Виктория Холт - Daughters of Spain

To Torquemada, devotee of the hard pallet and the hair shirt, this was shocking; but more so was the fact that the sly and shrewd Borgia seemed to take an almost mischievous delight in frustrating Torquemada in every way possible.

‘Perhaps it is inevitable that a whoremonger and evil liver should wish to bring down one who has always followed the holy life,’ mused Torquemada. ‘But pity of pities that such a one should be the Holy Father himself!’

Torquemada’s eyes gleamed in his pale face. What pleasure it would give him to jostle for power against that man. Even at this moment he was expecting his messengers to return from England, whither he had sent them with a special message for King Henry VII, who might have cause to be grateful to Torquemada.

The wily King of England knew what power the Inquisitor wielded over the Sovereigns. His spies would let him know that Isabella and Ferdinand often visited him at Avila when he was too crippled by the gout to go to them. He would know that the body of Juan had been brought to him at Avila for burial – a mark of the respect the Sovereigns felt for him. It was comforting – particularly in view of the irritations he received from Rome – to know that England knew him for the influential man he was.

It was while he was lying on his pallet brooding on these matters that his messengers arrived from England, and as soon as he learned that they were in the monastery, he had them brought to him with all speed.

The messengers trembled in his presence; there was that in this man to set others trembling. His cold accusing eyes might see some heresy of which a victim had been unaware; those thin lips might rap out a question, the answer to which might cost the one who made it the loss of his possessions, torture, or death.

To stand in the presence of Torquemada was to bring to the mind the gloomy dungeons of pain, the dismal ceremonies of the auto de fe; the smell of scorching human flesh.

‘What news of the King of England?’ demanded Torquemada.

‘Your Excellency, the King of England sends his respects to you and wishes you to know that he desires to be your friend.’

‘And you told him of my request?’

‘Your Excellency, we told him and we had his answer from his own lips. The King of England will not allow in his Kingdom any man, woman or child who asks refuge from the Holy Office.’

‘Did he say this lightly or did he swear it as an oath?’

‘Excellency, he put his hands on his breast and swore it. He swore too that he would persecute any Jew or heretic who sought refuge in his Kingdom, should the Inquisition call attention to such a person.’

‘And was there aught else?’

‘The King of England said that, as he was your friend, he knew that you would be his.’

Torquemada smiled, well satisfied, and the relieved messengers were allowed to escape from his presence.

The King of England at least was his friend. He had given what Torquemada had asked, and he should be rewarded. This marriage between his eldest son and the Sovereigns’ youngest daughter must not much longer be delayed. It was absurd sentimentality to talk of the child’s being too young.

It was a matter which needed his attention and it should have it.

If only he were not so tired. But he must rouse himself. He had his duty to perform and, although the Queen was going to plead for her youngest daughter, Her Highness, as he had, must learn to subdue her desires; she must not let them stand in the way of her duty.

Margaret went about the Palace like a sad, pale ghost. She had lost her Flemish gaiety; she seemed always to be looking back into the past.

Often Catalina would walk beside her in the gardens; neither would talk very much, but they had a certain comfort to give each other.

Catalina had a feeling that these walks were precious because they could not go on for long. Something was going to happen to her … or to Margaret. Margaret would not be allowed to stay here indefinitely, any more than she would. Maximilian would soon be wondering what new marriage could be arranged for his daughter; as for Catalina, her time of departure must be near.

Catalina said, one day as they walked together: ‘Soon my sister Isabella will be coming home. Then there will be festivities to welcome her. Perhaps then the time of mourning will be over.’

‘Festivities will not end my mourning,’ Margaret answered.

Catalina slipped her arm through that of her sister-in-law. ‘Will you stay here?’ she asked.

‘I do not know. My father may recall me. My attendants would be glad to return to Flanders. They say they can never learn your Spanish manners.’

‘I should miss you sadly if you went.’

‘Perhaps …’ began Margaret and stopped short.

Catalina winced. ‘You are thinking that I may be gone first.’ She was silent for a moment, then she burst out: ‘Margaret, I am so frightened when I think of it. I can tell you, because you are different from everyone else. You say what you think. I have a terror of England.’

‘One country is not so very different from another,’ Margaret comforted.

‘I do not like what I hear of the King of England.’

‘But it is his son with whom you will be concerned. There are other children, and perhaps they will not be like their father. Look how friendly I have become with you all.’

‘Yes,’ said Catalina slowly, ‘perhaps I shall like Arthur and his brother and sisters.’

‘Perhaps you will not go after all. Plans are often changed.’

‘I used to think and hope that,’ Catalina admitted. ‘But since the ceremony has been performed by proxy, I feel there is little chance of escape for me.’

Catalina’s brow was wrinkled; she was picturing that ceremony of which she had heard. It had had to be performed in secret because the King of England feared what the King of Scotland’s reaction would be if he knew that England was making a marriage with Spain.

‘In the Chapel of the Royal Manor of Bewdley …’ she whispered. ‘What strange names these English have. Perhaps in time they will not be strange to me. Oh, Margaret, when I think of that ceremony I feel I am already married. I feel there is no longer hope of escape.’

* * *

Isabella watched her daughter from a window of her apartments. She was glad to see Margaret and Catalina together. Poor children, they could help each other.

Although she could not see the expression on her young daughter’s face it seemed to her that there was desperation displayed in the droop of her head and the manner in which her hands hung at her sides.

She was probably talking of that marriage by proxy. The poor child would break her heart if she had to go to England. She was thirteen. Another year and the time would be ripe.

The Queen turned away from the window because she could no longer bear to look.

She went to her table and wrote to Torquemada.

‘As yet my daughter is too young for marriage. There has been this proxy ceremony; that must suffice for a little longer. Catalina shall not go to England … yet.’

* * *

Queen Isabella of Spain was often thankful that there was so much to demand her attention. If there had not been, she believed that she would not have been able to bear her grief for what had befallen her family. She had borne the terrible blow of Juan’s death, and she had thought at that time that she had come as near to despair as any woman could come; and yet, when she thought of Juana in Flanders, something like terror would assail her.

The truth was that she dared not think too often of Juana.

Therefore she was glad of these continual matters of state to which it was her duty to attend. She would never forget that she was the Queen and that her duty to her country came before everything – yes, even the love which she, as an affectionate mother, bore her children.

Now she was concerned about her Admiral, Christobal Colon, who was on his way to see her. She had a great admiration for this man and never ceased to defend him when his enemies – and he had many – brought charges against him.

Now he wished to sail once more for the New World, and she knew that he would beg for the means to do so. This would mean money for equipment, men and women who would make good colonists.

She would always remember that occasion when he had come home, having discovered the New World and bringing proof of its riches with him. She remembered singing the Te Deum in the royal chapel, praising God for this great gift. Perhaps to some it had not fulfilled its promise. They had expected more riches, greater profit. But Isabella was a woman of vision and she could see that the new colony might have something more important to offer than gold and trinkets.

Men grew impatient. They did not wish to work for their riches. They wanted to grow rich effortlessly. As for Ferdinand, when he saw the spoils which were being brought from the New World, he regretted that they had promised Christobal Colon a share in them, and was continually seeking a way out of his bargain with the adventurer.

Many had desired to follow him on his return to the New World, but to found a colony one needed men of ideals. Isabella understood this as Ferdinand and so many others could not.

It had been a troublous tale of ambition and jealousies which had been brought to Spain from the new colony.

‘Who is this Colon?’ was a question on the lips of many. ‘He is a foreigner. Why should he be put above us?’