Текст книги "Daughters of Spain "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Ferdinand made an impatient gesture. There came into his eyes that acquisitive gleam which Isabella now knew so well and which told her that he was thinking of the rich revenues of Toledo, and she guessed that he had some scheme for diverting them from the Archbishop to himself.
‘Such a man,’ said Ferdinand, ‘would not know what to do with such a fortune. It would embarrass him. He prefers to live his hermit’s life. Why should we prevent him? I am going to offer him two or three cuentos a year for his personal expenses, and I do not see why the rest of the revenues of Toledo should not be used for the good of the country generally.’
Isabella was silent.
‘Well?’ demanded Ferdinand impatiently.
‘Have you put this matter before the Archbishop?’ she asked.
‘I thought it would be wiser if we did so together. I have sent for him to come to us. He should be here very shortly. I shall expect you to support me in this.’
Isabella did not speak. She was thinking: I shall soon need to oppose him with regard to Catalina. I shall not allow him to send my daughter away from home for some years. We must not continually pull one against the other. The Archbishop, I am sure, is more able to fight his battles than my little Catalina.
‘Well?’ repeated Ferdinand.
‘I will see the Archbishop with you and hear what he has to say on this matter.’
‘I need money … badly,’ went on Ferdinand. ‘If I am going to pursue the Italian wars with any success I must have more men and arms. If we are not to suffer defeat at the hands of the French …’
‘I know,’ said Isabella. ‘The question is, is this the right way to get the money you need?’
‘Any way to get the money for such a purpose is the right way,’ Ferdinand sternly told her.
It was shortly afterwards when Ximenes came to the apartment.
‘Ah, Archbishop!’ Ferdinand stressed the title almost ironically. Anyone looking less like an Archbishop there could not possibly be. Why, in the day of Mendoza the title had carried much dignity. Isabella was a fool to have bestowed it on a half-starved holy man.
‘Your Highnesses,’ murmured Ximenes, making obeisance before them.
‘His Highness the King has a suggestion to make to you, Ximenes,’ said the Queen.
The pale eyes were turned on Ferdinand, and even he felt a little disturbed by their cold stare. It was disconcerting to come face to face with someone who was not in fear of one. There was nothing this man feared. You could strip him of office and he would shrug his shoulders; you could take him to the faggots and set them alight and he would delight in his agony. Yes, it was certainly disturbing for a King, before whom men trembled, to find one so careless of his authority as Ximenes.
‘Ah,’ Ferdinand was blustering in spite of himself, ‘the Queen and I have been speaking of you. You are clearly a man of simple tastes, and you find yourself burdened with great revenues. We have decided that you shall not be burdened with these. We propose to take them from you and administer them for the good of the country. You shall receive an adequate allowance for your household and personal expenses …’
Ferdinand stopped, for Ximenes had lifted a hand as though demanding silence; he might have been the sovereign and Ferdinand his subject.
‘Your Highness,’ said Ximenes, addressing himself to Ferdinand, for he knew that this was entirely his idea, ‘I will tell you this. It was with great reluctance that I accepted my Archbishopric. Nothing but the express orders of the Holy Father could induce me to do so. But I have accepted it. Therefore I will do my duty as I see it should be done. I know that I shall need these resources if I am to care for the souls in my charge. And I must say this without more ado: If I remain in this post I and my Church must be free; and what is mine must be left to my jurisdiction, in much the same way as Your Highness has charge of your kingdoms.’
Ferdinand’s face was white with anger. He said: ‘I had thought that your mind was on holy matters, Archbishop, but it seems it is not unaffected by your revenues.’
‘My mind is on my duty, Your Highness. If you persist in taking the revenues of Toledo you must also remove its Archbishop from his post. What has Her Highness the Queen to say of this matter?’
Isabella said quietly: ‘It must be as you wish, Archbishop. We must find other means for meeting the requirements of the state.’
