‘Isabella, there is certain friction in our camp which causes me anxiety. There have been rumours of plague in some of the surrounding villages. These are unfounded, but I believe them to have been set in motion to distract our troops. There has been a shortage of water; and, I regret to say, several of the men have deserted.

‘I can think of only one person who could stop this decadence. Yourself. Isabella, I am asking you to come to the camp. Your presence here will lift the spirits of the soldiers. You would give heart to them and, when the news reaches the people of Malaga that you are with us, I feel sure that their anxieties would be increased. They will know that we are determined to take Malaga. Isabella, leave everything and come to our camp before Malaga with all speed.’

Isabella smiled as she read this dispatch.

She looked at the Infanta, who was watching her with curiosity.

‘I am leaving immediately for the camp before Malaga,’ she said. ‘The King requests my presence there.’

‘Mother,’ said the Infanta, ‘you said that we should not be parted . . . that there may not be much time left to us. Dearest Mother, please stay here with us.’

Isabella looked at her eldest daughter and said: ‘But of course I must go. There is work to do in the camp; but do not fret, my daughter. We shall not be parted, for you are coming with me.’


* * *

Isabella arrived at the camp, accompanied by the Infanta and several of the ladies of the Court, among whom was Beatriz de Bobadilla.

They were greeted with enthusiasm, and the effect on the morale of the army was immediate.

Isabella’s dignity never failed to have its effect, and when she turned several tents into a hospital and, with her women, cared for the sick and wounded, there was no doubt that her coming had saved a dangerous situation. Those soldiers who were wearying of the long war, who had been telling themselves that they could never conquer the well-fortified city of Malaga, now changed their minds. They were eager to perform feats of valour in order to win the respect of the Queen and her ladies.

Ferdinand had been right. What the army needed was the presence of its Queen.

There was little peace, for there were continual forays by the Moors who crept out of the besieged city under cover of darkness and made raids on the encamped army.

It might well have been that the Christian armies would have been defeated before Malaga, for El Zagal sent forces to help the town. Unfortunately for the Moors, and to the great advantage of the Christians, Boabdil’s troops encountered the relieving force on its way, a battle ensued and there were so many casualties that it was impossible for El Zagal’s men to come to the relief of Malaga.

When Isabella heard this she thanked God for the shrewdness of Ferdinand, who had insisted, instead of keeping Boabdil in captivity, on sending him back that he might do great damage to the Moorish cause.

Poor Boabdil was a bewildered young man. He hated war; he wished to end it as quickly as possible. He sought to placate the Christian Sovereigns by sending them presents, almost as though to remind them that through the recent treaty he was their vassal.

‘We owe a great deal to Boabdil,’ said Ferdinand. ‘This war would have been longer and more bloody for us but for him. I will make him some return to show him that I am his friend. I shall allow his supporters to cultivate their fields in peace. After all, soon this land will be ours. It would be wise therefore to leave some of it in cultivation and at the same time reward Boabdil.’

So the siege continued, and Ferdinand was confident of victory. He trusted his own shrewdness and his ability to get the best of any bargain; he had called his Master of Ordnance, Francisco Ramirez, to the front; this clever inventor with his powder mines could work miracles until now never used in warfare; and there was Isabella, with her dignity, piety and good works.

We cannot fail, thought Ferdinand; we have everything which makes for success.


* * *

It was afternoon when the prisoner was brought in. He was dragged before the Marquis of Cadiz; and he fell to his knees and begged the Marquis to spare his life. As the man could not speak Castilian, the Marquis spoke to him in the Moorish tongue.

‘I come as a friend. I come as a friend,’ repeated the Moor. ‘I pray you listen to what I have to say. I will lead you into Malaga. I am the friend of the Christian King and Queen, as is my King, Boabdil.’

The Marquis of Cadiz, who was about to order the Moor’s execution, paused.

He signed to the two guards who stood on either side of the Moor to seize him.

‘Follow me,’ said the Marquis, ‘and bring him with you.’

He made his way to the royal tent, where Isabella was with Ferdinand. She came to the entrance, for she had heard the man shouting in his own language.

