Текст книги "Daughters of Spain "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 17 страниц)
‘I am sending a thousand ducats to cover his expenses,’ she told Ferdinand; ‘and he shall come in the style befitting a great man who has been wronged.’
So, the people cheering as he came, Christobal Colon rode into Granada. He was thin, even gaunt, and they remembered that this great man had come across the ocean in fetters.
When she heard that he was in Granada, Isabella immediately sent for him and, when he arrived before her and Ferdinand, she would not let him kneel. She embraced him warmly, and Ferdinand did the same.
‘My dear friend,’ cried the Queen, ‘how can I tell you of my distress that you have been so treated?’
Colon held his head high, and said: ‘I have crossed the ocean in fetters as a criminal. I understand I am to answer charges which have been brought against me, the charges of having discovered a New World and given it to Your Highnesses.’
‘This is unforgivable,’ the Queen declared.
But Ferdinand was thinking: You did not give it entirely to your Sovereigns, Christobal Colon. You kept something for yourself.
He was calculating how much richer he would be if Christobal Colon did not have his share of the riches of the New World.
‘I have suffered great humiliation,’ Colon told them; and Isabella knew that to him humiliation would be the sharpest pain. He was a proud man, a man who for many years of his life had worked to make a dream come true. He had been a man with a vision of a New World and, by his skill in navigation and his extreme patience and refusal to be diverted from his project, he had made that New World a reality.
‘Your wrongs shall be put right,’ Isabella promised. ‘Bobadilla shall be brought home. He shall be made to answer for his treatment of you. We must ask you to try to forget all that you have suffered. You need have no fear; your honours will be restored to you.’
When the proud Colon fell on his knees before the Queen and began to sob like a child, Isabella was shaken out of her serenity.
What he has suffered! she thought. And I, who have suffered in my own way, can understand his feelings.
She laid a hand on his shoulder.
‘Weep, my dear friend,’ she said, ‘weep, for there is great healing in tears.’
So there, at the feet of the Queen, Christobal Colon continued to weep and Isabella thought of her own sorrows as she remembered suddenly the handsome boys she had seen with Colon … his son Ferdinand by Beatriz de Arana, and his son Diego by his first marriage. He had two sons, yet he had suffered deeply. His great love was the New World which he had discovered.
She wanted to say to him: I have no sons. Take comfort, my friend, that you have two.
But how could she, the Queen, talk of her sorrows with this adventurer?
She could only lay her hand on his heaving shoulders and seek to offer some comfort.
Ferdinand also was ready to comfort this man. He was thinking that the people would not be pleased to know that the hero of the New World had been sent home like a common criminal in fetters. He was also wondering how he could avoid allowing Christobal Colon such a large share of the riches of the New World and direct them into his own coffers.
It was a brilliant May day in that year 1501 when Catalina said goodbye to the Alhambra.
She would carry the memory of that most beautiful of buildings in her mind for ever. She told herself that in the misty, sunless land to which she was going she would, when she closed her eyes, see it often standing high on the red rock with the sparkling Darro below. She would remember always the sweet-smelling flowers, the views from the Hall of the Ambassadors, the twelve stone lions supporting the basin of the fountain in the Courtyard of the Lions. And there would be a pain in her heart whenever she thought of this beautiful Palace which had been her home.
There was no longer hope of delay. The day had come. She was to begin the journey to Corunna and there embark for England.
She would embrace her mother for the last time, for although the Queen talked continually of their reunion Catalina felt that there was something final about this parting.
The Queen was pale; she looked as though she had slept little.
Is life to be all such bitter partings for those of us who wear the badge of royalty? Isabella asked herself.
One last look back at the red towers, the rosy walls.
‘Farewell, my beloved home,’ whispered Catalina. ‘Farewell for ever.’ Then she turned her face resolutely away, and the journey had begun … to Corunna … to England.
THE WISE WOMAN OF GRANADA
Miguel was dead and Catalina had gone to England. The Queen roused herself from her sorrow. There was a duty to perform and it was a duty which should be a pleasure.
‘Now that Miguel is dead,’ she said to Ferdinand, ‘we should lose no time in calling Juana and Philip to Spain. Juana is now our heir. She must come here to be accepted as such.’