Ximenes bowed. ‘Have I your leave to retire, Your Highnesses?’
‘You have our leave,’ answered Isabella.
When he had gone she waited for the storm to break. Ferdinand had gone to the window; his fists were clenched and she knew that he was fighting to control his anger.
‘I am sorry, Ferdinand,’ she said, ‘but you cannot rob him of his rights. The revenues are his; you cannot take them merely because he is a man of holy habits.’
Ferdinand turned and faced her. ‘Once again, Madam,’ he said, ‘you give an example of your determination to thwart and flout me.’
‘When I do not fall in with your wishes it is always with the utmost regret.’
Ferdinand bit his lips to hold back the words which were struggling to be spoken. She was right, of course. She was indeed happy when they were in agreement. It was her perpetual conscience which came between them. ‘Holy Mother,’ he murmured, ‘why did you give me such a good woman for my wife? Her eternal conscience, her devotion to duty, even when it is opposed to our good, is the cause of continual friction between us.’
It was no use being angry with Isabella. She was as she always had been.
He said in such a low voice that she could scarcely hear him: ‘That man and I will be enemies as long as we live.’
‘No, Ferdinand,’ pleaded Isabella. ‘That must not be. You both wish to serve Spain. Let that be a bond between you. What does it matter if you look at your duty from different angles when the object is the same?’
‘He is insolent, this Archbishop of Toledo!’
‘You must not blame Ximenes because he was chosen instead of your natural son, Ferdinand.’
Ferdinand snapped his fingers. ‘That! That is forgotten. Have I not grown accustomed to seeing my wishes disregarded? It is the man himself … the holy man, who starves himself … and walks the Palace in his grubby serge. I think of Mendoza’s day …’
‘Mendoza is dead now, Ferdinand. This is the day of Ximenes.’
‘The pity of it!’ murmured Ferdinand; and Isabella was wondering how she was going to keep her husband and her Archbishop from crossing each other’s paths.
But her mind was not really on Ximenes, nor on Ferdinand. From the moment Catalina had left the apartment with her brother and sisters she had been thinking of the child.
She must go to her without delay. She must explain to her that marriage into England was a long way off.
‘I do not believe,’ said Ferdinand, ‘that you are giving me your attention.’
‘I was thinking of our daughter, of Catalina. I am going to her now to tell her that I shall not allow her to leave us until she is much older.’
‘Do not make rash promises.’
‘I shall make none,’ said Isabella. ‘But I must comfort her. I know how badly she needs such comfort.’
With that she left him, frustrated as he so often was, admiring her as he had such reason for doing, realising that although she often exasperated him beyond endurance he owed a great deal to her of what was his.
He thought ruefully that she would seek to protect Catalina from his marriage plans in the same way as she had stubbornly refused to give Toledo to his son Alfonso. Yet he was bound to her as she was to him. They were one; they were Spain.
Isabella was thinking only of her daughter as she hastened to the children’s apartments. It was as she had expected: Catalina was alone. The child lay on her bed and her face was buried in the pillows as though, thought Isabella tenderly, by hiding her eyes she need not see what was too unpleasant to be borne.
‘My little one,’ whispered the Queen.
Catalina turned, and her face was illumined with sudden joy.
Isabella lay down and took the child in her arms. For a few moments Catalina clung childishly to her mother as though by doing so she could bind them together for ever.
‘I did not mean you to know for a long, long time,’ whispered the Queen.
‘Mother … when shall I go away from you?’
‘My dearest, it will not be for years.’
‘But my father said …’
‘Oh, he is an impatient man. He loves his daughters so much and is so happy in the possession of them that he longs to see them with children of their own. He forgets how young you are. A little girl of ten to be married!’
‘Sometimes they are taken away from their mothers to live in foreign courts … the courts of their bridegrooms.’
‘You shall not leave me for many years. I promise you.’
‘How many, Mother?’
‘Not until you are grown up and ready for marriage.’
