‘My mother, you talk treason.’

Her eyes flashed. ‘I owe loyalty to none. I was taken from my home against my will. I was brought here in chains. I was forced to lead the life of an Arab slave. I . . . the daughter of a proud Castilian. I owe no loyalty to any. Others ruled my life; now I say my reward is a crown for my son. You shall be Sultan of Granada even if we must make war on your father to put the crown on your head.’

‘But why should we fight for that which must, when Allah wills it, be ours?’

‘My foolish son,’ answered Zoraya, ‘do you not understand that others intrigue to take the crown of Granada instead of you? The Greek wants it for her son. She is sly. How can we know what promises she wrings from a besotted old man? Your uncle looks covetously towards the crown. He wants it for himself. Allah helps those who help themselves. Have you not yet learned that, Boabdil?’

‘I hear voices.’

‘Go then and see who listens to us.’

‘I beg of you, my mother, do not speak treasonably in case any should hear.’

But even as he spoke guards had entered the apartment.

Zoraya was shocked. She demanded: ‘What do you here? Do you not know what the punishment is for forcing your way into the apartments of the Sultana?’

The guards bowed low. They spoke to Boabdil. ‘My lord, we come on the command of Muley Abul Hassan, Sultan of Granada. We must humbly request you to allow us to put these chains upon you, for it is our unhappy duty to conduct you and the Sultana to the prison in the palace.’

Zoraya cried: ‘You shall put no chains on me.’

But it was useless; the guards had seized her. Her eyes flashed with contempt when she saw her son Boabdil meekly hold out his hands to receive the chains.


* * *

In her prison Zoraya did not cease to intrigue. As Sultana and mother of Boabdil, recognised heir to the crown of Granada, there were many to work for her. The rule of Muley Abul Hassan was not popular. It was well known throughout the kingdom that the Christian armies were gathering against Mussulmans and that the Castile of today was a formidable province – no less so because, through the marriage of Isabella with Ferdinand, it was allied with Aragon.

‘The Sultan is old. He is finished. Can an old man defend Granada against the growing danger?’ That was the message which Zoraya had caused to be circulated through Granada. And in the streets the people whispered: ‘We are a kingdom in peril and a kingdom divided against itself. Old men are set in old ways. Our future is in the hands of our youth.’

Zoraya and her son, although prisoners, did not suffer any privations. They were surrounded by servants and attendants. Thus Muley Abul Hassan had made it easy for Zoraya to continue to work for his dethronement and the succession of her son, Boabdil.

She sent her spies into the streets to spread abroad the scandals of the palace, to whisper of the bravery of Zoraya and Boabdil whom others sought to rob of their inheritance. Here was a brave mother fighting for the rights of her son; they could depend upon it that Allah would not turn his back upon her.

News was brought to her that the people in the streets were no longer whispering but saying aloud: ‘Have done with the old Sultan. Give us the new!’ And Zoraya judged the moment had come. She summoned all her servants and attendants to her. She made the women take off their veils, the eunuchs their haiks.

Then she, with Boabdil and a very few of her most trusted servants, tied these end to end, making a long rope, which they secured and hung from a window.

First she descended the rope, followed by Boabdil.

She had arranged that they should be expected. No sooner had Boabdil reached the ground than several of their supporters were on the spot greeting Boabdil as their Sultan, honouring Zoraya as the great Sultana and mother, a woman whose name, they believed, would be a legend in the history of the Mussulmans, because she, in her maternal love, by her bravery and resource, had delivered their new Sultan from the tyranny of the old one.


* * *

There was war in Granada. Thousands rallied to the cause of Boabdil.

In the streets of the beautiful city of Granada, Moor fought Moor and the battle was fierce.

Muley Abul Hassan was taken by surprise, first by the treachery of his family, then by the force of their supporters. And although the fortress of the Alhambra itself remained faithful to him, the city was against him. Chivalry turned the men of Granada to the brave Sultana and her young son.

Prudence weighed the matter and decided that Muley Abul Hassan had had his day and that the times needed the vigour of a young Sultan; and Muley Abul Hassan was driven from Granada, whence he fled to the city of Malaga, which had declared itself for him.

Thus while the Christian armies were gathering against them there was civil strife in the kingdom of Granada.