‘I have already sent to her telling her she must come,’ Ferdinand answered. ‘I had thought to hear news by now that they would have set out on their journey.’
‘Philip is ambitious. He will come soon.’
‘He is also pleasure-loving.’
Isabella was clearly anxious, and Ferdinand, mindful of her sufferings over her recent losses, remembered to be tender towards her.
My poor Isabella, he thought, she is growing frail. She would seem to be more than a year older than myself. She has brooded too much on the deaths in our family; they have aged her.
He said gently: ‘I’ll swear you are longing to see your grandson.’
‘Little Charles,’ she mused; but somehow his very name seemed foreign to her. The child of wild Juana and selfish Philip. What manner of man would he grow up to be?
‘When I see him,’ she replied, ‘I know I shall love him.’
‘It might be,’ said Ferdinand, ‘that we could persuade them to leave Charles here with us to be brought up. After all he will be the heir to our dominions.’
Isabella allowed herself to be comforted, but she bore in mind that Philip and Juana were not like Isabella and Emanuel; and she did not believe that Charles could ever mean as much to her as Miguel had.
Still she looked forward to the visit of her daughter and son-in-law; yet there was no news of their coming, and the months were passing.
In his apartments in the Alhambra Ximenes, while working zealously for the Christianisation of Granada, was suddenly smitten with a fever. With his usual stoicism he ignored his weakness and sought to cast it aside, but it persisted.
The Queen sent her doctors to Granada that they might attend her Archbishop. She had now persuaded herself that what Ximenes was doing in Granada should have been started at the time when the city had been taken from the Moors. She told Ferdinand that they should never have agreed to the arrangement with Boabdil for the sake of peaceful surrender. Now she was firmly behind Ximenes in all that he was doing.
She was disturbed to hear that Ximenes was not recovering, that his fever was accompanied by a languor which confined him to his bed; she ordered that he should take up his residence in that summer Palace, the Generalife, where he would only be a stone’s throw from the Alhambra, but in quieter surroundings.
Ximenes availed himself of this offer, but his health did not improve and the fever and the languor continued.
He lay in his apartment in that most delicately beautiful of summer palaces. From his window he looked out on the terraced gardens in which the myrtles and cypresses grew; he longed to leave his bed that he might wander through the tiny courtyards and meditate beside the sparkling fountains.
But even the peace of the Generalife did not bring a return to good health; and he thought often of Tomás de Torquemada who had lain thus in the Monastery of Avila and waited for the end.
Torquemada had lived his life; Ximenes had the feeling that he had only just begun. He had not completed his work in Granada, and that he believed to be only a beginning. He admitted now that he had seen himself as the power behind the throne, as head of this great country, with Ferdinand and Isabella in leading strings.
The Queen’s health was failing. He had been aware of that when he had last seen her. If she were to die and Ferdinand were left, he would need a strong guiding hand. The fact that Ferdinand did not like him and would always be resentful of him, did not disturb him. He knew Ferdinand well – an ambitious man, an avaricious man – one who needed the guiding hand of a man of God.
I must not die, Ximenes told himself. My work is not yet completed.
Yet each day he felt weaker.
One day as he lay in his bed, a Moorish servant of the Generalife came to his bedside and stood watching him.
For a moment he thought she had come to do him some injury, and he remembered that day when his brother Bernardín had tried to suffocate him by holding a pillow over his face. He had not seen Bernardín since that day.
These Moors might feel the need for vengeance on one who had disrupted the peace of their lives. He knew many of them had accepted baptism because they preferred it to the exile which was to be imposed on those who did not come into the Christian Faith. They were not such an emotional people as the Jews. He believed many of them had said to each other: ‘Be a Mussulman in private and a Christian in public. Why not, if that is the only way to live in Granada?’
There would be the Inquisition, of course, to deal with those who were guilty of such perfidy. The Inquisitors would have to watch these people with the utmost care. They would have to be taught what would happen to them if they thought to mock baptism and the Christian Faith.
All these thoughts passed through Ximenes’s mind as the woman stood by his bedside.
‘What is it, woman?’ he asked.
‘Oh, lord Archbishop, you are sick unto death. I have seen this fever and the languor often. It has a meaning. With the passing of each day and night the fever burns more hot, the languor grows.’
‘Then,’ said Ximenes, ‘if that is so, it is the will of God and I shall rejoice in it.’