Catalina snuggled closer to her mother. ‘That is a long, long time. That is four years, or five years perhaps.’
‘It is indeed. So you see how foolish it would be to worry now over what may happen in four or five years’ time. Why, by then you will be almost a woman, Catalina … wanting a husband of your own perhaps, not so eager to cling to your mother.’
‘I shall always cling to my mother!’ Catalina declared passionately.
‘Ah,’ sighed Isabella, ‘we shall see.’
And they lay silently side by side. Catalina was comforted. To her, four or five years seemed an eternity. But to her mother it seemed a very little time.
But the purpose was achieved, the blow was softened. Isabella would talk to her young daughter about England. She would discover all she could about the Tudor King who, some said, had usurped the throne of England. Though of course it would be well if the child did not hear such gossip as that. She would talk to her about the King’s children, the eldest of whom was to be her husband … a boy a year younger than herself. What was there to fear in that? There was another boy, Henry; and two girls, Margaret and Mary. She would soon learn their ways and in time forget about her Spanish home.
That was not true, she knew. Catalina would never forget.
She is closer to me than any of the others, I believe, thought Isabella. How happy I should be if this English marriage came to nothing and I were able to keep my little Catalina at my side until the day I die.
She did not mention such a thought. It was unworthy of the Queen of Spain and the mother of Catalina. At this time it seemed that Catalina’s destiny lay with the English. As a daughter of Spain, Catalina would have to do her duty.
XIMENES AND TORQUEMADA
The cavalcade had come to rest at last in the port of Laredo which stood on the eastern borders of the Asturias. During the journey from Madrid to Laredo the Queen’s anxieties had kept pace with her daughter’s increasing excitement.
Isabella had determined to remain with Juana until that moment when she left Spanish soil. She would have liked to accompany her all the way to Flanders, for she was very fearful of what would await her wild daughter there.
Isabella had left her family and her state duties to be with her daughter, and during that long and often tedious journey she had never ceased to pray for Juana’s future and to ask herself continually: What will become of her when she reaches Flanders?
Isabella had spent a night on board that ship in which Juana would sail. She now stood on deck with her daughter, awaiting the moment of departure when she must say farewell to Juana. About them was a fine array of ships, a fleet worthy of the Infanta’s rank which would carry her to Flanders and bring back the Archduchess Margaret to be Juan’s bride. There were a hundred and twenty ships in this magnificent armada, some large, some small. They carried means of defending themselves, for they had been made ready to fight against the French. Ferdinand, however, had been willing to put them to this use, because in conveying his unstable daughter to Flanders they were prosecuting the war against the French as certainly as if they went into battle.
Ferdinand himself was not with them on this occasion. He had gone to Catalonia to make ready for an attack on the French. Isabella was rather pleased that she was alone to say goodbye to Juana. So great were her anxieties that she could not have borne to see the pleasure which she knew would shine from her husband’s eyes as he watched their daughter’s departure.
Juana turned to her mother, her eyes sparkling, and cried: ‘To think that all that is for me!’
Isabella continued to look at the ships, because she could not bear to look into her daughter’s face at that moment. She knew that she was going to be reminded of her own mother, who was living out her clouded existence at the castle at Arevalo, unable to distinguish between past and present, raging now and then against those who were long since dead and had no power to harm her. There had been times when Isabella had dreaded her mother’s outbreaks of violence, even as she now dreaded those of her daughter.
How will she fare with Philip? was another question she asked herself. Will he be kind to her? Will he understand?
‘It is a goodly sight,’ murmured the Queen.
‘How long before I reach Flanders, Mother?’
‘So much will depend on the weather.’
‘I hope there will be storms.’
‘Oh, my child, no! We must pray for calm seas and a good wind.’
‘I should like to be delayed a little. I should like Philip to be waiting for me … rather impatiently.’
‘He will be waiting for you,’ murmured the Queen.
