Текст книги "Daughters of Spain "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 17 страниц)
‘You’ll go the quicker for the wine.’
The Negro considered this. It might be true.
‘Come,’ said the Moor. ‘Drink with me. Let me be your host.’
‘You are generous,’ said the Negro, smiling.
‘Come inside and wine shall be brought for us.’
They sat together drinking the wine. The Moor encouraged the Negro to talk of his triumphs: how he had won many a race and had not in recent years met the man who could outrun him.
The Moor replenished his glass, and the Negro did not notice how much he was drinking, and forgot that he was unused to such wine.
His speech became slower; he had forgotten where he was; he slumped forward and, smiling, the Moor rose and taking him by the hair jerked his face upwards. The Negro was too intoxicated to protest; he did not even know who the man was.
The Moor called to the innkeeper.
‘Let your servants take this man to a bed,’ he said. ‘He has drunk much wine and he will not be sober until morning. Give him food then and more wine … a great deal of it. It is necessary that he should stay here for another day and night.’
The innkeeper took the money which was given him, and assured his honoured customer that his wishes should be carried out.
The Moor smiled pleasantly, went out to his horse and began the journey back to Granada.
Later that night the Count of Tendilla set out for Seville with his retinue. There was rejoicing in the Albaycin. The cunning of Ximenes would be foiled. Isabella and Ferdinand would first hear the story of the Moorish revolt from their friend, not from their enemy.
When Ferdinand heard from Tendilla what had happened in Granada his first feeling was of anger, then dismay, but these were later tinged with a faint satisfaction.
He lost no time in confronting Isabella.
‘Here is a fine state of affairs,’ he cried. ‘Revolt in Granada. All brought about through this man Ximenes. So we are to pay dear for the conduct of your Archbishop. That for which we fought for years has been endangered in a few hours by the rashness of this man whom you took from his humble station to make Archbishop of Toledo and Primate of Spain.’
Isabella was astounded by the news. She had taken great pride in maintaining the treaty. She had always been delighted to hear of the prosperity of her city of Granada, of the industry of the Moorish population and the manner in which they lived peaceably side by side with the Christians. She was overjoyed when she heard of the few conversions to Christianity which Talavera had brought about. But revolt in Granada! And Ximenes, her Archbishop – as Ferdinand always called him – was apparently at the very root of it.
‘We have not heard his side of the story …’ she began.
‘And why not?’ demanded Ferdinand. ‘Does your Archbishop think he may act without our sanction? He has not thought fit to inform us. Who are we? Merely the Sovereigns. It is Ximenes who rules Spain.’
‘I confess I am both alarmed and astonished,’ admitted Isabella.
‘I should think so, Madam. This is what comes of giving high office to those who are unable to fill it with dignity and responsibility.’
‘I shall write to him at once,’ said the Queen, ‘informing him of my displeasure and summoning him to our presence without delay.’
‘It would certainly be wise to recall him from Granada before we have a war on our hands.’
Isabella went to her table and began to write in the most severe terms, expressing her deep concern and anger that the Archbishop of Toledo should have so far forgotten his duty to his Sovereigns and his office as to have acted against the treaty of Granada and, having brought about such dire results, had not thought fit to tell his Sovereigns.
Ferdinand watched her, a slow smile curving his mouth. He was anxious as to the state of Granada, but he could not help feeling this pleasure. It was very gratifying to see his prophecies, concerning that upstart, coming true. How different it would have been if his own dear son Alfonso had graced the highest office in Spain.
Ximenes stood before the Sovereigns. His face was pale but he was as arrogant as ever.
There was no contrition at all, Ferdinand noticed in amazement. What sort of man was this? He had no fear whatsoever. He could be stripped of office and possessions and he would still flaunt his self-righteousness. He could be beaten, tortured, taken to the stake – still he would preserve that air of arrogance.
Even Ferdinand was slightly shaken as he looked at this man. As for Isabella, from the moment he had stood before her she was ready to listen sympathetically and to believe that what she had heard before had not been an accurate account.
‘I do not understand,’ began Isabella, ‘on what authority you have acted as you did in Granada.’
‘On that of God,’ was the answer.
Ferdinand made an impatient gesture but Isabella went on gently: ‘My lord Archbishop, did you not know that the Treaty of Granada lays down that the Moorish population should continue to worship as it wished?’