‘Oh, lord Archbishop, a voice has whispered to me to come to you; to tell you that I know of one who could cure your sickness.’
‘One of your people?’
The woman nodded. ‘A woman, oh lord. She is a very old woman. Eighty years she has lived in Granada. Often I have seen her cure those of whom the learned doctors despaired. She has herbs and medicines known only to our people.’
‘Why do you wish to save me? There are many of your people who would rejoice to see me die.’
‘I have served you, oh lord. I know you for a good man, a man who believes that all he does is in the service of God.’
‘You are a Christian?’
A glazed look came into the woman’s eyes. ‘I have received baptism, oh lord.’
Ximenes thought: Ay, and practise Mohammedanism in private doubtless. But he did not voice these thoughts. He was a little excited. He wanted to live. He knew now that he wanted it desperately. A little while before he had prayed for a miracle. Was this God’s answer? God often worked in a mysterious way. Was he going to cure Ximenes through the Moors whom he had worked so hard to bring to God?
The Moors were skilled in medicine. Ximenes himself had preserved their medical books when he had committed the rest of their literature to the flames.
‘Do you propose bringing this wise woman to me?’ asked Ximenes.
‘I do, oh lord. But she could only come at midnight and in secret.’
‘Why so?’
‘Because, my lord, there are some of my people who would wish you dead for all that has happened since you came to Granada, and they would not be pleased with this wise woman who will cure you.’
‘I understand,’ said Ximenes. ‘And what does this woman want for her reward should she cure me?’
‘She cures for the love of the cure, oh lord. You are sick unto death, she says, and the Queen’s own doctors cannot cure you. She would like to show you that we Moors have a medicine which excels yours. That is all.’
Ximenes was silent for a few seconds. It might be that this woman would attempt to avenge her people. It might be that she had some poison to offer him.
He thought again of Bernardín, his own brother, who had hated him so much that he had attempted to murder him.
There were many people in the world who hated a righteous man.
He made a quick decision. His condition was growing daily weaker. He would die in any case unless some miracle were performed. He would trust in God, and if it were God’s will that he should live to govern Spain – by means of the Sovereigns – he would rejoice. If he must die he would accept death with resignation.
He believed that this was an answer to his prayers.
‘I will see your woman,’ he said.
She came to him at midnight, smuggled into the apartment, an old Moorish woman whose black eyes were scarcely visible through the folds of flesh which encircled them.
She laid her hands on him and felt his fever; she examined his tongue and his eyes and his starved body.
‘I can cure you in eight days,’ she told him. ‘Do you believe me?’
‘Yes,’ answered Ximenes, ‘I do.’
‘Then you will live. But you must tell none that I am treating you, and you must take only the medicines I shall give you. None must know that I come to you. I shall come in stealth at midnight eight times. At the end of that time your fever will have left you. You will begin to be well. You must then abandon your rigorous diet until you are recovered. You must eat rich meat and broths. If you will do this I can cure you.’
‘It shall be done. What reward do you ask if you cure me?’
She came close to the bed and the folds of flesh divided a little so that he saw the black eyes. There was a look in them which matched his own. She believed in the work she did, even as he believed in his. To her he was not the man who had brought misery to Granada; he was a malignant fever which the doctors of his own race could not cure.
‘You seek to save souls,’ she said. ‘I seek to save bodies: If my people knew that I had saved yours they would not understand.’
‘It is a pity that you do not burn with the same zeal to save souls as you do to save bodies.’
‘Then, my lord Archbishop, it might well be that eight days from now you would be dead.’
She gave him a potion to drink and she left more with the woman who had brought her. Then she was stealthily taken away.
When she had gone Ximenes lay still thinking about her. He wondered whether the herbs she had given him had been poisoned, but he did not wonder for long. Had he not seen that look in her eyes?
Why had she, a Moorish woman, risked perhaps her life in coming to him – for he knew he had many enemies in the Albaycin and any friend of his would be their enemy. Did she hope that if she saved his life he would relent towards the people of Granada, would restore the old order in payment for his life? If she thought that, she would be mistaken.
He lay between sleeping and waking, wondering about that woman, and in the morning he knew, before his doctors told him, that his fever had abated a little.
