Виктория Холт - Spain for the Sovereigns

‘Forgive me. Allow me to talk with you for a minute or two. Oh, Isabella, how it grieves me to see you so unhappy.’

‘Sometimes I blame myself,’ she said. ‘I was too happy. I thought only of my happiness; and perhaps we are not meant to be happy.’

‘You suffered ill fortune, Isabella. We are meant to be happy. When, you have recovered from this shock, I would implore you to give me a chance to make you happy.’

‘I do not understand you.’

‘I am heir to my uncle’s throne. Therefore your parents would consider me as worthy a match as Alonso.’

She stood very still in horror.

‘I could never think of marrying anyone else,’ she said. ‘Alonso is the only husband I shall ever want.’

‘You say that because you are young and your grief is so close.’

‘I say it because I know it to be true.’

‘Do not dismiss me so lightly, Isabella. Think of what I have said.’

* * *

She was always conscious of him. He was so often at her side.

No, no, she cried with all her heart. This cannot be.

And she fretted and continued to mourn, so that the King of Portugal’s alarm increased.

He wrote to the Sovereigns of Castile, to tell them how their daughter’s grief alarmed him.

‘Send our daughter home to us,’ said Isabella. ‘I myself will nurse her back to health.’

So a few months after she had left her country Isabella returned to Castile.

And when she felt herself enfolded in her mother’s embrace she cried out that she was happy to come home. She had lost her beloved husband, but her beloved mother was left to her – and only through the Queen and a life devoted to piety could she want to live.

The time had come for the onslaught on the capital of the Moorish kingdom, and Ferdinand’s army was now ready to begin the attack.

He and Isabella were waiting to receive Boabdil. They had sent a messenger to him, reminding him of the terms he had agreed to in exchange for his release, and they now commanded him to leave Granada and present himself before them, that the terms of surrender might be discussed.

Ferdinand hoped that the people of Granada would remember the terrible fate which had overtaken Malaga, and that they would not be so foolish as to behave in such a way that Ferdinand would have no resort but to treat them similarly.

‘He should be here ere this,’ Ferdinand was saying. ‘He should know better than to keep us waiting.’

Isabella was silent. She was praying that the surrender of the last Moorish stronghold might be accomplished without the loss of much Christian blood.

But the time passed and Boabdil did not come.

Isabella looked at Ferdinand, and she knew that he was already making plans for the siege of Granada.

* * *

The messenger stood before the Sovereigns.

He handed the dispatch to Ferdinand, who, with Isabella, read what Boabdil had written.

‘It is impossible for me to obey your summons. I am no longer able to control my own desires. It is my wish to keep my promises, but the city of Granada refuses to allow me to depart. It is full now, not only with its own population, but those who have come from all over the kingdom to defend it. Therefore I regret that I cannot keep my promise to you.’

Ferdinand clenched his fists and the veins stood out at his temples.

‘So,’ he said, ‘they will not surrender.’

‘It is hardly to be expected that they would,’ Isabella replied mildly. ‘When we have taken Granada, consider, Ferdinand, we shall have completed the reconquest. Could we expect it to fall into our hands like a ripe fruit? Nay, we must fight for this last, this greatest prize.’

‘He has spoken,’ said Ferdinand. ‘He has chosen his own fate and that of his people. We shall no longer hesitate. Now it shall be . . . to Granada !’

The Sovereigns called together the Council and, while it was sitting, news was brought that fresh revolts had broken out in many of the cities which had been captured from the Moors. There had been Moorish forays into Christian territory, and Christians had been slaughtered or carried away to be prisoners or slaves.

This was the answer to Ferdinand’s imperious command to the Moorish King.

The war was not yet won. The Moors were ready to defend the last stronghold of the land which they had called their own for seven hundred years.

* * *

In the little house in Cordova, Cristobal continued to wait for a summons to Court. None came. From time to time he saw some of his friends at Court, particularly Luis de Sant’angel. Beatriz de Bobadilla sent messages to him, and occasionally he received sums of money through her, which she said came from the Queen.

