Текст книги "Daughters of Spain "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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‘God’s will? To break a young body like that! Wantonly to take one so young, so full of life and love!’
The Queen’s face set into stern lines. ‘Your grief has unnerved you, my child. You forget your duty to God. If it is His wish to make us suffer we must accept suffering gladly.’
‘Gladly! I will never accept it gladly.’
The Queen hastily crossed herself, while her lips moved in prayer. Isabella thought: She is praying that I may be forgiven my wicked outburst. However much she suffered she would never give way to her feelings as I have done.
She was immediately contrite. ‘Oh, Mother, forgive me. I know not what I say. It is like that sometimes. The memories come back and then I fear …’
‘You must pray, my darling, for greater control. It is not God’s wish that you should shut yourself away from the world as you do.’
‘It is not my father’s wish, you mean?’ demanded Isabella.
‘Neither the wish of your heavenly nor your earthly father,’ murmured the Queen soothingly.
‘I would to God I could go into a convent. My life finished when his did.’
‘You are questioning the will of God. Had He wished you to end your life He would have taken you with your husband. This is your cross, my darling; think of Him and carry it as willingly as He carried His.’
‘He had only to die. I have to live.’
‘My dearest, have a care. I will double my prayers for you this night and every night. I fear your sufferings have affected your mind. But in time you will forget.’
‘It is four years since it happened, Mother. I have not forgotten yet.’
‘Four years! It seems long to you because you are young. To me it is like yesterday.’
‘To me it will always be as though his death happened yesterday.’
‘You must fight against such morbid thoughts, my darling. It is a sin to nurse a grief. I sent for you because I have news for you. Your father-in-law has died and there is a new King of Portugal.’
‘Alonso would have been King had he lived … and I his Queen.’
‘But he did not live, yet you could still be Queen of Portugal.’
‘Emanuel …’
‘My dear daughter, he renews his offer to you. Now that he has come to the throne he does not forget you. He is determined to have no wife but you.’
Emanuel! She remembered him well. Kindly, intelligent, he was more given to study than his gay young cousin Alonso had been; but she had known that he envied Alonso his bride. And now he was asking for her hand once more.
‘I would rather go into a nunnery.’
‘We might all feel tempted to do that which seems easier to us than our duty.’
‘Mother, you are not commanding me to marry Emanuel?’
‘You married once, by the command of your father and myself. I would not command you again; but I would have you consider your duty to your family … to Spain.’
Isabella clenched her hands tightly together. ‘Do you realise what you are asking of me? To go to Lisbon as I did for Alonso … and then to find Emanuel waiting for me and Alonso … dead.’
‘My child, pray for courage.’
‘I pray each day, Mother,’ she answered slowly. ‘But I cannot go back to Portugal. I can never be anything but Alonso’s widow as long as I live.’
The Queen sighed as she drew her daughter down to sit beside her; she put an arm about her and as she rested her face against her hair she was thinking: In time she will be persuaded to go to Portugal and marry Emanuel. We must all do our duty; and though we rebel for a while it avails us little.
Ferdinand looked up as the Queen entered. He smiled at her and his expression was slightly sardonic. It amused him that the Franciscan monk who, in his opinion so foolishly, had been offered the Archbishopric of Toledo, should merely have fled at the sight of his title in the Pope’s handwriting. This should teach Isabella to think before bestowing great titles on the unworthy. The fellow was uncouth. A pleasant prospect! The Primate of Spain a monk who was more at home in a hermit’s hut than a royal Palace. Whereas his dear Alfonso – so handsome, so dashing – what a Primate he would have made! And if he were unsure at any time, his father would have been at hand to help him.
Ferdinand could never look at his son Alfonso without remembering voluptuous nights spent with his mother. What a woman! And her son was worthy of her.
Fond as he was of young Juan he almost wished that Alfonso was his legitimate son. There was an air of delicacy about Juan, whereas Alfonso was all virility. Ferdinand could be sure that this bastard of his knew how to make the most of his youth, even as his father had done.
It was maddening to think that he could not give him Toledo. What a gift that would have been from father to son.
Still, he did not despair. Isabella might admit her folly now that the monk had run away.
‘I have spoken to Isabella,’ said the Queen.
‘I hope she realises her great good fortune.’
‘She does not call it such, Ferdinand.’
‘What! Here’s Emanuel ready to do a great deal for her.’
‘Poor child; can you expect her to enjoy returning to the place where she has once been so happy?’