He refused their medicines and lay contemplating this strange situation until midnight, when the old woman came to him again. She had brought oils with her and these she rubbed into his body. She gave him more herbal drinks and she left him, promising to come again the next night.
Before the fourth night he knew that the cure was working. And sure enough, as she had said, on the eighth day after he had first seen her his fever had completely disappeared; and the good news was sent to Isabella that her Archbishop was on the way to recovery.
Ximenes was able to wander through the enchanting little courtyards of the Generalife. The sun warmed his bones and he remembered the wise woman’s instructions that he should take nourishing food.
Often he expected to be confronted by her, demanding some payment for her services. But she did not come.
It was God’s miracle, he told himself eventually. Perhaps she was a heavenly visitor who came in Moorish guise. Should I soften my attitude towards these Infidels because one of them has cured me? What a way of repaying God for His miracle!
Ximenes told himself that this was a test. His life had been saved, but he must show God that his life meant little to him compared with the great work of making an all-Christian Spain.
So when he was well he continued as harsh as ever towards the fellow countrymen of that woman who had saved his life; and as soon as he felt the full return of his vigour he resumed the hair shirt, the starvation diet and the wooden pillow.
THE RETURN OF JUANA
At last Philip and Juana were on their way to Spain.
When Ferdinand received a letter from Philip he came raging into Isabella’s apartments.
‘They have begun the journey,’ he said.
‘Then that should be cause for rejoicing,’ she answered him.
‘They are travelling through France.’
‘But they cannot do that.’
‘They can and they are doing it. Has this young coxcomb no notion of the delicate relationship between ourselves and France? At this present time this might give rise to … I know not what.’
‘And Charles?’
‘Charles! They are not bringing him. He is too young.’ Ferdinand laughed sharply. ‘You see what this means? They are not going to have him brought up as a Spaniard. They are going to make a Fleming of him. But to go through France! And the suggestion is that there might be a betrothal of Charles and Louis’s infant daughter, the Princess Claude.’
‘They would not make such a match without our consent.’
Ferdinand clenched his fists in anger. ‘I see trouble ahead. I fear these Habsburg alliances are not what I hoped for.’
Isabella answered: ‘Still, we shall see our daughter. I long for that. I feel sure that when we talk together I shall know that all the anxiety she has caused us has been because she has obeyed her husband.’
‘I shall make it my task to put this young Philip in his place,’ growled Ferdinand.
After that Isabella eagerly awaited news of her daughter’s progress. There were letters and dispatches describing the fêtes and banquets with which the King of France was entertaining them.
At Blois there had been a very special celebration. Here Philip had confirmed the Treaty of Trent between his father, the Emperor Maximilian, and the King of France; one of the clauses of this treaty was to the effect that the King’s eldest daughter, Claude, should be affianced to young Charles.
It was a direct insult to Spain, Ferdinand grumbled. Had Philip forgotten that Charles was the heir of Spain? How dared he make a match for the heir of Spain without even consulting the Spanish Sovereigns!
The journey through France was evidently so enjoyable that Philip and Juana seemed in no hurry to curtail it.
Ferdinand suspected that the sly Louis was detaining them purposely to slight him and Isabella. Trouble was brewing between France and Spain over the partition of Naples, and both monarchs were expecting conflict to break out in the near future. So Louis amused himself by detaining Ferdinand’s daughter and his son-in-law in France, and binding them to him by this Treaty of Trent and the proposed marriage of Charles and Claude.
But by the end of March news came that Philip and Juana with their train were approaching the Spanish border.
Soon I shall see my Juana, Isabella assured herself. Soon she would be able to test for herself how far advanced was this wildness of her daughter.
As Isabella was preparing to go to Toledo, where she would meet Juana, there was news from England, disquieting news.
Catalina had written often to her mother and, although there had been no complaints, Isabella knew her daughter well enough to understand her deep longing for home. Etiquette would forbid her to compare her new country with that of her birth, or to mention her unhappiness, but Isabella knew how Catalina felt.
Arthur, Catalina’s young husband, it seemed, was kind and gentle. So all would be well in time. In one year, Isabella assured herself, or perhaps in two, Spain will seem remote to her and she will begin to think of England as her home.
Then came this news which so disturbed her that she forgot even the perpetual anxiety of wondering what Juana would be like.
