Daughters of Spain

by Виктория Холт

  ‘Yet there are more conversions in this city since the Archbishop of Toledo came here,’ Talavera reminded him.

  ‘I do not call this true conversion to Christianity,’ retorted Tendilla. ‘These simple souls have no knowledge of what they are undertaking.’

  ‘We need not discuss your views on this matter,’ Ximenes put in coldly. ‘For the last two days there have been no conversions. There must be a reason. These savages cannot have taken a dislike to bales of silk and scarlet hats.’

  ‘They have become wary of baptism,’ said Tendilla.

  ‘You two go among them as though you were of the same race. You doubtless know the reason for this sudden absence. I command you to tell me.’

  Tendilla was silent, but Talavera, as an Archbishop himself, although of junior rank, answered his superior’s command: ‘It is due to the warnings of Zegri.’

  ‘Zegri? Who is this man Zegri?’

  Tendilla spoke then. ‘He is the leading alfaquis, and not such a simple fellow as some. He understands a little of what baptism into the Christian Faith means. He has heard what has been going on and has warned his fellow Moors that baptism demands more of men and women than the acceptance of gifts.’

  ‘I see,’ said Ximenes. ‘So it is this man Zegri. Thank you for your information.’

  When they had left him he sent for one of his servants, a man named Leon, and he said to him:’ I wish you to take a message from me to the house of the alfaquis, Zegri.’

  * * *

  Zegri stood before Ximenes, while Ximenes showed him two bales of silk. ‘You may take as many of the hats as you wish,’ he told his guest.

  ‘No,’ said Zegri.’ I know of this baptism. I know what it means. Here in Granada we have not known the Inquisition, but I have heard what it does to Jews who have accepted baptism and go back to their own Faith.’

  ‘Once you were a Christian you would not wish to go back to your own Faith. Each day you would become more and more aware of the advantages which Christianity has to offer.’

  ‘I am a Mohammedan. I do not look for advantages.’

  ‘You are a man stumbling in darkness.’

  ‘I live very well, I am a happy man … with the love of Allah.’

  ‘There is only one true Faith,’ said Ximenes. ‘That is the Christian Faith.’

  ‘Allah forgive you. You know not what you say.’

  ‘You will go to eternal torment when you die.’

  ‘Allah will be good to me and mine.’

  ‘If you become a Christian you will go to Heaven when you die. Allow me to give you baptism and eternal joy shall be yours.’

  Zegri smiled and said simply: ‘I am a Mohammedan. I do not change my religion for a bale of silk and a red hat.’ His eyes flashed defiance as he stood there, and Ximenes realised that argument would never convince such a man. Yet it was necessary that he should be convinced. This was a powerful man, a man who would sway a multitude. One word from him and the conversions had ceased.

  It was not to be tolerated, and in Ximenes’s eyes all that was done in the service of the Faith was well done.

  ‘I see,’ he said, ‘that I cannot make you a good Christian.’

  ‘I do not believe that I could make you a good Mussulman,’ retorted Zegri, smiling widely.

  Ximenes crossed himself in horror.

  ‘Here in Granada we shall continue in our own Faith,’ said Zegri quietly.

  But you shall not! thought Ximenes. I have sworn to convert this place to Christianity, and I will do it.

  ‘I will take my leave of you,’ said Zegri, ‘and I will thank you for receiving me in your Palace, oh mighty Archbishop.’

  Ximenes bowed his head and called to his servant Leon.

  ‘Leon,’ he said, ‘show my guest the way out. He will come and talk with me again, for I have yet to persuade him.’

  Leon, a tall man with broad shoulders answered: ‘So shall it be, Your Excellency.’ He led the way, and Zegri followed. They went through chambers which he did not remember seeing before, down some stairs to more apartments.

  This was not the way he had come in, Zegri was thinking as Leon opened a door and stood aside for him to enter.

  Unthinking, Zegri stepped forward. Then he stopped. But he was too late. Leon gave him a little push from behind and he stumbled down a few dark steps. He heard the door shut behind him and a key turned in the lock.

