‘Have a care, Bernardín.’

‘Should I have a care? I … the strong man? It is you who should take care, Gonzalo Ximenes … I beg your pardon … The name our parents gave you is not good enough for such a holy man. Francisco Ximenes, you are at my mercy. I could kill you as you lie there. It is you who should plead with me for leniency … not I with you.’

A lust for power had sprung up in Bernardín’s eyes. What he said was true. At this moment his brilliant brother was at his mercy. He savoured that power, and longed to exercise it.

He will never do anything for me, he told himself. He is no good to our family … no good to himself. He might just as well have stayed in the hermitage at Castañar. A curse on him! He has no natural feeling.

All Bernardín’s dreams were remembered in that second. Ximenes could have made them come true.

Ximenes had recovered his breath and was speaking.

‘Bernardín, I sent for you because what I heard of your conduct in the Courts distressed and displeased me …’

Bernardín began to laugh out loud. With a sudden movement he pulled the pillow from under his brother’s head and laughing demoniacally he held it high. Then he pushed Ximenes back on the bed and brought the pillow down over his face and held it there.

He could hear Ximenes fighting for his breath. He felt his brother’s hands trying to pull at the pillow. But Ximenes was feeble and Bernardín was strong.

And after a while Ximenes lay still.

Bernardín lifted the pillow; he dared not stop to look at his brother’s face, but hurried from the room.


* * *

Tomás de Torquemada had left the peace of his monastery of St Thomas in Avila and was travelling to Madrid. This was a great wrench for him as he was a very old man now and much of the fire and vitality had gone from him.

Only the firm belief that his presence was needed at Court could have prevailed upon him to leave Avila at this time.

He loved his monastery – which was to him one of the greatest loves in his life. Perhaps the other was the Spanish Inquisition. In the days of his health they had fought together for his loving care. What joy it had been to study the plans for his monastery; to watch it built; to glory in beautifully sculptured arches and carvings of great skill. The Inquisition had lured him from that love now and then; and the sight of heretics going to the quemadero in their hideous yellow sanbenitos gave him as much pleasure as the cool, silent halls of his monastery.

Which was he more proud to be – the creator of St Thomas in Avila or the Inquisitor General?

The latter was more or less a title only nowadays. That was because he was growing old and was plagued by the gout. The monastery would always stand as a monument to his memory and none could take that from him.

He would call first on the Archbishop of Toledo at Alcalá de Henares. He believed he could rely on the support of the Archbishop for the project he had in mind.

Painfully he rode in the midst of his protective cavalcade. Fifty men on horseback surrounded him, and a hundred armed men went on foot before him and a hundred marched behind.

The Queen herself had implored him to take adequate care when he travelled. He saw the wisdom of this. People whose loved ones had fed the fires of the Inquisition might consider revenge. He could never be sure, as he rode through towns and villages or along the lonely roads, whether the men and women he met bore grudges against him.

Fear attacked him often, now that he was growing infirm. A sound in the night – and he would call to his attendants.

‘Are the doors guarded?’

‘Yes, Excellency,’ would be the answer.

‘Make sure to keep them so.’

He would never have anyone with Jewish blood near him. He was afraid of those with Jewish blood. It was but a few years ago that all Jews who would not accept the Christian faith had been mercilessly exiled from Spain on his decree. Many Jews remained. He thought of them sometimes during the night. He dreamed they stole into his room.

He had every dish which was put before him first tasted in his presence before he ate.

When a man grew old he contemplated death often, and Torquemada, who had sent thousands to their deaths, was now afraid that someone who had suffered through him would seek to hurry him from life.

But duty called; and he had a plan to lay before the Sovereigns.

He reached Alcalá in the late afternoon. The residence of Ximenes was very sombre.

Ruiz received Torquemada in the place of his master.

‘Does aught ail Fray Francisco Ximenes de Cisneros?’ Torquemada asked.

‘He is recovering from an illness which has been most severe.’

‘Then perhaps I should not delay but continue my journey to Madrid.’

‘Let me tell him that Your Excellency is here. If he is well enough he will certainly wish to see you. Allow me to inform him of your arrival after I have shown you to an apartment where you can rest while I have refreshment sent to Your Excellency.’