‘Highness,’ said the Marquis, ‘this man was captured. He says he has escaped from the city because he has something he wishes to tell you. Will you and the King see him now?’

Isabella looked back into the tent, where Ferdinand, worn out with his recent exertions, was fast asleep.

‘The King is asleep,’ she said. ‘I do not wish to waken him.

He was quite exhausted. This man’s story can wait. Take him into the next tent. There let him remain until the King awakes, when I will immediately tell him what has happened.’

She indicated the tent next to her own, in which Beatriz de Bobadilla sat with Don Alvaro, a Portuguese nobleman, and son of the Duke of Braganza, who had joined the Holy War, as so many foreigners had, since they looked upon it as a crusade.

They were discussing the siege and, when Beatriz heard the Queen’s words, she went to Isabella.

‘I wish this man to be detained until the King awakes,’ said Isabella. ‘He says that he has news for us.’

‘We will detain him until it is your pleasure to receive him,’ said Beatriz; and when the guards, after having brought the Moor to her tent, stationed themselves outside, she continued her conversation with the Duke.

The Moor watched them. She was a very handsome woman and far more magnificently dressed than Isabella had been. He had glimpsed the sleeping Ferdinand, his doublet lying beside his pallet, and he had not thought for one moment that this could be the great King of whom he had heard so much.

But here was a courtly man in garments of scarlet and gold; and here was a lady, queenly in her bearing, with jewels at her throat and on her hands, her gown stiff with silken embroidery.

The Moor remained motionless, watching them slyly as they continued to talk together as though he were not there. He believed they were discussing how they would treat him, what questions they would ask.

He began to make soft moaning noises, and when they looked at him he gazed towards a jar of water with pleading eyes.

‘The man is thirsty,’ said Beatriz. ‘Let us give him a draught of water.’

The Duke poured water into a cup and handed it to the Moor, who drank it eagerly. As the Duke turned away, to put the cup by the jar, the Moor knew that the moment he had been waiting for had come.

He knew that death would doubtless be his reward, but he did not care. This day he was going to perform a deed which would make his name glorious in Arab history for evermore. There were two whose names struck terror into every citizen within the walls of Malaga – and of Granada also: Ferdinand, the great soldier, Isabella, the dedicated Queen.

He slipped his hand beneath his albornoz and his fingers closed round the dagger which he had secreted there.

The man should be first because, when he was dead, it would be easy to deal with the woman. He lifted the dagger as he sprang, and in a few seconds Don Alvaro, bleeding profusely from the head, sank to the floor. Beatriz screamed for help as the Moor then turned to her. Again he lifted the dagger, but Beatrix’s arm shot up and the blow he struck at her breast was diverted.

‘Help!’ Beatriz shouted. ‘We are being murdered.’

Again the Moor lifted the dagger, but Beatriz was ready for him. She slipped aside and the blow glanced off the encrusted embroidery of her gown. She was calling for help at the top of her voice. There was an answering shout and the guards entered the tent.

Again the Moor sought to strike at the woman whom he believed to be Isabella. But he was too late. He was caught by the guards, who seized him and dragged him from the tent.

Beatriz followed them shouting: ‘Send help at once. Don Alvaro has been badly wounded.’

Then she turned back and knelt by the wounded man seeking to stem his bleeding.

Isabella came into the tent.

‘Beatriz, what is this?’ she asked; and she gasped with horror as she looked at the wounded man.

‘He is not dead,’ said Beatriz. ‘With God’s help we shall save him. It was the Moor, who said he had news for you.’

‘And I sent him to your tent!’

‘Thank God you did.’

Ferdinand had now appeared in the tent; he was pulling on his doublet as he came.

‘An attempt, Highness,’ said Beatriz, ‘on the life of the Queen and yourself.’

Ferdinand stared down at the wounded man.


* * *

‘You see,’ said Beatriz later, ‘you are in danger here, Highness. You should not be in camp. It is no place for you.’

‘It is the only place for me,’ answered Isabella.

‘That might have been the end of your lives. If you had taken that man into your tent he could have killed the King while he slept.’