‘She’ll be happy there again.’
Isabella studied her husband quizzically. Ferdinand would be happy were he in his daughter’s place. Such a marriage would mean to him a kingdom. He could not see that it made much difference that the bridegroom would be Emanuel instead of Alonso.
The Queen stifled the sorrow which such a thought roused. It was not for her to feel regrets; she was entirely satisfied with her fate.
‘You made our wishes known to her, I hope?’ went on Ferdinand.
‘I could not command her, Ferdinand. The wound has not yet healed.’
Ferdinand sat down at the polished wood table and beat his fist on it. ‘I understand not such talk,’ he said. ‘The alliance with Portugal is necessary for Spain. Emanuel wants it. It can bring us great good.’
‘Give her a little time,’ murmured Isabella; but in such a way that Ferdinand knew that, whatever he wished, their daughter would be given a little time.
He sighed. ‘We are fortunate in our children, Isabella,’ he said. ‘Through them we shall accomplish greatness for Spain. I would we had many more. Ah, if we could have been together more during those early years of our marriage …’
‘Doubtless you would have had more legitimate sons and daughters,’ agreed Isabella.
Ferdinand smiled slyly, but this was not the moment to bring up the matter of Alfonso and the Archbishopric of Toledo.
Instead he said: ‘Maximilian is interested in my proposals.’
Isabella nodded sadly. At such times she forgot she was ruler of a great and expanding country; she could only think of herself as a mother.
‘They are young yet …’ she began.
‘Young! Juan and Juana are ready for marriage. As for our eldest, she has had time enough in which to play the widow.’
‘Tell me what you have heard from Maximilian.’
‘Maximilian is willing for Philip to have Juana and for Juan to have Margaret.’
‘They would be two of the grandest marriages we could arrange for our children,’ mused Isabella. ‘But I feel that Juana is as yet too young … too unsteady.’
‘She will soon be too old, my dear; and she will never be anything but unsteady. No, the time is now. I propose to go ahead with my plans. We will tell them what we propose. There is no need to look gloomy. I’ll warrant Juana will be excited at the prospect. As for your angel son, he’ll not have to leave his mother’s side. The Archduchess Margaret will come to Juan. So it is only your poor unsteady Juana who will have to go away.’
‘I wish we could persuade Philip to come here … to live here.’
‘What, Maximilian’s heir! Oh, these are great matches, these marriages of our son and daughter to Maximilian’s. Have you realised that Philip’s and Juana’s offspring will hold the harbours of Flanders, and in addition will own Burgundy and Luxembourg, to say nothing of Artois and Franche Comté? I would like to see the face of the King of France when he hears of this match. And when Isabella marries Emanuel we shall be able to relax our defences on the Portuguese frontier. Oh yes, I should like to see the French King’s face.’
‘What do you know of Maximilian’s children … Philip and Margaret?’
‘Nothing but good. Nothing but good.’ Ferdinand was rubbing his hands together and his eyes gleamed.
Isabella nodded slowly. Ferdinand was right, of course. Both Juan and Juana were due for marriage. She was allowing the mother to subdue the Queen when she made wild plans to keep her children with her for ever.
Ferdinand had begun to laugh. ‘Philip will inherit the Imperial crown. The house of Habsburg will be bound to us. France’s Italian projects will have little success when the German dominions stand with us against them.’
He is always a statesman first, thought Isabella, a father second. To him Philip and Margaret are not two human beings – they are the House of Habsburg and the German Dominions. But she had to admit that his plan was brilliant. Their empire overseas was growing, thanks to their brilliant explorers and adventurers. But Ferdinand’s dream had always been of conquests nearer home. He planned to be master of Europe; and why should he not be? Perhaps he would be master of the world.
He was the most ambitious man she had ever known. She had watched his love of power grow with the years. Now she asked herself uneasily whether this had happened because she had found it necessary so often to remind him that she was the Queen of Castile, and in Castile her word should be law. Had his amour propre been wounded to such a degree that he had determined to be master of all the world outside Castile?
She said: ‘If these marriages were made it would seem that all Europe would be your friend with the exception of that little island – that pugnacious, interfering little island.’
Ferdinand kept his eyes on her face as he murmured: ‘You refer to England, do you not, my Queen. I agree with you. That little island can be one of the greatest trouble spots. But I have not forgotten England. Henry Tudor has two sons, Arthur and Henry. It is my desire to marry Arthur, Prince of Wales, to our own little Catalina. Then, my dear, the whole of Europe will be bound to me. And what will the King of France do then? Tell me that.’
