Daughters of Spain
Page 20
‘My lord …’ he was moaning. ‘Take me to my lord.’
Ximenes hurried forward. ‘My good man, what is this? What has happened to you? Where are your companions?’
‘They are dead. Murdered, my lord. In the Albaycin. We were set upon … known as your servants. They are coming here. They have long knives. They have sworn to murder you. My lord … they are coming. There is little time left …’
The man fell swooning at the feet of the Archbishop.
Ximenes ordered: ‘Make fast all doors. See that they are guarded. Take this man and call my physician to attend to him. The Infidel comes against us. The Lord is with us. But the Devil is a formidable enemy. Do not stand there. Obey my orders. We must prepare.’
* * *
There followed hours of terror for all those in the Palace with the exception of Ximenes. From an upper chamber he watched those glowering faces in the light of their torches. He heard their shouts of anger.
He thought: Only these frail walls between myself and the Infidel. ‘Lord,’ he prayed, ‘if it be Thy will to take me into Heaven, then so be it.’
They were throwing stones. They had tried to storm the gates but the Palace had stood many a siege and would doubtless stand many more.
They shouted curses on this man who had come among them and destroyed their peace; but Ximenes smiled blandly, for the cursings of the Infidel, he told himself, could be counted as blessings.
How long could the Palace hold out against the mob? And what would happen when those dark-skinned men broke through?
There was a lull outside, but Ximenes guessed that soon the tumult would break out again. They would storm the walls; they would find some way in, and then …
‘Let them come, if it be Thy will,’ he cried aloud.
He stood erect, waiting. He would be the one they sought. He wondered if they would inflict torture on him before they killed him. He was not afraid. His body had been schooled to suffer.
He heard a shout from without and in the light of the torches he saw a man on horseback riding up to the leader of the Moors.
It was Tendilla.
Ximenes could not hear what was said, but Tendilla was clearly arguing with the Moors. There he stood among them all, and Ximenes felt a momentary admiration for the soldier who could be as careless of his safety as Ximenes was of his.
He was now addressing the Moors, waving his hands and shouting, placating them no doubt, perhaps making promises which Ximenes had no intention of keeping.
But the Moors were listening. They had ceased to shout and it was quiet out there. Then Ximenes saw them turn and move away.
Tendilla was alone outside the Palace walls.
* * *
Tendilla was let into the Palace. His eyes were flashing with anger and that anger was directed not against the Moors but against Ximenes.
‘So my lord,’ he said, ‘perhaps now you begin to understand.’
‘I understand that your docile Moors are docile no longer.’
‘They believe they have suffered great provocation. They are a very angry people. Do you realise that in a very short time they would have forced an entry into this place? Then it would have gone hard with you.’
‘You are telling me that I owe you my life.’
Tendilla made an impatient gesture. ‘I would not have you imagine that the danger is past. I persuaded them to return to their homes, and they agreed to do this … tonight. But this will not be an end to this matter. A proud people does not see its literature burned to ashes and murmur, Thank you, my lord. You are unsafe in this place. Your life is not worth much while you stay here. Make ready at once and accompany me back to the Alhambra. There I can give you adequate protection.’
Ximenes stood still as a statue.
‘I shall not cower behind the walls of the Alhambra, my good Tendilla. I shall stay here, and if these barbarians come against me, I shall trust in God. If it be His will that I become a martyr to their barbarism, then I say, Thy will be done.’
‘They believe that they have been victims of your barbarism,’ retorted Tendilla. ‘They seek revenge. They will go back to the Albaycin and prepare for a real attack on your Palace. They will come again … this time in cold blood, fully armed. Do you realise, my lord Archbishop, that a major revolt is about to break out?’
For the first time Ximenes felt a twinge of uneasiness. He had believed he could successfully proselytise without trouble of this nature. If he were setting in motion warfare between Moors and Christians the Sovereigns would not be pleased. Their great aim had been to preserve peace within their own country so that they might conserve their strength for enemies beyond their borders.
But he held his head high and told himself that what he had done had been for the glory of God; and what was the will of the Sovereigns compared with that!
Tendilla said: ‘I will ask one thing of you. If you will not come to the Alhambra, then stay here, as well guarded as possible, and leave me to deal with this insurrection.’
He bowed briefly and left the Archbishop.
* * *
Tendilla rode back to the Alhambra. His wife, who was waiting for him, betrayed her relief when she saw him.
‘I was afraid, Iñigo,’ she said.
He smiled tenderly. ‘You need have no fear. The Moors are my friends. They know that I have always been fair to them. They are a people who respect justice. It is not I who am in danger but that fool of an Archbishop of ours.’
‘How I wish he had never come to Granada.’
‘There are many who would echo those words, my dear.’
‘Iñigo, what are you going to do now?’
‘I am going into the Albaycin. I’m going to talk to them and ask them not to arm themselves for a revolt. Ximenes is responsible for this trouble, but if they kill the Archbishop of Toledo they will find the might of Spain raised against them. I must make them understand this.’