But still there was no summons to Court, no news of the fitting out of the expedition.

Little Ferdinand, the son of Cristobal and Beatriz de Arana, would sit on his knee and be told tales of the sea, as once little Diego had.

Beatriz watched Cristobal uneasily. Once she had been secretly glad that the summons did not come; but she was glad no longer. How could she endure to see her Cristobal grow old and grey, fretting continually against the ill fortune which would not give him the chance he asked.

One day a friend of his early days called at the house.

Cristobal was delighted to see him, and Beatriz brought wine and refreshments. The visitor admired sturdy little Ferdinand – also Beatriz.

He came from France, he said; and he brought a message from Cristobal’s brother, Bartholomew.

Bartholomew wished to know how Cristobal was faring in Spain, and whether he found the Spanish Sovereigns ready to help him in his enterprise.

‘He says, if you do not find this assistance, you should consider coming to France, where there is a growing interest in maritime adventures.’

‘France,’ murmured Cristobal, and Beatriz saw the light leap into his eyes once more. ‘I had thought once of going to France.’

When the visitor had left, Beatriz brought her chair close to that of Cristobal; she took his hand and smiled at him fondly.

‘What is the use of waiting?’ she said. ‘You must go, Cristobal. It is the whole meaning of life to you. Do not think I do not understand. Go to France. Perhaps you will be fortunate there. And if you must wait upon the French Sovereign as you have on those of Spain, then will I join you. But if they give you what you want, if you make your voyage, you will come back to us here in Cordova. Ferdinand and I can wait for you.’

Then Cristobal rose and drawing her to her feet kissed her solemnly.

She knew that he had made his decision.

* * *

Ferdinand’s troops were encamped on the banks of the Xenil, and before them lay the city of Granada. A natural fortress, it seemed impregnable, and even the most optimistic realised that its storming would be long and hazardous.

They could see the great walls which defended it on the side which faced the Christian armies; and on the east side the peaks of the Sierra Nevada made a natural barrier.

Ferdinand looked at that great fortress, and he swore to take it.

From the battlements the Moors looked down on the Christian armies; they saw that the fertile land before the city had been burned and pillaged, the crops destroyed; and they vowed vengeance on the Christians.

So the two combatants – Arab and Christian – stood face to face, and both decided to fight to the death.

* * *

Ferdinand, who had seen the effect Isabella could have on the troops at the time of the siege of Malaga, had suggested that she should accompany the army. Isabella’s reply was that she had had no intention to do otherwise. This was her war, even more than it was Ferdinand’s. It was she who had made her early vows that, should it ever be in her power to do so, she would make an all-Christian Spain.

So to the battle-front came Isabella. The Prince of the Asturias, although only thirteen years old, was with his father. He already considered himself to be a warrior, for in the spring of the previous year Ferdinand had conferred the honour of knighthood upon him, and the ceremony had been performed on the battlefield.

Isabella had brought with her her children and some of her ladies, for she had determined that she would not be parted from her family again. She believed that the presence of the entire royal family in camp was an inspiration to the army; as indeed it seemed to be.

Isabella herself was indefatigable. She nursed the sick, and even her youngest, the five-year-old Catalina, was given tasks to do. Her eldest, Isabella, worked with fervour; for since the death of Alonso, the piety of the young Isabella had rivalled that of the elder.

Ferdinand was delighted to have his family with him, for where the Queen was, dignity and decorum were not forgotten.

There was neither gambling nor swearing in the camp when the Queen was present; instead there were continual prayers. Ferdinand was quick to realise the importance of a disciplined army, and the dignity of the Queen was more effective in ensuring this than any strict rules he could have enforced.

The weeks passed, but the great battle for Granada did not take place. There was deadlock between the two forces.

The great fortress remained impregnable.

* * *

Cristobal had said his farewells. He had left Cordova and travelled westward.