‘Catalina! She is but a child.’
‘Arthur is young also. This will be an ideal match.’
Isabella covered her face with her hands.
‘What is the matter with you?’ demanded her husband. ‘Will you not congratulate your children on having a father who makes such good matches for them?’
Isabella could not speak for a moment. She was thinking of Juana – wild Juana whose spirits no amount of discipline had been able to subdue – of Juana’s being torn from her and sent to the flat, desolate land of Flanders, there to be wife of a man whom she had never seen but who was so suitable because he was the heir of the Habsburgs. But chiefly she thought of Catalina … tender little Catalina … taken from her family to be the bride of a foreign Prince, to live her life in a bleak island where, if reports were true, the sun rarely shone, and the land was frequently shrouded in mists.
It had to come, she told, herself. I always knew it. But that does not make it any easier to bear now that it is upon me.
The Queen had finished her confession and Ximenes enumerated her penances. She was guilty of allowing her personal feelings to interfere with her duty. It was a weakness of which she had been guilty before. The Queen must forget she is a mother.
Isabella meekly accepted the reproaches of her confessor. He would never stray from the path of duty, she was sure. She looked at his emaciated face, his stern straight lips which she had never seen curved in a smile.
You are a good man, Ximenes, she was thinking; but it is easier for you who have never had children. When I think of my little Catalina’s eyes fixed upon me I seem to hear her pleading with me: Don’t send me away. I do not want to go to that island of fogs and rains. I shall hate Prince Arthur and he will hate me. And for you, Mother, I have a love such as can never be given to any other person.
‘I know, my love, I know,’ Isabella whispered. ‘If it were in my power …’
But her thoughts were straying from her sins and, before she had earned forgiveness, she was falling into temptation once more.
When she next saw Catalina she would remind the child of her duty.
She rose from her knees. Now she was no longer a penitent but the Queen. Regality fell like a cloak about her and she frowned as her eyes rested on the monk.
‘My friend,’ she said, ‘you still refuse the honour I would give you. How much longer will you hold out?’
‘Your Highness,’ answered Ximenes, ‘I could not take office for which I felt myself to be unfitted.’
‘Nonsense, Ximenes, you know that the position fits you as a glove. I could command you to accept, you know.’
‘If Your Highness should adopt such a measure there would be nothing for me to do but retire to my hut in the forest of Castañar.’
‘I believe that is what you wish to do.’
‘I think I am more suited to be a hermit than a courtier.’
‘We do not ask you to be a courtier, Ximenes, but Archbishop of Toledo.’
‘They are one and the same, Your Highness.’
‘If you took the office I am sure they would be quite different.’ Isabella smiled serenely. She was certain that within the next few days Ximenes would accept the Archbishopric of Toledo.
She dismissed him and he went back to the small chamber which he occupied in the Palace. It was like a monk’s cell. There was straw on the floor; this was his bed, and his pillow was a log of wood. There would be no fire in this room whatever the weather.
It was said in the Palace: Fray Francisco Ximenes enjoys punishing himself.
As he entered this cell-like apartment he found a Franciscan monk awaiting him there and, as the hood of this newcomer fell back, Ximenes saw that his visitor was his own brother Bernardín.
The grim face of Ximenes was as near to expressing pleasure as it could be. It delighted him that Bernardín had entered the Franciscan brotherhood. Bernardín had been a wild boy and the last thing to have been expected of him was that he should enter the Order.
‘Why, brother,’ he said, ‘well met. What do you do here?’
‘I come to pay a call on you. I hear that you are highly thought of at Court.’
‘The man who is highly thought of at Court one day is often in disgrace the next.’
‘But you are not in disgrace. Is it true that you are to be Archbishop of Toledo?’
Bernardín’s eyes sparkled with pleasure, but Ximenes said quickly: ‘You have been misinformed. I am not to be Archbishop of Toledo.’
‘It can’t be true that the post has been offered to you and you refused it! You wouldn’t be such a fool.’
‘I have refused it.’
‘Ximenes! You … idiot! You crass … stupid …’
‘Have done. What do you know of these matters?’
‘Only what good you could have brought to your family if you had become the most important man in Spain.’
‘I feared they had not made a monk of you, Bernardín. Tell me, what advantages should a good Franciscan hope for from the most important man in Spain?’