  He was not outside the Archbishop’s Palace. He was in a dark dungeon.

  * * *

  Zegri lay on the floor of his dungeon. He was weak, for it must have been long since food had passed his lips. When the door had been locked on him he had beaten on it until his hands had bled; he had shouted to be let out, but no one answered him.

  The floor was damp and cold and his limbs were numb.

  ‘They have tricked me,’ he said aloud, ‘as they have tricked my friends.’

  He thought that they would leave him here until he died, but this was not their intention.

  Exhausted, he was lying on the floor, when he was aware of a blinding light flashed into his face. It was only a man with a lantern, but Zegri had been so long in the dark that it seemed as brilliant as the sun at noon.

  This man was Leon, and with him was another. He pulled Zegri to his feet and slipped an iron ring about his neck; to this was attached a chain which he fixed to a staple in the wall.

  ‘What do you plan to do with me?’ demanded Zegri. ‘What right have you to make me your prisoner? I have done no wrong. I must have a fair trial. In Granada all men must have fair trials.’

  But Leon only laughed. And after a while the Archbishop of Toledo came into the dungeon.

  Zegri cried out: ‘What is this you would do to me?’

  ‘Make a good Christian of you,’ Ximenes told him.

  ‘You cannot make me a Christian by torturing me.’

  A gleam came into Ximenes’s eyes, but he said: ‘You have nothing to fear if you accept baptism.’

  ‘And if I will not?’

  ‘I do not despair easily. You will stay here in the darkness until you see the light of truth. You shall be without food for the body until you are prepared to accept food for the soul. Will you accept baptism?’

  ‘Baptism is for Christians,’ answered Zegri. ‘I am a Mussulman.’

  Ximenes inclined his head and walked from the dungeon. Leon followed him, and Zegri was in the cold darkness again.

  He waited for these visits. There were several of them. Always he hoped that they would bring him food and drink. It was long since he had eaten and his body was growing weak. There were gnawing pains in his stomach and it cried out for nourishment. Always the words were the same. He would stay here in cold and hunger until he accepted baptism.

  At the end of a few days and nights Zegri’s discomfort was intense. He knew that if he continued thus he could not live very long. Zegri had spent all his life in the prosperous city of Granada. He had never known hardship before.

  What good can I do by remaining here? he asked himself. I should only die.

  He thought of his fellow Moors who had been deceived by the bales of silk and the red hats. They had been lured to baptism by bribes; he was being forced to it by this torture.

  He knew there was only one way out of his dungeon.

  * * *

  The blinding light was flashed into his face. There was the big man with the cruel eyes – Leon, the servant of the even more terrifying one with the face of a dead man and the eyes of a fiend.

  ‘Bring him a chair, Leon,’ said Ximenes. ‘He is too weak to stand.’

  The chair was brought and Zegri sat in it.

  ‘Have you anything to say to me?’ asked Ximenes.

  ‘Yes, my lord Archbishop, I have something to say. Last night Allah came to my prison.’

  Ximenes’s face in the light from the lantern looked very stern.

  ‘And he told me,’ went on Zegri, ‘that I must accept Christian baptism without delay.’


  ‘Ah!’ It was a long drawn out cry of triumph from the Archbishop of Toledo. For a second his lips were drawn back from his teeth in what was meant to be a smile. ‘I see your stay with us has been fruitful, very fruitful. Leon, release him from his fetters. We will feed him and clothe him in silk. We will put a red hat on his head and we will baptise him in the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ. I thank God this victory is won.’

  It was a great relief to have the heavy iron removed from his neck, but even so Zegri was too weak to walk.

  Ximenes signed to the big man, Leon, who slung Zegri over his shoulder and carried him out of the damp dark dungeon.

  He was put on a couch; his limbs were rubbed; savoury broth was put into his mouth. Ximenes was impatient for the baptism. He had rarely been as excited as when he scattered the consecrated drops from a hyssop over the head of this difficult convert.

