Виктория Холт - Spain for the Sovereigns

‘How did he die?’ Isabella asked.

‘Quite suddenly,’ said Ferdinand; and, try as he might to look solemn, he could not manage it. The triumph remained on his face.

Beatriz’s eyes went to Isabella’s face, but as usual the Queen’s expression told her nothing.

What does she think of murder? wondered Beatriz. How can I know, when she does not betray herself? Does she accept the murder of a young man, as beautiful as his name implies, because his existence threatens the throne of Castile? Will she say Thank God? Or in her prayers will she ask forgiveness because, when she hears that murder has been done at the instigation of her husband, she has rejoiced?

‘Then,’ said Isabella slowly, ‘the danger of a marriage between Navarre and La Beltraneja no longer exists.’

‘That danger is over,’ agreed Ferdinand.

He folded his arms and smiled at his Queen. He looked invincible thus, thought Beatriz. Isabella realises this; and perhaps she says to herself: Unfaithful husband though you are, murderer though you may be, you are a worthy husband for Isabella of Castile!

‘Now who rules Navarre?’ asked Isabella.

‘His sister Catharine has been proclaimed Queen.’

‘A child of thirteen!’

‘Her mother rules until she is older.’

‘There is one thing we must do with all speed,’ said Isabella. ‘Juan shall be betrothed to Catharine of Navarre.’

‘I agree,’ said Ferdinand. ‘But I have news that Louis has not been idle. He is making preparations to seize Navarre. In which case it may very well be that they will not accept our son for Catharine.’

‘We must act against Louis at once,’ said Isabella.

‘Your short respite is over,’ Ferdinand told her ruefully.

‘I will leave at once for the frontier,’ Isabella replied. ‘We must show Louis that, should he attempt to move into Navarre, we have strong forces to resist him.’

Isabella folded up her needlework as though, thought Beatriz, she were a housewife, preparing to perform some other domestic duty.

She handed the work to Beatriz. ‘It must be set aside for a time,’ she said.

Beatriz took the work, and understanding that they wished to discuss plans from which she was excluded, she curtsied and left Ferdinand and Isabella alone together.

* * *

Boabdil rode into battle against the Christian army.

Muley Abul Hassan and his brother El Zagal were fighting their own war, also against the Christians. They had made several attacks near Gibraltar and had had some success.

The people of Granada were beginning to say: ‘It may be that Muley Abul Hassan grows old and feeble, but with El Zagal beside him he can still win victories. Perhaps it is not the will of Allah that we throw him aside for the new Sultan, Boabdil.’

‘Boabdil must go into action,’ cried Zoraya. ‘He must show the Arab kingdom that he can fight as poor Muley Abul Hassan, and even El Zagal, never could.’

So it was that Boabdil rode into action against the Christians. He was confident of success. Brilliantly clad in a mantle of crimson velvet embroidered with gold, he was an impressive figure, for beneath the cloak his damascened steel armour caught and reflected the light and glistened.

Out of the town of Granada he rode to the cheers of the people; and those cheers were still ringing in his ears when he took the road to Cordova.

He met the Christian forces on the banks of the Xenil, and the fighting was fierce.

Boabdil had not been born to be a fighter. He was a man who longed for peace; and but for his forceful mother he would never have found himself in the position he was in that day. His men sensed the lack of resolution in their leader; and the Christians were determined.

And there on the banks of the Xenil, Boabdil saw his Moors defeated and, realising that he himself in his rich garments and on his milk-white horse was conspicuous as their leader, he sought a way to hide himself and escape death or what would be more humiliating, capture.

He saw his men mowed down, his captains slaughtered; and he knew the battle was lost.

The river had risen during the night and it was impossible for him to ford it; so he dismounted and, abandoning his horse, hid himself among the brush which bordered the river.

As he cowered there among the reeds, a passing soldier caught a glimpse of the bright scarlet of his cloak and came to investigate.

Boabdil stood up, his scimitar in his hand, and prepared to fight for his life. But his discoverer, a soldier named Martin Hurtado, realising that here was a man of high rank, yelled to his comrades and, at once, Boabdil was surrounded.