‘You don’t expect an answer to such a stupid question. Any man would hope for the highest honours. Whom should an Archbishop honour if not his own family?’
‘Is this my brother speaking?’
‘Don’t be an old hypocrite!’ burst out Bernardín. ‘Do you think you can hide your true feelings from me? You’ve refused this, have you not? Why? So that you can be pressed more strongly. You’ll take it. And then, when you see what power is yours, perhaps you’ll give a little something to a needy fellow Franciscan who also happens to be your own brother.’
‘I should prefer you to leave me,’ said Ximenes. ‘I do not like the way you talk.’
‘Oh, what a fool I have for a brother!’ wailed Bernardín. His expression changed suddenly. ‘You have forgotten, have you not, that there are so many wrongs that you can put right. Why, even within our own Order there is much that you dislike. Some of our fellows love luxury too much. You would like to see us all tormenting our bodies with our hair shirts; you would like to see us all using planks as our pillows; starvation should be our lot. Well, it is in your power to bring all these discomforts to us, oh holy brother.’
‘Get you gone,’ cried Ximenes. ‘You are no brother of mine … nay, even though our mother bore us both and you wear the habit of the Franciscans.’
Bernardín bowed ironically. ‘Even though you are a hypocrite, even though you are so holy that you will not take the honours which would enable you to help your family, it is not a bad thing to be the brother of Francisco Ximenes de Cisneros. Men already are wary how they treat me, and seek my favour.’ Bernardín came closer to his brother and whispered: ‘They all know that in good time you will not be able to resist this honour. They all know that I, Bernardín de Cisneros, will one day be the brother of the Archbishop of Toledo.’
‘They shall not have that gratification,’ Ximenes told him.
Bernardín laughed slyly and left his brother. When he was alone Ximenes fell to his knees and began to pray. The temptation was very great.
‘Oh Lord,’ he murmured, ‘if I accepted this great honour there are so many reforms I could bring about. I would work in Thy name. I would work for Thy glory and for that of Spain. Might it not be my duty to accept this honour?
‘No, no,’ he admonished himself. ‘It is temporal power which you are seeking. You want to wear the robes of the Archbishop, to see the people kneel before you.’
But that was not true.
What did he want? He did not know.
‘I will never accept the Archbishopric of Toledo!’ he said aloud.
It was but a few days later when he was summoned to the Queen’s apartment.
Isabella received him with a gracious smile which held a hint of triumph.
She put a document into his hand. ‘It is for you, Fray Francisco Ximenes,’ she said. ‘You will see it is from His Holiness and addressed to you.’
Once more the Pope had addressed Ximenes as Archbishop of Toledo, and this document contained direct instructions from Rome.
There must be no more refusals. Alexander VI wrote from the Vatican that Fray Francisco Ximenes de Cisneros was henceforth Archbishop of Toledo, and any refusal on his part to accept the post would be regarded as disobedience to the Holy See.
The decision had been made for him.
Ximenes wondered whether the feeling he experienced was exultation. The Kingdoms of the world were no longer merely shown to him. He was forced by the Holy Father himself to accept his destiny.
Isabella sat with her children. Whenever she could spare the time from her state duties she liked to be with them, and it was comforting to know that they enjoyed this intimacy as she did.
Juan put a shawl about her shoulders. ‘There is a draught coming from the window, dear Mother.’
‘Thank you, Angel.’ She offered a silent prayer of thankfulness because, whoever else was taken from her, Angel would always be near.
Catalina was leaning against her knee, dreamily happy. Poor defenceless little Catalina, who was the baby. Isabella remembered well the day the child had been born, a miserably cold December day in Alcalá de Henares. Little did she think then that this, her fifth child, would be her last.
Juana could not cease chattering. ‘Mother, what are the women like in Flanders? They have golden hair, I hear … most of them. They are big women with great breasts.’
‘Hush, hush!’ said the Princess Isabella. She was sitting on her stool, her fingers caressing her rosary. The Queen believed she had been praying. She was constantly praying. And for what? A miracle which would bring her young husband back to life? Was she praying that she would not have to leave home and go once more as a bride to Portugal? Perhaps that would be as much a miracle as the return to life of Alonso would have been.
‘But,’ cried Juana, ‘the Queen said there was to be no ceremony. There never is ceremony when we are together thus.’
‘That is so, my daughter,’ said the Queen. ‘But it is not seemly to discuss the size of the breasts of the women in your future husband’s country.’