Catalina had travelled with her young husband to Ludlow, from which town they were to govern the Principality of Wales. They were to set up a Court there which was to be modelled on that of Westminster. Isabella had been pleased to picture her sixteen-year-old daughter and the fifteen-year-old husband ruling over such a Court. It would be good practice for them, she had said to Ferdinand, against that day when they would rule over England.
Catalina had written an account of the journey from London to Ludlow; how she had ridden pillion behind her Master of Horse, and when she was tired of this mode of travelling had been carried in a litter. She had been delighted by the town of Ludlow; and the people, she wrote, seemed to have taken her to their hearts, for they cheered her and Arthur whenever she and he appeared among them.
‘My little Catalina,’ Isabella murmured, ‘a bride of six months only!’
She wondered whether the marriage had yet been consummated or whether the King of England considered his son as yet too young. It would have been more suitable if Arthur had been a year older than Catalina instead of a year younger.
Ferdinand was with her when the news arrived. She read the dispatch, and the words danced before her eyes.
‘Prince Arthur became stricken by a plague before he had been long in Ludlow. He fell into a rapid decline and, alas, the Infanta of Spain is now a widow.’
A widow! Catalina! Why, she was scarcely a wife.
Ferdinand’s face had grown pale. ‘But this is the Devil’s own luck!’ he cried. ‘God in Heaven, are all our marriage plans for our children to come to nothing!’
Isabella tried to dismiss a certain exultation which had come to her. Catalina a widow! That meant that she could come home. She could be returned to her mother as her eldest sister, Isabella of Portugal, had been.
Into Toledo rode Isabella and Ferdinand, there to await the arrival of Juana and Philip. The bells of the city were chiming; the people were crowding into the streets; they were ready to welcome not only their Sovereigns but their Sovereigns’ heir.
Toledo cared nothing that Juana was a woman. She was the rightful successor to Isabella and they would accept her as their Queen when the time came.
The Queen’s nervousness increased as the hour of the meeting with her daughter drew near.
I shall know, she told herself, as soon as I look at her. If there has been any change, it will immediately be visible to me. Oh, Juana, my dear daughter, be calm, my love. I pray you be calm.
Then she reminded herself that soon she would have Catalina home. What purpose could be served by her staying in England as the widow of the dead Prince? She must come home to her mother, so that she might more quickly recover from the shock her husband’s death must have caused her.
It was a beautiful May day when Philip and Juana rode into Toledo. At the doors of the great Alcazar Ferdinand and Isabella stood waiting to receive them.
Isabella’s eyes immediately went to her daughter. At first glance there appeared to be only that change which would seem inevitable after the ordeals of childbearing. Juana had given birth to a daughter, yet another Isabella, before she left Flanders. She had aged a little; and she had never been the most beautiful of their children.
And this was her husband. Isabella felt a tremor of fear as she looked at this fair young man who came forward with such arrogance. He was indeed handsome and fully aware of it. My poor Juana, thought Isabella. I hope it is not true that you love this man as distractedly as rumour tells me you do.
They were kneeling before the Sovereigns, but the Queen took her daughter and drew her into her arms. This was one of the rare occasions when Isabella disregarded etiquette. Love and anxiety were everything. She must hold this daughter in her arms, this one who had caused her more anxiety than any of the others, for she had discovered that she did not love her the less because of this.
Juana smiled and clung to her mother for a few seconds.
She is glad to be home! thought the Queen.
The brief ceremony was over, and Isabella said: ‘I am going to have my daughter to myself for a little while. Give me this pleasure. Philip, your father-in-law will wish to talk with you.’
Isabella took her daughter to that chamber in which, just over twenty years ago, she had been born.
‘Juana,’ Isabella held her daughter against her, ‘I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you. We have had so much sorrow since you left us.’
Juana was silent.
‘My dearest,’ went on the Queen, ‘you are happy, are you not? You are the happiest of my daughters. Your marriage has been fruitful, and you love your husband.’
Juana nodded.
‘You are too overcome with happiness at being home to speak of it. That is so, is it not, my love? My happiness equals yours. How I have thought of you since you went away. Your husband … he is kind to you?’
Juana’s face darkened, and the expression there set the Queen’s heart leaping in terror.
‘There are women … always women. There were women in Flanders. There have been women on the way. There will be women in Spain. I hate them all.’