Juana clasped her hands across her breasts. ‘I long for him, Mother,’ she said. ‘I have heard that he is handsome. Did you know that people are beginning to call him Philip the Handsome?’
‘It is pleasant to have a handsome bridegroom.’
‘He likes to dance and be gay. He likes to laugh. He is the most fascinating man in Flanders.’
‘You are fortunate, my dear. But remember, he is fortunate too.’
‘He must think so. He shall think so.’
Juana had begun to laugh; it was the laughter of excitement and intense pleasure.
‘Soon it will be time to say goodbye,’ said the Queen quickly. She turned impulsively to her daughter and embraced her, praying as she did so: ‘Oh God, let something happen to keep her with me. Let her not go on this long and hazardous journey.’
But what was she thinking! This was the grandest marriage Juana could have made. It was the curse of Queens that their daughters were merely lent to them during their childhood. She must always remember this.
Juana was wriggling in the Queen’s arms. It was not her mother’s embrace that she wanted; it was that of her husband.
Will she be too eager, too passionate? wondered the Queen. And Philip – what sort of man is he? How I wish I could have met him, had a word with him, warned him that Juana is not quite like other girls.
‘Look!’ cried Juana. ‘The Admiral is coming to us.’
It was true. Don Fadrique Enriquez, Admiral of Castile, had appeared on deck and Isabella knew that the moment was at hand when she must say goodbye.
‘Juana,’ she said, grasping her daughter’s hands and forcing the girl to look at her, ‘you must write to me often. You must never forget that my great desire is to help you.’
‘Oh no, I will not forget.’ But she was not really listening. She was dreaming of ‘Philip the Handsome’, the most attractive man in Europe. As soon as this magnificent armada had carried her to Flanders she would be his wife, and she was impatient of everything that kept her from him. She was already passionately in love with a bridegroom whom she had never seen. The desire which rose within her was driving her to such a frenzy that she felt that if she could not soon satisfy it she would scream out her frustration.
The ceremony of the farewell was almost more than she could endure. She did not listen to her mother’s gentle advice; she was unaware of the Queen’s anxiety. There was only one need within her: this overwhelming hunger for Philip.
Isabella did not leave Laredo until the armada had passed out of sight. Then only did she turn away, ready for the journey back to Madrid.
‘God preserve her,’ she prayed. ‘Give her that extra care which my poor Juana so desperately needs.’
Young Catalina was watching for her mother’s return.
This, she thought, is what will happen to me one day. My mother will accompany me to the coast. Perhaps not to Laredo. To what town would one go to embark for England?
Juana had gone off gaily. Her shrill laughter had filled the Palace during her last days there. She had sung and danced and talked continually of Philip. She was shameless in the way she talked of him. It was not the way Catalina would ever talk of Arthur, Prince of Wales.
But I will not think of it, Catalina told herself. It is far away. My mother will not let me go for years and years … even if the King of England does say he wishes me to be brought up as an English Princess.
Her sister Isabella came into the room and said: ‘Still watching, Catalina?’
‘It seems so long since Mother went away.’
‘You will know soon enough when she returns. Watching will not bring her.’
‘Isabella, do you think Juana will be happy in Flanders?’
‘I do not think Juana will be happy and contented anywhere.’
‘Poor Juana. She believes she will live happily for ever when she is married to Philip. He is so handsome, she says. They even call him Philip the Handsome.’
‘It is better to have a good husband than a handsome one.’
‘I am sure Prince Arthur is good. He is only a boy yet. It will be years before he marries. And Emanuel is good too, Isabella.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Isabella, ‘Emanuel is good.’
‘Are you going to marry him?’
Isabella shook her head and turned away.
‘I am sorry I mentioned it, Isabella,’ said Catalina. ‘It reminds you, doesn’t it?’
Isabella nodded.
‘Yes,’ said Catalina, ‘you were happy, were you not? Perhaps it was better to have found Alonso such a good husband even though he died so soon … better than to have married a husband whom you hated and who was unkind to you.’
