There were times when she longed to go into a convent and spend her life in prayer until death came to unite her with Alonso. If she were not a daughter of Spain that would have been possible.

‘Look,’ said Catalina, pointing to a gaunt figure in a Franciscan robe, ‘there is the Queen’s confessor.’

Isabella looked down at the man who with his companion was about to enter the Alcazar. She could not clearly see the emaciated features and the stern expression of the monk, but she was deeply aware of them.

‘I am glad he is here,’ she said.

‘Isabella, he … he frightens me a little.’

Isabella’s face grew sterner.’ You must never be afraid of good men, Catalina; and there is not a better man in Spain than Ximenes de Cisneros.’


* * *

In her apartments the Queen sat at her writing-table. Her expression was serene but it was no indication of her thoughts. She was about to perform an unpleasant duty and this was painful to her.

Here I am, she thought, with my family all about me. Spain is more prosperous than she has been for many a year; we now have a united Kingdom, a Christian Kingdom. In the past three years, since together Ferdinand and I conquered the last Moorish stronghold, the Christian flag has flown over every Spanish town. The explorer Christobal Colon has done good work and Spain has a growing Kingdom beyond the seas. As Queen I rejoice in my country’s prosperity. As a mother I know great happiness because at this moment I have my entire family with me under one roof. All should be well and yet …

She smiled at the man who was sitting watching her.

This was Ferdinand, her husband; a year younger than herself he was still a handsome man. If there was a certain craftiness in the eyes, Isabella had always refused to recognise it; if his features were touched with sensuality Isabella was ready to tell herself that he was indeed a man and she would not have him otherwise.

He was indeed a man – a brave soldier, a wily statesman; a man who loved little on this Earth as he loved gold and treasure. Yet he had affection to spare for his family. The children loved him. Not as they loved their mother of course. But, thought Isabella, it is the mother who bore them who is closer to them than any father could be. That was not the answer. Her children loved her because they were aware of the deeper devotion which came from her; they knew that, when their husbands were chosen, their father would rejoice at the material advantages those marriages would bring; his children’s happiness would rank only as secondary. But their mother, who would also wish grand marriages for them all, would suffer even as they did from the parting.

They loved their mother devotedly. They alone knew of the tenderness which was so often hidden beneath the serenity, for it was only for them that Queen Isabella would lift the veil with which she hid her true self from the world. Now she was staring at the document which lay on the table before her and she was deeply conscious of Ferdinand’s attention which was riveted on it.

They must speak of it. She knew that he was going to ask her outright to destroy it.

She was right. His mouth hardened and for a moment she could almost believe that he hated her. ‘So you intend to make this appointment?’ Isabella was stung by the coldness of the tone. No one could convey more hatred and contempt in his voice than Ferdinand.

‘I do, Ferdinand.’

‘There are times,’ went on Ferdinand, ‘when I wish you would listen to my advice.’

‘And how I wish that I could take it.’

Ferdinand made an impatient gesture. ‘It is simple enough. You take the document and tear it in two. That could be an end to the matter.’

He had leaned forward and would have taken it, but Isabella’s plump white hand was immediately spread across it, protecting it.

Ferdinand’s mouth was set in a stubborn line which made him look childish.

‘I am sorry, Ferdinand,’ said Isabella.

‘So once again you remind me that you are Queen of Castile. You will have your way. And so … you will give this … this upstart the highest post in Spain, when you might …’

‘Give it to one who deserves it far less,’ said the Queen gently; ‘your son … who is not my son.’

‘Isabella, you talk like some country wife. Alfonso is my son. I have never denied that fact. He was born when you and I were separated … as we were so often during those early days. I was young … hot blooded … and I found a mistress as young men will. You must understand.’

‘I have understood and forgiven, Ferdinand. But that does not mean that I can give your bastard the Archbishopric of Toledo.’

‘So you’re giving it to this half-starved monk … this simple man … this low …’

‘He is of good family, Ferdinand. It is true he is not royal. But at least he is the legitimate son of his father.’

Ferdinand brought his fist down on the table. ‘I am weary of these reproaches. It has nothing to do with Alfonso’s birth. Confess it. You wish to show me … as you have so often … that you are Queen of Castile and Castile is of greater importance to Spain than is Aragon; therefore you stand supreme.’