‘I did know this, Highness, but I thought it an evil treaty.’
‘Was that your concern?’ demanded Ferdinand with sarcasm.
‘It is always my concern to fight evil, Highness.’
Isabella asked: ‘If you wished to take these measures would it not have been wiser to have consulted us, to ask our permission to do so?’
‘It would have been most unwise,’ retorted Ximenes. ‘Your Highnesses would never have given that permission.’
‘This is monstrous!’ cried Ferdinand.
‘Wait, I beg of you,’ pleaded Isabella. ‘Let the Archbishop tell us his side of the story.’
‘It was necessary,’ continued Ximenes, ‘that action should be taken against these Infidels. Your Highness did not see fit to do so. In the name of the Faith I was forced to do it for you.’
‘And,’ fumed Ferdinand, ‘having done it, you did not even take the trouble to inform us.’
‘There you wrong me. I dispatched a messenger to you in all haste. He should have reached you before you received the news from any other. Unhappily my enemies waylaid him and intoxicated him so that he did not reach you … and then, having failed in his duty, was afraid to present himself either to you or to me.’
Isabella looked relieved. ‘I knew I could trust you to keep us informed, and the failure of your messenger to arrive was certainly no fault of yours.’
‘There is still this astonishing conduct, which led to revolt in Granada, to be explained,’ Ferdinand reminded them.
Then Ximenes turned to him and delivered one of those sermons of invective for which he was famous. He reminded them of the manner in which he had served God, the state, and themselves. He told them how much of the revenues of Toledo had gone into the work of proselytising. He hinted that both had been guilty of indifference to the Faith – Ferdinand in his desire for aggrandisement, Isabella in her affection for her family. Here he touched them both where they were most vulnerable. He made them feel guilty; slowly, with infinite cunning he turned the argument in his favour so that it was as though they were under an obligation to explain themselves to him, not he to them.
Ferdinand was saying to himself: I have found the need always to fight, to protect what is mine and to seek to make it safe; I have seen that only by adding to my possessions can I make Aragon safe.
And Isabella: Perhaps it is sin for a mother to love her children as I have done, to evade her duty in the desire to keep them with her.
Ximenes then came to the point up to which he was leading them.
‘It is true,’ he said, ‘that there was this Treaty of Granada. But the Moors in Granada have been in revolt against Your Highnesses. By so doing they have broken the treaty, the core of which was that both sides were to live in amity. It was they who rose against us. Therefore, since they have broken their word, there is no need for us to have any compunction in changing our attitude towards them.’
Subtly Ximenes reminded the Sovereigns of the expulsion of the Jews. Much of the property of these unfortunate Jews had enriched the state. The thought of that made Ferdinand’s eyes gleam. For Isabella’s sake he spoke of the great work that could be done in bringing these Infidels into the Christian fold.
Then he cried: ‘They have broken the treaty. You are under no obligation. Any means should be used to bring these poor lost souls to Christianity.’
Ximenes had won his battle. The Treaty of Granada was no more.
An almost benevolent expression was on Ximenes’s face. He was already making plans to bring the Moors of Granada to baptism. In a short time there should be what he called a truly Christian Granada.
THE DEPARTURES OF MIGUEL AND CATALINA
Maria her sister Catalina were at the window watching the comings and goings to and from the Madrid Alcazar. The expression of each was intent; and in both cases their thoughts were on marriage.
Catalina could immediately recognise the English messengers, and on those occasions when she saw these men with their letters from their King to her parents she felt sick with anxiety. The Queen had told her that in each dispatch the King of England grew more and more impatient.
Then Catalina would cling to her mother wildly for a few seconds, holding back her tears; and although the Queen reproved her, there was, Catalina knew, a rough note in her voice which betrayed her own nearness to tears.
It cannot be long now, Catalina said to herself every morning. And each day which could be lived through without word from England was something for which she thanked the saints in her prayers at night.
Maria was different. She was as nearly excited as Catalina had ever seen her.
Now she chattered: ‘Catalina, can you see the Naples livery? Tell me if you do.’
Doesn’t she care that she will have to leave her home? wondered Catalina. But perhaps Naples did not seem so far away as England.
There was gossip throughout the Alcazar that the next marriage would either be that of Maria to the Duke of Calabria who was the heir of the King of Naples, or that of Catalina to the Prince of Wales.