‘But they are in a dangerous mood.’
‘It is for this reason that I must not delay.’
‘But, Iñigo, think. They are rising against the Christians, and you are a Christian.’
He smiled at her. ‘Have no fear. This is something which must be done and I am the one to do it. If things should not go as I believe they will, be ready to leave Granada with the children and lose no time.’
‘Iñigo! Do not go. This is the Archbishop’s affair. Let them storm his Palace. Let them torture him … kill him if they will. He has brought this trouble to Granada. Let him take the consequences.’
Tendilla smiled gently. ‘You have not understood,’ he said. ‘I am the Alcayde. I am responsible for this zealous reformer of ours. I have to protect him against the results of his own folly.’
‘So you are determined?’
‘I am.’
‘Go well armed, Iñigo.’
Tendilla did not answer.
* * *
Meanwhile Talavera had heard what was happening in the Albaycin. Something must be done quickly to calm the Moors.
They had always respected him. They had listened gravely when he had preached to them of the virtues of Christianity. They knew him for a good man.
Talavera was certain that he, more than any man in Granada, could help to restore order to the Albaycin.
He called for his chaplain and said: ‘We are going into the Albaycin.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ was the answer.
‘You and I alone,’ went on Talavera, watching the expression on the face of the chaplain.
He saw the man’s alarm. The whole of Granada must know, thought Talavera, of the trouble which was brewing in the Moorish quarter.
‘There is trouble there,’ went on the Archbishop of Granada. ‘The Moors are in an ugly mood. They may well set upon us and murder us in their anger. I do not think they will. I think they will listen to me as they have always done. They are a fierce people but only when their anger is aroused, and I do not think we – you and I, my dear chaplain
– have done anything to arouse their anger.’
‘My lord, if we took soldiers with us to protect us …’
‘I have never gone among them with a bodyguard. To do so now would make it appear that I do not trust them.’
‘Do you trust them, my lord?’
‘I trust in my Lord,’ was the answer. ‘And I would not ask you to accompany me if you would not do so of your own free will.’
The chaplain hesitated for a few moments, then he said: ‘Where you go, my lord, there will I go.’
‘Then prepare, for there is little time.’
So with only his chaplain to accompany him the Archbishop of Granada rode into the Albaycin. The chaplain rode before him carrying the crucifix, and the Moors stared at these men in sullen silence for a few moments.
The Archbishop rode right into their midst and said to them: ‘My friends, I hear that you are arming yourselves, and I come among you unarmed. If you desire to kill me, then you must do so. If you will listen to me, I will give you my advice.’
A faint murmuring broke out. The chaplain trembled; many of the Moors carried long knives. He thought of death which might not come quickly; then he looked into the calm face of his Archbishop and felt comforted.
‘Will you do me the honour of listening to me?’ asked the Archbishop.
There was a short silence. Then one of the alfaquis cried out: ‘Speak, oh Christian lord.’
‘You are an angry people, and you seek vengeance which, my friend, is not good for those who plan it nor for those who bear the brunt of it. It is a two-edged weapon, to harm those whom it strikes and those who strike. Do nothing rash. Pause and consider the inevitable result of your actions. Pray for guidance. Do not resort to violence.’
‘We have seen our beautiful manuscripts destroyed before our eyes, oh Talavera,’ cried one voice. ‘We have seen the flames rising in the squares of Granada. What next will be burned? Our mosques? Our bodies?’
‘Be calm. Pray for guidance.’
‘Death to the Christian dogs!’ cried a wild voice in the crowd.
There was a move forward and the alfaquis who had first spoken cried: ‘Wait! This is our friend. This is not that other. This man is not guilty. In all the years he has been with us he has been just and although he has tried to persuade us he has never sought to force us to that which we did not want.’
‘It is true,’ someone called out.
‘Yes,’ cried several voices then. ‘It is true. We have no quarrel with this man.’
‘Allah preserve him.’
‘He is not our enemy.’
Many remembered instances of his goodness. He had always helped the poor, Moor or Christian. They had no quarrel with this man.
One woman came forward and knelt at the side of Talavera’s horse and said: ‘You have been good to me and mine. I pray you, oh lord, give me your benediction.’
And Talavera placed his hands on this woman’s head and said: ‘Go in peace.’
Others came forward to ask his blessing, and when Tendilla rode into the Albaycin this was the scene he witnessed.
Tendilla came with half a dozen soldiers, and when the Moors saw his guards many hands tightened about their knives. But Tendilla’s first action was to take his bonnet from his head and throw it into their midst.
‘I give you my sign,’ he cried, ‘that I come in peace. Many of you are armed. Look at us. We have come among you unarmed.’
The Moors then saw that it was so, and they remembered too that from this man they had received nothing but justice and tolerance. He had come among them unarmed. They could have slain him and his few men together with the Archbishop and his chaplain without any loss to themselves.
This was certainly a sign of friendship.
‘Long life to the Alcayde!’ cried one, and the others took up this cry.
Tendilla lifted a hand.