‘But Mother, why not? Those women might be of the utmost importance to me.’
Has she been hearing tales of this handsome philanderer who is to be her husband? the Queen wondered. How could she? Has she second sight? What strangeness is this in my Juana? How like her grandmother she grows … so like that I never look at her without feeling this fear twining itself about my heart like ivy about a tree … strangling my contentment.
‘You should listen to your sister, Juana,’ the Queen said. ‘She is older than you and therefore it is very possible that she is wiser.’
Juana snapped her fingers. ‘Philip will be a greater King than Alonso ever could have been … or Emanuel will be.’
The younger Isabella had risen to her feet; the Queen noticed how she clenched her hands, and the colour flooded into her pale cheeks.
‘Be silent, Juana,’ commanded the Queen.
‘I will not. I will not.’ Juana had begun to dance round the room while the others watched her in dismay. None of them would have dreamed of disobeying the Queen. Juana must be bordering on one of her odd moods or she would not have dared.
The Queen’s heart had begun to beat wildly but she smiled, outwardly serene. ‘We will ignore Juana,’ she said, ‘until she has learned her manners. Well, Angel, so soon you are to be a husband.’
‘I hope I shall be a satisfactory one,’ he murmured.
‘You will be the most satisfactory husband there ever was,’ said Catalina. ‘Will he not, Mother?’
‘I believe he will,’ answered the Queen.
Juana had danced up to them. She had flung herself at her mother’s feet and now lay on her stomach, propping her face in her hands.
‘Mother, when shall I sail? When shall I sail for Flanders?’
The Queen ignored her and, turning to Catalina, she said: ‘You are looking forward to the festivities of your brother’s wedding, eh, my child?’
Juana had begun to beat her fist on the floor. ‘Mother, when … when …?’
‘When you have apologised to your sister for what you have said, we shall be ready to talk to you.’
Juana frowned. She glared at Isabella and said: ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Philip will be as great a King as Alonso would have been if he had lived. And I’ll be as good a Queen as you would have been if Alonso’s horse had not kicked him to death.’
The Princess Isabella gave a little cry as she went to the window.
‘My dear child,’ the Queen patiently said to her wild daughter, ‘you must learn to put yourself into the place of others, consider what you are about to say and ask yourself how you would feel if it were being said to you.’
Juana’s face crinkled up and she burst out: ‘It is no use, Mother. I could never be like Isabella. I don’t think Philip could ever be like Alonso either.’
‘Come here,’ said the Queen and Juana came to her mother. The Queen put her arms about this daughter who had caused her many a sleepless night. How can I part with her? she asked herself. What will happen to her in a strange country where there will be no one to understand her as I do?
‘Juana,’ she said, ‘I want you to be calm. Soon you will be going among people who do not know you as we do. They may not make allowances as we do. Soon you will be travelling to Flanders with a great fleet of ships. There you will meet your husband Philip, and the ships which take you to him will bring his sister Margaret home for Juan.’
‘I shall be left behind in Flanders where the women have big breasts … and Philip will be my husband. He will be a great ruler, will he not, Mother … greater than Father. Is that possible?’
‘It is only at the end of a ruler’s life that his greatness can be judged,’ murmured the Queen. Her eyes were on her eldest daughter and she knew by the rigid position of her body that she was fighting back her tears.
She took Juana’s hand and said: ‘There is much you will have to be taught before you go away. It is regrettable that you cannot be as calm as your brother.’
Catalina spoke then. ‘But Mother, it is easy for Angel to be calm. He is not going away. His bride will come here for him.’
The Queen looked down at the solemn little face of her youngest daughter; and she knew then that the parting with Catalina was going to be the most heartbreaking of them all.
I will not tell her just yet that she is to go to England, she mused. It will be years before she must leave us. There is no point in telling her now.
Ferdinand came into the room and the effect of his presence was immediate. He could not even regard his children without betraying his thoughts of the brilliant future he had planned for them. Now, as his eldest daughter came first to greet him, the Queen knew that he saw her as the link to friendship with Portugal … a peaceful frontier which would enable him to continue with greater ease his battles against his old enemies, the French. Now Juan – and Juana. The Habsburg alliance. And Maria. He scarcely glanced her way, for no grand schemes for a profitable alliance had yet formed in his mind regarding her.