Maria actually enjoyed talking of her prospective marriage.
‘I was afraid I was going to be forgotten,’ she explained. ‘There were husbands for everybody else and none for me. It seemed unfair.’
‘I should rejoice if they had found no husband for me,’ Catalina reminded her.
‘That is because you are so young. You cannot imagine anything but staying at home here with Mother all your life. That is quite impossible.’
‘I fear you are right.’
‘When you are as old as I am you will feel differently,’ Maria comforted her sister.
‘In three years’ time I shall be as old as you are now. I wonder what I shall be doing by then? Three years from now. That will be the year 1503. It’s a long way ahead. Look. There is a messenger. He comes from Flanders, I am sure.’
‘Then it will be news from our sister.’
‘Oh,’ said Catalina and fell silent. That which she feared next to news from England was news from Flanders, because news which came from that country had the power to make her mother so unhappy.
The girls were summoned to their parents’ presence. This was a ceremonial occasion. They were not the only ones in the big apartment. Their parents stood side by side, and Catalina knew immediately that some important announcement was about to be made.
In the Queen’s hand were the dispatches from Flanders.
It must concern Juana, thought Catalina; but there was no need to worry. Something had happened which made her mother very happy. As for her father, there was an air of jubilance about him.
Into the apartment came all the officers of state who were at that time resident in the Alcazar, and when they were all assembled a trumpeter who stood close to the King and Queen sounded a few notes.
There was silence throughout the room. Then Isabella spoke.
‘My friends, this day I have great news for you. My daughter Juana has given birth to a son.’
These words were followed by fanfares of triumph.
And then everyone in the room cried: ‘Long life to the Prince!’
Isabella and Ferdinand were alone at last.
Ferdinand’s face was flushed with pleasure. Isabella’s eyes were shining.
‘This, I trust,’ she said, ‘will have a sobering effect on our daughter.’
‘A son!’ cried Ferdinand. ‘What joy! The first born and a son.’
‘It will be good for her to be a mother,’ mused Isabella. ‘She will discover new responsibilities. It will steady her.’
Then she thought of her own mother and those uncanny scenes in the Castle of Arevalo when she had raved about the rights of her children. Isabella remembered that she had been at her most strange when she had feared that her children might not gain what she considered to be their rights.
But she would not think such thoughts. Juana was fertile. She had her son. That was a matter for the utmost rejoicing.
‘They are calling him Charles,’ murmured Isabella.
Ferdinand frowned. ‘A foreign name. There has never been a Charles in Spain.’
‘If this child became Emperor of the Austrians he would be their Charles the Fifth,’ said Isabella. ‘There have been other Charleses in Austria.’
‘I like not the name,’ insisted Ferdinand.’ It would have been a pleasant gesture if they had named their first, Ferdinand.’
‘It would indeed. But I expect we shall become accustomed to the name.’
‘Charles the Fifth of Austria,’ mused Ferdinand, ‘and Charles the First of Spain.’
‘He cannot be Charles the First of Spain while Miguel lives,’ Isabella reminded him.
‘Not … while Miguel lives,’ repeated Ferdinand.
He looked at Isabella with that blank expression which, during the early years of their marriage, she had begun to understand. He believed Miguel would not live, and that this which had caused him great anxiety before the letter from Juana had arrived, no longer did so. For if Miguel died now there was still a male heir to please the people of Aragon: there was Juana’s son, Charles.
‘From all reports,’ said Ferdinand, ‘our grandson with this odd name appears to be a lusty young person.’
‘They tell us so.’
‘I have had it from several sources,’ answered Ferdinand. ‘Sources which are warned not to feed me with lies.’
‘So Charles is big for his age and strong and lusty. Charles will live.’
Isabella’s lips trembled slightly; she was thinking of that wan child in his nursery in the troubled town of Granada, where the Moorish population had now been called upon to choose between baptism and exile.
Miguel was such a good child. He scarcely ever cried. He coughed a little though, in the same way as his mother had done just before she died.
‘Ferdinand,’ Isabella had turned to her husband, ‘this child which has been born to our Juana will one day inherit all the riches of Spain.’
Ferdinand did not answer. But he agreed with her.
It was the first time that Isabella had given voice to the great anxiety which Miguel had brought to her since his birth.
But all was well now, thought Ferdinand. One heir might be taken from them, but there was another to fill his place.