* * *

Isabella was thoughtful as she sat at her needlework. This was one of the rare occasions when she could find a brief hour’s escape from state duties; and it was pleasant to have Beatriz with her at such a time.

Beatriz had her duties to her husband and was not in constant attendance on Isabella, so that those opportunities of being together were especially precious.

Isabella was now thinking of Ferdinand, who had seemed to be brooding on some secret matter. She wondered if his thoughts were with the events in Granada as hers were; but perhaps they were with some woman, some family of his, which existed unknown to her. It seemed strange that Ferdinand might have other families, women who loved him, children who aroused his affection even as her Isabella, Juan, Juana and little Maria did – a strange, disturbing and unhappy thought.

She looked at Beatriz, who, not with any great pleasure, was working on a piece of needlework. Beatriz was too active a woman to find delight in such a sedentary occupation. Isabella would have enjoyed talking of these matters which disturbed her to a sympathetic friend like Beatriz; but she refrained from doing so; not even to Beatriz would she speak of matters, so derogatory, she believed, to the dignity of herself and Ferdinand as sovereigns of Castile and Aragon.

Beatriz herself spoke, for on these occasions Isabella had asked her friend to dispense with all ceremony, and that they should behave as two good wives come together for a friendly gossip.

‘How go affairs in Navarre?’ asked Beatriz.

‘They give us cause for anxiety,’ answered Isabella. ‘One can never be sure what tortuous plan is in Louis’s mind.’

‘Surely even he could not arrange that the vows La Beltraneja has taken should be swept aside.’

‘He is very powerful. And I do not trust Pope Sixtus. We have had our differences. And bribes can work wonders with a man such as he is, I fear.’

‘Bribes or threats,’ murmured Beatriz. ‘Francis Phoebus is, I hear, a beautiful creature. They say that he is rightly called Phoebus and that his hair is like golden sunshine.’

‘Doubtless,’ answered Isabella, ‘they exaggerate. Phoebus is a family name. It may well be that he is handsome, but he is also a king, and the beauty of kings and queens often takes its lustre from their royalty.’

Beatriz smiled at her friend. ‘My Queen,’ she said, ‘I believe your natural good sense is equal to your beauty – and you are beautiful, Isabella, Queen or not!’

‘We were talking of Francis Phoebus,’ Isabella reminded her.

‘Ah, yes, Francis Phoebus, who is as beautiful as his name. I wonder what he feels about marrying the released nun of doubtful parentage.’

‘If that marriage is made,’ said Isabella grimly, ‘there will be many to assure him that there is no doubt whatsoever of her parentage. Oh, Beatriz, the tasks before us seem to grow daily. I had hoped that ere long we should be making war. . . real war . . . on Granada. But now that it would seem favourable to do so, there is trouble in Navarre. If Louis suggests removing La Beltraneja from her convent, having her released from her vows and married to his nephew of Navarre, make no mistake about it, his first plan will be to take Navarre under the protection of France, and his second to win my crown for La Beltraneja.’

‘Even Louis would never succeed.’

‘He would not succeed, Beatriz, but there would be another bitter war. A War of the Succession has already been fought and won. I pray hourly that there may not be another.’

‘That you may devote your energies to the war against the Moors.’

Isabella thoughtfully continued with her needlework.

It was shortly afterwards that Ferdinand entered her apartment. He came without ceremony, but Beatriz, realising that he would not wish her to greet him with the informality which Isabella allowed, was on her feet and gave him a deep curtsey.

Isabella saw that Ferdinand was excited. His eyes shone in his bronzed face and his mouth twitched slightly.

‘You have news, Ferdinand, good news?’ she asked. ‘Please do not consider the presence of Beatriz. You know she is our very good friend.’

Beatriz waited for his dismissal, but it did not come.

He sat down on the chair beside the Queen, and Isabella signed to Beatriz that she might return to her chair.

Ferdinand said: ‘News from Navarre.’

‘What news?’ asked Isabella sharply.

‘The King of Navarre is dead.’

An almost imperceptible look of triumph stole across Ferdinand’s face.

Beatriz caught her breath. She had visualised so clearly the young man known as Francis Phoebus who had been likened to the Sun God himself, and only a few moments ago she had considered him in his golden beauty; now she must adjust the picture and see a young man lying on his bier.