‘Oh Ferdinand, that has never been my wish. Castile … Aragon … what are they compared with Spain? Spain is now united. You are its King; I its Queen.’

‘But the Queen will bestow the Archbishopric of Toledo where she wishes.’

Isabella looked at him sadly.

‘Is that not so?’ he shouted.

‘Yes,’ said Isabella, ‘that is so.’

‘And this is your final decision on the matter?’

‘It is my final decision.’

‘Then I crave Your Highness’s permission to retire.’ Ferdinand’s voice was heavy with sarcasm.

‘Ferdinand, you know …’ But he would not wait. He was bowing now and strutting from the room.

Isabella remained at her table. This scene was reminiscent of so many which had occurred during their married life. There was this continual jostling for the superior position on Ferdinand’s part; as for herself, she longed to be the perfect wife and mother. It would have been so easy to have said: Have it your own way, Ferdinand. Give the Archbishopric where you will.

But that gay young son of his was not suited to this high post. There was only one man in Spain whom she believed to be worthy of it, and always she must think first of Spain. This was why she was now determined that the Franciscan Ximenes should be Primate of Spain, no matter how the appointment displeased Ferdinand.

She rose from the table and went to the door of the apartment.

‘Highness!’ Several of the attendants who had been waiting outside sprang to attention.

‘Go and discover whether Fray Francisco Ximenes de Cisneros is in the Palace. If he is, tell him that it is my wish that he present himself to me without delay.’


* * *

Fray Francisco Ximenes de Cisneros was praying silently as he approached the Palace. Beneath the rough serge of his habit the hair shirt irritated his skin. He took a fierce delight in this. He had eaten nothing but a few herbs and berries during his journey to Madrid from Ocaña, but he was accustomed to long abstinence from food.

His nephew, Francisco Ruiz, whom he loved as dearly as he could love anyone, and who was closer to him than his own brothers, glanced anxiously at him.

‘What,’ he asked, ‘do you think is the meaning of the Queen’s summons?’

‘My dear Francisco, as I shall shortly know, let us not waste our breath in conjecture.’

But Francisco Ruiz was excited. It had so happened that the great Cardinal Mendoza, who had occupied the highest post in Spain – that of the Archbishop of Toledo – had recently died and the office was vacant. Was it possible that such an honour was about to be bestowed on his uncle? Ximenes might declare himself uninterested in great honours, but there were some honours which would tempt the most devout of men.

And why not? Ruiz demanded of himself. The Queen thinks highly of her confessor – and rightly so. She can never have had such a worthy adviser since Torquemada himself heard her confessions. And she loves such men, men who are not afraid to speak their minds, men who are clearly indifferent to worldly riches.

Torquemada, suffering acutely from the gout, was now an old man with clearly very little time left to him. He was almost entirely confined to the monastery of Avila. Ximenes on the other hand was at the height of his mental powers.

Ruiz was certain that it was to bestow this great honour on his uncle that they were being thus recalled to Madrid.

As for Ximenes, try as he might, he could not thrust the thought from his mind.

Archbishop of Toledo! Primate of Spain! He could not understand this strange feeling which rose within him. There was so much about himself which he could not understand. He longed to suffer the greatest bodily torture, as Christ had suffered on the cross. And even as his body cried out for this treatment, a voice within him asked: ‘Why, Ximenes, is it because you cannot endure that any should be greater than yourself? None must bear pain more stoically. None must be more devout. Who are you, Ximenes? Are you a man? Are you a God?

‘Archbishop of Toledo,’ the voice gloated within him. ‘The power will be yours. You will be greater than any man under the Sovereigns. And the Sovereigns may be swayed by your influence. Have you not had charge of the Queen’s conscience; and is not the Queen the real ruler of Spain?

‘It is for your own vanity, Ximenes. You long to be the most powerful man in Spain; more powerful than Ferdinand whose great desire is to fill his coffers and extend his Kingdom. Greater than Torquemada who has set the holy fires scorching the limbs of heretics throughout the land. More powerful than any. Ximenes, Primate of Spain, the Queen’s right hand. Ruler of Spain?’