Isabella once again read Ferdinand’s thoughts. She must try to emulate her husband’s calm practical common sense. She must not grieve too long for Juan, for Isabella. They had little Miguel. And if little Miguel should follow his mother to the grave, they had lusty little Habsburg Charles to call their heir.
Ferdinand at this time was deeply concerned over Naples. When Charles VIII of France had been succeeded by Louis XII it had become clear that Louis had his eyes on Europe, for he immediately laid claim to Naples and Milan. Ferdinand himself had for long cast covetous eyes on Naples which was occupied by his cousin, Frederick. Frederick belonged to an illegitimate line of the House of Aragon, and it was for this reason that Ferdinand itched to take the crown for himself.
Frederick, who might have expected help from his cousin against the King of France, had received a blow when his effort to marry his son, the Duke of Calabria, to Ferdinand’s daughter Maria, was thwarted.
Frederick’s great hope had been to bind himself closer to his cousin Ferdinand by this marriage; and Ferdinand might have considered the alliance, but for the fact that the King of Portugal was a widower.
Of all his potential enemies Ferdinand most feared the King of France who, by the conquest of Milan, was now a power in Italy. The situation was further aggravated by the conduct of the Borgia Pope, who quite clearly was determined to win wealth, honour and power for himself and his family. The Pope was no friend to Ferdinand. Isabella had been profoundly shocked by the conduct of the Holy Father, whose latest scandalous behaviour had concerned transferring his son Cesare, whom he had previously made a Cardinal, from the Church to the army, simply because that ambitious young man, whose reputation was as evil as that of his father, felt that he could gain more power outside the Church. Ferdinand, believing that nothing could be gained by ranging himself on the side of the Borgias, joined Isabella in accusing the Pope of his crimes.
Alexander had been furious, had torn up the letter in which these complaints were made and had retaliated by referring to the Sovereigns of Spain with some indecency.
Therefore an alliance between the Vatican and Spain was out of the question. Maximilian was heavily engaged, and in any case had not the means of helping Ferdinand. Meanwhile the French, triumphant in Milan, were now preparing to annex Naples.
Frederick of Naples, a gentle peace-loving person, awaited with trepidation the storm which was about to break over his little Kingdom. He feared the French and he knew that he could not expect help from his cousin Ferdinand who wanted Naples for himself. There seemed no way out of his dilemma except by calling in the help of the Turkish Sultan, Bajazet.
When Ferdinand heard this he was gleeful.
‘This is monstrous,’ he declared to Isabella. ‘My foolish cousin –I must say my wicked cousin –has asked for help from the greatest enemy of Christianity. Now we need have no qualms about stepping in and taking Naples from him.’
Isabella, who previously had been less eager for the Neapolitan campaign, was quickly won over by Ferdinand’s arguments when she heard that Frederick had called for help from Bajazet.
But Ferdinand was in as great a dilemma as his cousin Frederick. If he allied himself with the powerful Louis, and victory was theirs, it was certain that Louis would eventually oust Ferdinand from Naples. To help Frederick against Louis was not to be thought of, because he would be fighting for Frederick and that would bring him no gain.
Ferdinand was a wily strategist where his own advancement was concerned. His sharp acquisitive eyes took in every salient point.
When Bajazet ignored Frederick’s cry for help, Ferdinand set in motion negotiations between France and Spain, and the result was a new treaty of Granada.
This document was a somewhat sanctimonious one. In it was stated that war was evil and it was the duty of all Christians to preserve peace. Only the Kings of France and Aragon could pretend to the throne of Naples, and as the present King had called in the help of the enemy of all Christians, Bajazet, the Turkish Sultan, there was no alternative left to the Kings of France and Aragon, but that they should take possession of the Kingdom of Naples and divide it between them. The north would be French, the south Spanish.
This was a secret treaty; and so it should remain while the Spaniards and the French prepared to take what the treaty made theirs.
‘This should not be difficult,’ Ferdinand explained to Isabella. ‘Pope Alexander will support us against Frederick. Frederick was a fool to refuse his daughter Carlotta to Cesare Borgia. Alexander will never forgive this slight to a son on whom he dotes; and the hatred of the Borgias is implacable.’
Isabella was delighted by the cunning strategy of her husband.
She said to him on the signing of the treaty: ‘I do not know what would have become of us but for you.’