Now his scimitar was of no use against so many and, in an endeavour to save his life, he cried: ‘I am Boabdil, Sultan of Granada.’

That made the soldiers pause. Here was a prize beyond their wildest hopes.

‘Stay your swords, my friends,’ cried Martin Hurtado. ‘We will take this prize to King Ferdinand. I’ll warrant we’ll be richly rewarded for it.’

The others agreed, although it went against the grain to relinquish that scarlet velvet cloak, that shining armour and all the other treasures which, it was reasonable to believe, such a personage might have upon him.

So in this way was Boabdil brought to Ferdinand a prisoner.

* * *

Isabella was at the frontier town of Logrono, when news was brought to her of the death of Louis.

She fell on her knees and gave thanks for this deliverance.

The King of France, she heard, had died in great fear of the hereafter, for he had committed many sins and the memory of these tortured him.

Yet, thought Isabella, he worked for his country. France was put first always. Perhaps his sins would be forgiven because of that one great virtue.

His son, Charles VIII, was a minor and there would be troubles enough in his country to keep French eyes off Navarre for some time.

It is yet another miracle, pondered Isabella. It is further evidence that I have been selected for the great tasks before me.

Now she need no longer stay on the borders of Navarre. She could join Ferdinand; they could prosecute the war against the Infidel with all their resources.

As she travelled towards Cordova more exhilarating news was brought to her.

The Moors had been routed on the banks of the Xenil, and Boabdil himself was Ferdinand’s prisoner.

‘Let us give thanks to God and his saints,’ cried Isabella to her attendants. ‘The way is being made clear to us. Our Inquisitors are bringing the heretic to justice. Now we shall drive the Infidel from Granada. If we do this we shall not have lived in vain, and there will be rejoicing in Heaven. Our sins will be as molehills beside the mountain of our achievements.’

And she was smiling. For the first time since she had heard of it she was no longer disturbed by the thought of bright and beautiful Francis Phoebus, lying dead at the hand of a poisoner.

In a small shop in one of the narrow streets of the town of Lisbon a man waited for customers, and on his face was an expression of frustration and sorrow.

‘Will it always be thus?’ he asked himself. ‘Will my plans never come to fruition?’

He had asked the question again and again of Filippa, his wife, and she had always replied in the same way: ‘Have courage, Christoforo. One day your dreams will be realised. One day you will find those who will believe you, who will make it possible for you to carry out your plan.’

And he had said in those days: ‘You are right, Filippa; one day I shall succeed.’

He had smiled at her because he had known that in her heart she was not displeased. When the great day came she would stand at the door of the shop, little Diego in her arms, waving to a husband who was going away on his great adventure, an adventure which would, more likely than not, end in death.

Yet she need not have feared on that account. She was the one who had gone to meet death – not on the high seas, but in the back room of this dark little shop which was crowded with charts and nautical instruments.

Little Diego came and stood beside him. Patient little Diego, who now had no mother to care for him, and tried so hard to understand the meaning of the dreams he saw in his father’s eyes.

Few people came into the shop to buy. Christoforo was not a good salesman, he feared. If they came, if they were interested in sailing the seas, he would invite them into the room beyond and there, over a bottle of wine, they would talk while Christoforo forgot the need to sell his goods that he might provide food for himself and his son.

It was nearly ten years since he had come to Lisbon from Genoa. He was even then nearly thirty years old. He often talked now to little Diego, who had been his chief companion since Filippa had died.

Diego would stand, his hands on his father’s knees, listening.

Diego thought his father the most handsome man in Lisbon, indeed in the world, for Diego knew nothing of the world beyond Lisbon. When his father talked his eyes would glow with a luminosity which Diego did not understand – and yet it thrilled his small body. His father talked as no others talked; and his talk was all of a land that lay somewhere across the oceans, a land which existed and yet about which no one on this side of the world knew anything.

Diego looked into the face of a man who saw visions. A tall man, a broad man, with long legs, blue eyes which seemed made for looking over long distances, and thick hair which had a touch of red and gold in it.