‘While he is in Spain,’ said Isabella sternly, ‘there must be no scandal.’
Juana laughed that wild laughter which was reminiscent of her grandmother.
‘You would not be able to keep them away. They pursue him everywhere. Are you surprised? Is there a more handsome man in the world than my Philip?’
‘He has good looks, but he should remember his dignity.’
‘They won’t let him. It is no fault of his. They are always there.’ Juana clenched her hands together. ‘Oh, how I hate women!’
‘My dear, your father shall speak to him.’
Juana let out another peal of loud laughter. ‘He would not listen.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘He cares not that for anyone … not for my father, nor the King of France. Oh, you should have seen him in France. The women of Blois, and indeed all the towns and villages through which we passed … they could not resist him … they followed him, imploring him to take them to his bed …’
‘And he did not resist?’
Juana turned angrily on her mother. ‘He is but human. He has the virility of ten ordinary men. It is no fault of his. It is the women … the cursed women.’
‘Juana, my dear, you must be calm. You must not think too much of these matters. Men, who perforce must leave their wives now and then, often find consolation with others. That is but nature.’
‘It is not only when he has to leave me,’ said Juana slowly.
‘There, my dear, you must not take these matters to heart. He has done his duty by you. There are children.’
‘Do you think I care for that? Duty! Do I want duty as a bedfellow? I want only Philip, I tell you. Philip … Philip … Philip …’
Isabella looked furtively about her. She was terrified that Juana’s wild shouts might be heard. She must prevent rumour spreading through the Alcazar.
One thing was certain: marriage had done nothing to calm Juana.
They must prepare now to take the oath as heirs to Castile. This ceremony would take place in the great Gothic Cathedral, and Isabella was afraid that Juana’s wildness would show itself during the ceremony.
She sent for her son-in-law and she thought that, as he entered her apartment, his manner was insolent, but she quickly reminded herself that Flemish ways were not those of Spain; and she remembered how at times she had been faintly shocked by the manners of his sister, Margaret, who had been a good creature.
She dismissed all her attendants so that she might be quite alone with her son-in-law.
‘Philip,’ she said, ‘I have heard rumours which disturb me.’
Philip raised his insolent and well-arched eyebrows. How handsome he is! she thought. Isabella had never seen a man so perfectly proportioned, of such clear skin, such arrogance, such an air of masculinity, such suggestion of power and knowledge that he could do everything better than anyone else.
If Juana had gone to Portugal, to gentle Emanuel, how much better that would have been.
‘My daughter is devoted to you, but I understand you are less so to her. There have been unfortunate affaires.’
‘I can assure Your Highness that they have been far from unfortunate.’
‘Philip, I must ask you not to be flippant on a matter which to me is so serious. My daughter is … is not of a serene nature.’
‘Ha!’ laughed Philip. ‘That is one way of describing it.’
‘How would you describe it?’ asked Isabella fearfully.
‘Unbalanced, Madam, dangerous, tottering on the edge of madness.’
‘Oh, no, no … that is not so. You are cruel.’
‘If you wish me to make pretty speeches, I will do so. I thought you asked me for the truth.’
‘So … that is how you have found her?’
‘That is so.’
‘She is so affectionate towards you.’
‘Too affectionate by far.’
‘Can you say that of your wife?’
‘Her affection borders on madness, Madam.’
Isabella longed to dismiss this young man; she found herself loathing him. She was longing to go back in time and, if she could do that, she would never have allowed this marriage to take place.
‘If you treated her with gentle kindness,’ she began, ‘as I always tried to do …’
‘I am not her mother. I am her husband. She asks for more than gentle kindness from me.’
‘More than you are prepared to give?’
He smiled at her sardonically. ‘I have given her children. What more can you ask than that?’
It was no use pleading with him. He would continue with his amours. Juana was nothing to him but the heiress of Spain. If only he were nothing to her but Maximilian’s heir it would be better for her. To her he was the very meaning of her existence.
She said: ‘I am anxious about the ceremony. This wildness of hers must not be visible. I do not know how the people would react. It is not only here in Castile that she must be calm. There will be the ceremony in Saragossa to follow. You will know that the people of Aragon were none too kind to her sister Isabella.’
‘But they accepted her son Miguel as their heir. We have Charles to offer them.’