These words gave Ferdinand pleasure. He often thought what an ideal wife Isabella would have been if she had not been also Queen of Castile, so determined to do her duty that she subdued everything else to that; yet it was precisely because she was Queen of Castile that he had wanted her to be his wife.
His busy mind was looking ahead. There would have to be a campaign against Naples. It was important that the friendship with England should not be broken. He would be glad when he could marry Maria into Portugal.
It would be wise to discuss the matter of England with Isabella while she was in this humble mood.
He laid his hand on Isabella’s shoulder and looked serenely into her eyes.
‘Isabella, my dear,’ he said, ‘I have been patient with you because I know of the love you bear our youngest. The time is passing. She should now begin to prepare for her journey to England.’
He saw the fear leap into Isabella’s eyes.
‘I dread to tell her this,’ she said.
‘Oh come, come, what is this folly? Our Catalina is going to be Queen of England.’
‘She is so close to me, Ferdinand, more close than any of the others. There are going to be many sad tears when we are parted. She is so alarmed by the thought of this journey that sometimes I fear she has a premonition of evil.’
‘Is this my wise Isabella talking?’
‘Yes, Ferdinand, it is. Our eldest daughter believed she was going to die in childbed, and she did. In the same way our youngest has this horror of England.’
‘It is time I was firm with you all,’ said Ferdinand. ‘There is one way to stop our Catalina’s fancies. Let her go to England, let her see for herself what a fine thing it is to be the wife of the heir to the English throne. I’ll swear that in a few months’ time we shall be having glowing letters about England. She will have forgotten Spain and us.’
‘I have a feeling that Catalina will never forget us.’
‘Break the news to her then.’
‘Oh, Ferdinand, so soon?’
‘It has been years. I marvel at the patience of the King of England. We dare not lose this match, Isabella. It is important to my schemes.’
Isabella sighed. ‘I shall give her a few more days of pleasure,’ she said. ‘Let her enjoy another week in Spain. There will not be many weeks left to her in which to enjoy her home.’
Isabella knew now that she could no longer put off the date of departure.
There was an urgent call to Granada, where little Miguel was suffering from a fever. The Queen rode into the city with Ferdinand and her two daughters. The news of Miguel’s illness had had one good result, for because of it Isabella had put off giving Catalina instructions to prepare to leave Spain.
How different the city looked on this day. There were the towers of the Alhambra, rosy in the sunlight; there were the sparkling streams; but Granada had lost its gaiety. It was a sad city since Ximenes had ridden into it and had decided that only Christians should enjoy it.
Everywhere there was evidence of those days when it had been the Moorish capital, so that it was impossible to ride through those streets without thinking of the work which was steadily going forward under the instructions of the Archbishop of Toledo.
Isabella’s heart was heavy. She was wondering now what she would find when she reached the Palace. How bad was the little boy? She read between the lines of the messages she had received and she guessed that he was very bad indeed.
She felt numbed by this news. Was it, she asked herself, that when blow followed blow, one was prepared for the next?
Ferdinand would not mourn. He would tell her that she must be grateful because they had Charles.
But she would not think of Miguel’s dying. She herself would nurse him. She would keep him with her; she would not allow even her State duties to separate her from the child. He was the son of her darling daughter Isabella who had left him to her mother when she died. No matter how many grandsons her children should give her, she would always cherish Miguel, as the first grandson, the heir, the best loved.
She reached that part of this magnificent building which had been erected about the Court of Myrtles and made her way to the apartments which opened on to the Courtyard of Lions.
Her little Miguel could not have lived his short life in more beautiful surroundings. What did he think of the gilded domes and exquisite loveliness of the stucco work? He would be too young as yet to understand the praises which were set out on the walls, praises to the Prophet.
When she went to the apartment which was his nursery, she noticed at once that his nurses wore that grave look which she had become accustomed to see on the faces of those who waited at the sick-beds of the members of her family.
‘How fares the Prince?’ she asked.
‘Highness, he is quiet today.’
Quiet today! She was filled with anguish as she leaned over his bed. There he lay, her grandson who was so like his mother, with the same patient resignation in his gentle little face.
‘Not Miguel,’ prayed Isabella. ‘Have I not suffered enough? Take Charles … if you must take from me, but leave me my little Miguel. Leave me Isabella’s son.’
What arrogance was this? Was she presuming to instruct Providence?