The Queen put her hand on Catalina’s arm, as though to protect her. Poor little Catalina! She would mean to her father friendship with England. She had been chosen as the bride of Arthur, Prince of Wales, because she was only a year older than he was, and therefore more suitable than Maria who was four years Arthur’s senior.
Ferdinand surveyed his family. ‘I see you merry,’ he said.
Merry! thought the Queen. My poor Isabella with the grief on her face; the resignation of my Angel; the wildness of Juana; the ignorance of Catalina. Is that merriment?
‘Well,’ went on Ferdinand, ‘you have good reason to be!’
‘Juana is eager to learn all she can about Flanders,’ the Queen said.
‘That is well. That is well. You must all be worthy of your good fortune. Isabella is fortunate. She knows Portugal well. How singularly blessed is my eldest daughter. She thought to lose the crown of Portugal and finds it miraculously restored to her.’
The Princess Isabella said: ‘I cannot return to Portugal, Father. I could not …’ She stopped, and there was a short but horrified silence in the room. It was clear that in a few moments the Princess Isabella was going to commit the terrible indiscretion of weeping before the King and Queen.
The Queen said gently: ‘You have our leave to retire, daughter.’ Isabella threw her mother a grateful glance and curtsied.
‘But first …’ Ferdinand was beginning.
‘Go now, my dear,’ interrupted the Queen firmly, and she did not look at the angry lights which immediately shot up in Ferdinand’s eyes.
For the sake of her children, as for her country, Isabella was ready to face the wrath of her husband.
Ferdinand burst out: ‘It is time that girl was married. The life she leads here is unnatural. She is continually at her prayers. What does she pray for? Convent walls! She should be praying for children!’
The children were subdued with the exception of Juana, in whom any conflict aroused excitement.
‘I am praying for children already, Father,’ she cried.
‘Juana,’ warned her mother; but Ferdinand gave a low laugh.
‘That’s well enough. You cannot start your prayers too early. And what of my youngest daughter? Is she eager to learn the manners of England?’
Catalina was staring at her father in frank bewilderment.
‘Eh, child?’ he went on, looking at her lovingly. Little Catalina, the youngest, only ten years old – and yet so important to her father’s schemes.
Isabella had drawn her little daughter close to her. ‘Our youngest daughter’s marriage is years away,’ she said. ‘Why, Catalina need not think of England for many a year.’
‘It will not be so long,’ declared Ferdinand. ‘Henry is an impatient man. He might even ask that she be educated over there. He’ll be wanting to turn her into a little Englishwoman at the earliest possible moment.’
Isabella felt the tremor run through her daughter’s body. She wondered what she could do to appease her. That it should have been broken like this! There were times when she had to restrain her anger against this husband who could be so impetuous in some matters, so cold blooded in others.
Could he not see the stricken look in the child’s face now? Could he not understand its meaning?
‘I have a little matter to discuss with your mother,’ he went on. ‘You may all leave us.’
The children came forward in order of seniority and took their leave of their parents. The coming of Ferdinand into the apartment had brought with it the return of ceremony.
Little Catalina was last. Isabella leaned towards her and patted her cheek. Those big dark eyes were bewildered; and the fear was already beginning to show in them.
‘I will come to you later, my child,’ whispered the Queen, and for a moment the fear lifted. It was as it had been in the days of the child’s extreme youth when she had suffered some slight pain. ‘Mother will come and make it well.’ It was always so with Catalina. Her mother’s presence had such an effect on her that its comfort could always soothe her pain.
Ferdinand was smiling the crafty smile which indicated that he had some fresh scheme afoot and was congratulating himself on its shrewdness.
‘Ferdinand,’ said Isabella when they were alone, ‘that is the first indication that Catalina has had that she is to go to England.’
‘Is that so?’
‘It was a shock to her.’
‘H’m. She’ll be Queen of England one day. I can scarcely wait to get those marriages performed. When I think of the great good which can come to our country through these alliances I thank God that I have five children and wish I had five more. But it was not of this that I came to speak to you. This man Ximenes … this Archbishop of yours …’
‘And yours, Ferdinand.’
‘Mine! I’d never give my consent to setting up a humble monk in the highest office in Spain. It has occurred to me that, as a humble man who will suddenly find himself a very rich one, he will not know how to manage great riches.’
‘You can depend upon it, he will not change his mode of life. He will give more to the poor, I’ll swear, and I believe it has always been a great dream of his to build a University at Alcalá and to compile a polyglot Bible.’