‘My friends,’ he said, ‘I pray you listen to me. You are armed and plan violence. If you carry out this plan you might have some initial success here in Granada. And what then? Beyond Granada the whole might of Spain would be assembled and come against you. If you gave way to your feelings now you would bring certain disaster and death upon yourselves and your families.’
The leading alfaquis came to Tendilla and said: ‘We thank you, oh lord Alcayde, for coming to us this night. We have in your coming proof of the friendship of yourself and the Archbishop of Granada towards us. But we have suffered great wrongs. The burning of our works of art has caused us great distress.’
‘You have your grievances,’ Tendilla replied. ‘If you will go back to your homes and put all thoughts of rebellion from your minds I will bring your case before the Sovereigns.’
‘You yourself will do this?’
‘I will,’ said Tendilla. ‘Their Highnesses are now in Seville. As soon as I can put my affairs in order I will ride there and explain to them.’
Zegri, who had learned at first hand of what he had come to think of as Christian perfidy, elbowed his way to the side of their leader.
‘How can we know,’ he said, ‘that the Alcayde does not speak thus to gain time? How do we know that he will not become our enemy and bring the Christians against us?’
‘I give you my word,’ said Tendilla.
‘Oh lord Alcayde, I was invited to the house of the Archbishop of Toledo as a guest, and I found myself his prisoner. He changed towards me in the space of an hour. What if you should so change?’
There was a murmuring in the crowd. They were all remembering the experiences of Zegri.
Tendilla saw that the angry mood was returning, the fury which the conduct of Ximenes had aroused was bursting out again.
Tendilla made a decision. ‘I shall go to Seville,’ he said. ‘You well know the love I bear my wife and two children. I will leave them here with you as hostages. That will be a token of my good intentions.’
There was silence in the crowd.
Then the leading alfaquis said: ‘You have spoken, oh lord Alcayde.’
The crowd began to cheer. They did not love violence. They trusted Tendilla and Talavera to rid them of the trouble-making Ximenes that all might be peace once more in their beautiful city of Granada.
* * *
News of what had happened in the Albaycin was brought to Ximenes. He was now alarmed. He had hoped to continue with his proselytising unimpeded; he realised now that he must be wary.
Tendilla had come storming into his Palace and had not hesitated to say what he meant. He blamed Ximenes for the first trouble that had occurred in the city since the reconquest, adding that within the next few days he was leaving for Seville, and there he would lay the matter before the Sovereigns.
Ximenes coldly retorted that he would do all that he had done, over again, should the need arise, and the need was sore in Granada.
‘You will do nothing,’ retorted Tendilla, ‘until this matter has been laid before their Highnesses.’
And Ximenes had of course agreed to the wisdom of that.
As soon as Tendilla had left, Ximenes fell on his knees in prayer. This was a very important moment in his life. He knew that the version of this affair which Tendilla would carry to the Sovereigns would differ from the tale he had to tell; and it was all-important that Ferdinand and Isabella should hear Ximenes’s account first.
It might well be that on the following day Tendilla would set out for Seville. Ximenes must therefore forestall him.
He rose from his knees and sent for one of his Negro servants, a tall long-limbed athlete who could run faster than any other known in the district.
‘I shall want you to leave for Seville within half an hour,’ he said. ‘Prepare yourself.’
The slave bowed, and when he was alone Ximenes sat down to write his account of what had happened in Granada. The need to save souls was imperative. He wanted more power and, when he had it, he would guarantee to bring the Moors of Granada into the Christian fold. He had been unable to stand calmly aside
and watch the heathenish habits which were practised in that community. He had acted under guidance from God, and he was now praying that his Sovereigns would not shut their eyes to God’s will.
He sent for the slave.
‘With all speed to Seville,’ he commanded.
And he smiled, well satisfied, believing that Isabella and Ferdinand would receive the news from him hours before they could possibly see Tendilla. By that time they would have read his version of the revolt, and all Tendilla’s eloquence would not be able to persuade them that Ximenes had been wrong in what he had done.
* * *
The Negro slave ran the first few miles. As he sped onwards there passed him on the road a Moor who was riding on a grey horse; and the Negro wished that he had a horse on which to ride, but he quickly forgot it and gave himself up to the pleasure of exercise.
He was noted for his fleetness of foot and proud of it. Anyone could ride a horse. None could match him for running speed.
But the way was long and even the fleetest of foot grew tired; the throat became parched, and there on the road between Granada and Seville the slave saw a tavern. Tied to a post was the horse which had passed him on the way, and standing close to the horse was the rider.
The man called to the Negro: ‘Good day to you. I saw you running on the road.’
‘I envied you your horse,’ said the Negro, pausing.
‘ ’Tis thirsty work, running as you run.’
‘You speak truth there.’
‘Well, here is an inn and the wine is good. Why do you not fortify yourself with some of this good wine?’
‘Oh … I am on a mission. I have to reach Seville with all speed.’
‘You’ll go the quicker for the wine.’
The Negro considered this. It might be true.