Torquemada graciously agreed to this proposal and Ruiz hurried to the bedside of Ximenes who had not left his bed since that horrifying encounter with Bernardín.

He opened his eyes and looked at Ruiz as he entered. To this nephew he owed his life. Ruiz had dashed into the apartment as Bernardín had hurried out because Ruiz, who knew Bernardín well, had feared he might harm his brother. It was Ruiz who had revived his half-dead uncle and brought him back to life.

Ximenes had since been wondering what action to take. Clearly he could not have Bernardín back in his household, but justice should be done. There should be punishment for such a crime. But how could he denounce his own brother as a would-be murderer?

Ruiz came to stand by the bed.

‘Uncle,’ he said, ‘Tomás de Torquemada is with us.’

‘Torquemada! Here!’ Ximenes attempted to raise his weakened body. ‘What does he want?’

‘To have a word with you if you are well enough to see him.’

‘It must be some important business which brings him here.’

‘It must be. He is a sick man and suffering greatly from the gout.’

‘You had better bring him to me, Ruiz.’

‘If you do not feel strong enough I can explain this to him.’

‘No. I must see him. Have him brought to me.’

Torquemada entered Ximenes’s bedchamber and coming to the bed embraced the Archbishop.

They were not unalike – both had the stern look of the man who believes himself to have discovered the righteous way of life; both were ascetic in the extreme, emaciated through hardship; both were well acquainted with semi-starvation and the hair shirt – all of which they believed necessary to salvation. Both had to fight with their own particular demon, which was a pride greater than that felt by most men.

‘I am sad to see you laid low, Archbishop,’ said Torquemada.

‘And I fear you yourself are in no fit state to travel, Inquisitor.’ Inquisitor was the title Torquemada enjoyed hearing more than any other. It was a reminder that he had set up an Inquisition the like of which had never been seen in Spain before.

‘I suffer from the gout most cruelly,’ said Torquemada.

‘A strange sickness for one of your habits,’ answered Ximenes.

‘Strange indeed. And what is this latest illness of yours?’

Ximenes answered quickly: ‘A chill, I suspect.’

He was not going to tell Torquemada that he had been almost suffocated by his own brother, for if he had Torquemada would have demanded that Bernardín should be brought to trial and severely punished. Torquemada would doubtless have behaved with rigorous justice if he had been in the place of Ximenes.

Perhaps, thought Ximenes, I lack his strength. But he has had longer in which to discipline himself.

Ximenes went on: ‘But I believe you have not come here to talk of illness.’

‘No, I am on my way to Court and, because I know I shall have your support in the matter which I have decided to bring to the notice of the Sovereigns, I have called to acquaint you with my mission. It concerns the Princess Isabella, who has been a widow too long.’

‘Ah, you are thinking that with the Habsburg marriages, the eldest daughter should not be forgotten.’

‘I doubt she is forgotten. The Princess is reluctant to go again into Portugal.’

‘Such reluctance is understandable,’ said Ximenes.

‘I cannot understand it,’ Torquemada retorted coldly. ‘It is clearly her duty to make this alliance with Portugal.’

‘It has astonished me that it has not been made before,’ Ximenes put in.

‘The Queen is a mother who now and then turns her face from duty.’

They, who had both been confessors to Isabella the Queen, exchanged nods of understanding.

‘She is a woman of great goodness,’ Torquemada acceded, ‘but where her children are concerned she is apt to forget her duty in her desire to please them.’

‘I know it well.’

‘Clearly,’ Torquemada went on, ‘the young Isabella should be sent immediately into Portugal as the bride of Emanuel. But there should be one condition, and it is this which I wish to put before the Sovereigns.’

‘Condition?’

‘When I drove the Jews from Spain,’ said Torquemada, ‘many of them found refuge in Portugal.’ His face darkened suddenly; his eyes gleamed with wild fanaticism; they seemed like living things in a face that was dead. All Torquemada’s hatred for the Jewish race was in his eyes, in his voice at that moment. ‘They pollute the air of Portugal. I wish to see them driven from Portugal as I drove them from Spain.’