  So Zegri had now received Christian baptism.

  ‘You should give thanks for your good fortune,’ Ximenes told him. ‘Now I trust many of your countrymen will follow your example.’

  ‘If you and your servant do to my countrymen as you have done to me,’ said Zegri, ‘you will make so many Christians that there will not be a Mussulman left within the walls of Granada.’

  Ximenes kept Zegri in his Palace until he had recovered from the effects of his incarceration, but he let the news be carried through the city: ‘Zegri has become a Christian.’

  The result satisfied even Ximenes. Hundreds of Moors were now arriving at the Archbishop’s Palace to receive baptism and what went with it – bales of silk and scarlet hats.

  * * *

  Ximenes was not satisfied for long. The more learned of the Moorish population held back and exhorted their friends to do the same. They stressed what had happened to Jews who had received baptism and had been accused of returning to the faith of their fathers; they talked of the dreary autos de fe which were becoming regular spectacles in many of the towns of Spain. This must not be so in Granada. And those foolish people whose desire for silk and red hats had overcome their good sense were making trouble for themselves.

  The people of Granada could not believe in any such trouble. This was Granada, where living had been easy for years; and even after their defeat at the hands of the Christians and the end of the reign of Boabdil, they had gone on as before. They would always go on in that way. Many of them remembered the day when the great Sovereigns, Ferdinand and Isabella, had come to take possession of the Alhambra. Then they had been promised freedom of thought, freedom of action, freedom to follow their own faith.

  Ximenes knew that those who were preventing his work from succeeding as he wished it to, were the scholars, and he decided to strike a blow at them. They had declared that they had no need of this Christian culture because they had a greater culture of their own.

  ‘Culture!’ cried Ximenes. ‘What is this culture? Their books, is it?’

  It was true that they produced manuscripts of such beauty that they were spoken of throughout the world. Their binding and illuminations were exquisite and unequalled.

  ‘I will have an auto de fe in Granada,’ he told Talavera. ‘It shall be the first. They shall see the flames rising to their beautiful blue sky.’

  ‘But the agreement with the Sovereigns …’ began Talavera.

  ‘This auto de fe shall be one in which not bodies burn but manuscripts. This shall be a foretaste of what shall come if they forget their baptismal oaths. Let them see the flames rising to the sky. Let them see their evil words writhing in the heat. It would be wise to say nothing of this to Tendilla as yet. There is a man who doubtless would wish to preserve these manuscripts because the bindings are good. I fear our friend Tendilla is a man given to outward show.’

  ‘My lord,’ said Talavera, ‘if you destroy these people’s literature they may seek revenge on us. They are quiet people only among their friends.’

  ‘They will find they never had a better friend than myself,’ said Ximenes. ‘Look how many of them I have brought to baptism!’

  He was determined to continue with his project and would have no interference. Only when he saw those works reduced to ashes would he feel he was making some headway. He would make sure that none of the children should suffer from contamination with those heathen words.

  The decree went out. Every manuscript in every Moorish house was to be brought out. They were to be put in heaps in the squares of the town. Severest penalties would be inflicted on those who sought to hide any work in Arabic.

  Stunned, the Moors watched their literature passing from their hands into that of the man whom they now knew to be their enemy. Zegri had returned from his visit to the Archbishop’s Palace a changed man. He was thin and ill; and he seemed deeply humiliated; it was as though all his spirit had gone from him.

  Ximenes had ordered that works dealing with religion were to be piled in the squares; but those dealing with medicine were to be brought to him. The Moors were noted for their medical knowledge and it occurred to Ximenes that there could be no profanity in profiting from it. He therefore selected some two or three hundred medical works, examined them and had them sent to Alcalá to be placed in the University he was building there.

  Then he gave himself up to the task of what he called service to the Faith.

  In all the open places of the town the fires were burning.

  The Moors sullenly watched their beautiful works of art turned to ashes. Over the city there hung a pall of smoke, dark and lowering.