She crossed herself hastily: ‘Not my will but Thine.’
She sat by the bed through the day and night; she knew that Miguel was dying, that only by a miracle could he throw off this fever and grow up to inherit his grandparents’ kingdom.
He will die, she thought wearily; and on the day he dies, our heir is Juana. And the people of Aragon will not accept a woman. But they will accept that woman’s son. They will accept Charles. Charles is strong and lusty, though his mother grows wilder every day. Juana inherits her wildness from my mother. Is it possible that Charles might inherit wildness from his?
What trouble lay in store for Spain? Was there no end to the ills which could befall them? Was there some truth in the rumours that theirs was an accursed House?
She was aware of the short gurgling breaths for which the child was struggling.
She sent for the doctors, but there was nothing they could do.
This frail little life was slowly slipping away.
‘Oh God, what next? What next?’ murmured Isabella.
Then the child lay still, and silent, and the doctors nodded one to another.
‘So he has gone, my grandson?’ asked the Queen.
‘That we fear is so, Your Highness.’
‘Then leave me with him awhile,’ said Isabella. ‘I will pray for him. We will all pray for him. But first leave me with him awhile.’
When she was alone she lifted the child from his bed and sat holding him in her arms while the tears slowly ran down her cheeks.
There was little time to grieve. There was the invasion of Naples to be planned; there was the affair of Christobal Colon to demand Isabella’s attention.
Her feelings towards the adventurer were now mixed. He had incurred her wrath by using the Indians as slaves, a practice which she deplored. She did not follow the reasoning of most Catholics that, as these savages were doomed to perdition in any case, it mattered little what happened to their bodies on Earth. Isabella’s great desire for colonization had been not so much to add to the wealth of Spain as to bring those souls to Christianity which had never been in a position to receive it before. Colon needed workmen for his new colony and he was not over-scrupulous as to how he obtained them. But Isabella at home in Spain asked: ‘By what authority does Christobal Colon venture to dispose of my subjects?’ She ordered that all those men and women who had been taken into slavery should immediately be returned to their own country.
This was the first time she had felt angered by the behaviour of Christobal Colon.
As for Ferdinand he had always regarded the adventurer with some irritation. Since the discovery of the pearl fisheries of Paria he had thought with growing irritation of the agreement he had made – that Colon should have a share of the treasures he discovered. Ferdinand itched to divert more and more of that treasure into his coffers.
There were complaints from the colony, and Isabella had at last been persuaded to send out a kinsman of her friend Beatriz de Bobadilla, a certain Don Francisco de Bobadilla, to discover what was really happening.
Bobadilla had been given great powers. He was to take possession of all fortresses, vessels and property, and to have the right to send back to Spain any man who he thought was not working for the good of the community, that such person should then be made to answer to the Sovereigns for his conduct.
Isabella had at first been pleased to give Bobadilla this important post because he was a distant kinsman of her beloved friend; now she deeply regretted her action, as the only resemblance that Don Francisco bore to his kinswoman Beatriz was in his name.
It was while they were at Granada, mourning the death of little Miguel, that Ferdinand brought Isabella the news that Colon had arrived in Spain.
‘Colon!’ cried Isabella.
‘Sent home for trial by Bobadilla,’ Ferdinand explained.
‘But this is incredible,’ declared Isabella. ‘When we gave Bobadilla such powers we did not think he would use them against the Admiral!’
Ferdinand shrugged his shoulders. ‘It was for Bobadilla to use his power where he thought it would do the most good.’
‘But to send Colon home!’
‘Why not, if he thinks he is incompetent?’
Isabella forgot the disagreement she had had with the Admiral over the sale of slaves. She was immediately ready to spring to his defence because she remembered that day in 1493 when he had come home triumphant, the discoverer of the new land, when he had laid the riches of the New World at the feet of the Sovereigns.
And now to be sent home by Francisco de Bobadilla! It was too humiliating.
‘Ferdinand,’ she cried, ‘do you realise that this man is the greatest explorer the world has known? You think it is right that he should be sent home in disgrace?’
Ferdinand interrupted. ‘In more than disgrace. He has come in fetters. He is now being kept in fetters at Cadiz.’
‘This is intolerable,’ cried Isabella. She did not wait to discuss the matter further with Ferdinand. She immediately wrote an order. Christobal Colon was to be released at once from his fetters and was to come with all speed to Granada.
