heathen.’
Tendilla put in: ‘We obey the rules of their Highnesses’ agreement with Boabdil at the time of the reconquest. As Alcayde and Captain-General of the Kingdom of Granada it is my duty to see that this agreement is adhered to.’
Ximenes shook his head. ‘I know well the terms of that agreement, and pity it is that it was ever made.’
‘Yet,’ said Talavera, ‘these conditions were made and the Sovereigns could not so dishonour themselves and Spain by not observing them.’
‘What conditions!’ cried Ximenes scornfully. ‘The Moors to retain possession of their mosques with freedom to practise their heathen rites! What sort of a city is this over which to fly the flag of the Sovereigns?’
‘Nevertheless these were the terms of surrender,’ Tendilla reminded him.
‘Unmolested in their style of dress, in their manners and ancient usages; to speak their own language, to have the right to dispose of their own property! A fine treaty.’
‘Yet, my lord Archbishop, these were the terms Boabdil asked for surrender. Had we not accepted them there would have been months – perhaps years – of slaughter, and no doubt the destruction of much that is beautiful in Granada.’
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