  In the Albaycin, that part of the city which was inhabited entirely by the Moors, people were getting together behind shutters and even in the streets.

  * * *

  Tendilla came to see Ximenes. He was not alone; he brought with him several leading Castilians who had lived for years in Granada.

  ‘This is dangerous,’ Tendilla blurted out.

  ‘I do not understand you,’ retorted Ximenes haughtily.

  ‘We have lived in Granada for a long time,’ pointed out Tendilla. ‘We know these people. Am I not right?’ He turned to his companions, who assured Ximenes that they were in complete agreement with Tendilla.

  ‘You should rejoice with me,’ cried Ximenes contemptuously, ‘that there is no longer an Arabic literature. If these people have no books, their foolish ideas cannot be passed on to their young. Our next plan shall be to educate their children in the true Faith. In a generation we shall have everyone, man, woman and child, a Christian.’

  Tendilla interrupted boldly: ‘I must remind you of the conditions of the treaty.’

  ‘Treaty indeed!’ snapped Ximenes. ‘It is time that was forgotten.’

  ‘It will never be forgotten. The Moors remember it. They have respected the Sovereigns because ever since ’92 that treaty has been observed … and now you would disregard it.’

  ‘I ask the forgiveness of God because I have not attempted to do so before.’

  ‘My lord Archbishop, may I implore you to show more forbearance. If you do not there will be bloodshed in our fair city of Granada.’

  ‘I am not concerned with the shedding of blood. I am only concerned with the shedding of sin.’

  ‘To follow their own religion is not to sin.’

  ‘My lord, have a care. You come close to heresy.’

  Tendilla flushed an angry red. ‘Take the advice of a man who knows these people, my lord Archbishop. If you must make Christians of them, I implore you, if you value your life …’

  ‘Which I do not,’ Ximenes interjected.

  ‘Then the lives of others. If you value them, I pray you take a tamer policy towards these people.’

  ‘A tamer policy might suit temporal matters, but not those in which the soul is at stake. If the unbeliever cannot be drawn to salvation, he must be driven there. This is not the time to stay our hands, when Mohammedanism is tottering.’

  Tendilla looked helplessly at those citizens whom he had brought with him to argue with Ximenes.

  ‘I can
see,’ he said curtly, ‘that it is useless to attempt to influence you.’

  ‘Quite useless.’

  ‘Then we can only hope that we shall be ready to defend ourselves when the time comes.’

  Tendilla and his friends took their leave of Ximenes, who laughed aloud when he was alone.

  Tendilla! A soldier! The Queen had been mistaken to appoint such a man as Alcayde. He had no true spirit. He was a lover of comfort. The souls of Infidels meant nothing to him as long as these people worked and grew rich and so made the town rich.

  They thought he did not understand these Moors. They were mistaken. He was fully aware of the growing surliness of the Infidels. He would not be in the least surprised if they were making some plot to attack him. They might attempt to assassinate him. What a glorious death that would be – to die in the service of the Faith. But he had no wish to die yet, for unlike Torquemada he knew no one who would be worthy to wear his mantle.

  This very day he had sent three of his servants into the Albaycin. Their task was to pause at the stalls and buy some of the goods displayed there, and to listen, of course. To spy on the Infidel. To discover what was being said about the new conditions which Ximenes had brought into their city.

  He began to pray, asking for success for his project, promising more converts in exchange for Divine help. He was working out new plans for further forays against the Moors. Their literature was destroyed. What next? He was going to forbid them to follow their ridiculous customs. They were constantly taking baths or staining themselves with henna. He was going to stamp out these barbarous practices.

  He noticed that the day was drawing to its close. It was time his servants returned. He went to the window and looked out. Only a little daylight left, he mused.

  He went back to his table and his work, but he was wondering what had detained his servants.

  When he heard the sound of cries below, he went swiftly down to the hall and there he saw one of those servants whom he had sent into the Albaycin; he was staggering into the hall surrounded by others who cried out in horror at the sight of him. His clothes were torn and he was bleeding from a wound in his side.