Isabella looked thoughtfully at her young sister. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it was better than that.’
‘And you have seen Emanuel. You know him well. You know he is kind. So, Isabella, if you should have to marry him, perhaps you will not be so very unhappy. Portugal is near home … whereas …’
Isabella suddenly forgot her own problems and looked into the anxious eyes of her little sister. She put her arm about her and held her tightly.
‘England is not so very far away either,’ she said.
‘I have a fear,’ Catalina answered slowly, ‘that once I am there I shall never come back … never see you all again. That is what I think would be so hard to bear … never to see you and Juan, Maria and our father … and mother … never to see Mother …’
‘I thought that. But, you see, I came back. Nothing is certain, so it is foolish to say “I shall never come back.” How can you be sure?’
‘I shall not say it. I shall say: “I will come back,” because only if I did could I bear to go.’
Isabella put her sister from her and went to the window. Catalina followed.
They saw two men riding fast up the slope to the Palace.
Catalina sighed with disappointment, because she knew they were not of the Queen’s party.
‘We shall soon discover who they are,’ said Isabella. ‘Let us go to Juan. The messengers will have been taken to him if they have important news.’
When they reached Juan’s apartments, the messengers had already been conducted to him and he was ordering that they be taken away and given refreshments.
‘What is the news?’ Isabella asked.
‘They come from Arevalo,’ said Juan. ‘Our grandmother is very ill and calls constantly for our mother.’
The Queen entered the familiar room, the memory of which she felt would haunt her with sadness for as long as she lived.
As soon as she had arrived at Madrid she had set out for Arevalo, praying that she would not be too late and yet half hoping that she would be.
In her bed lay the Dowager Queen of Castile, Isabella’s ambitious mother, that Princess of Portugal who had suffered from the scourge of her family and whose mental aberrations had darkened her daughter’s life.
It was because of her mother that Isabella felt those shocks of terror every time she noticed some fresh wildness in her daughter Juana. Had this madness in the royal blood passed one generation to flower in the next?
‘Is that Isabella …?’
The blank eyes were staring upwards, but they did not see the Queen, who leaned over the bed. They saw instead the little girl Isabella had been when her future was the greatest concern in the world to this mother.
‘Mother, dear Mother. I am here,’ whispered Isabella.
‘Alfonso, is that you, Alfonso?’
One could not say: Alfonso is dead, Mother … dead these many years. We do not know how he died, but we believe he was poisoned.
‘He is the true King of Castile …’
‘Oh, Mother, Mother,’ whispered Isabella, ‘it is all so long ago. Ferdinand and I rule all Spain now. I became more than the Queen of Castile.’
‘I do not trust him …’ the tortured woman cried.
Isabella laid a hand on her mother’s clammy forehead. She called to one of the attendants. ‘Bring scented water. I would bathe her forehead.’
The sick woman began to laugh. It was hideous laughter, reminding Isabella of those days when she and her young brother, Alfonso, had lived here in this gloomy palace of Arevalo with a mother who lost a little more of her reason with the passing of each day.
Isabella took the bowl of water from the attendant.
‘Go now and leave me with her,’ she said; and she herself bathed her mother’s forehead.
The laughter had lost its wildness. Isabella listened to the harsh breathing.
It could not be long now. She would call in the priests who would administer the last rites. But what would this sadly deranged, dying woman know of that? She had no idea that she was living through her last hours; she believed that she was a young woman again, fighting desperately for the throne of Castile that she might bestow it upon her son Alfonso or her daughter Isabella.
Still it was just possible that she might realise that it was Extreme Unction that was being administered; she might for a few lucid seconds understand the words of the priest.
Isabella stood up and beckoned one of the attendants who had been hovering in a corner of the apartment.
‘Your Highness …’ murmured the woman.
‘My mother is sinking fast,’ said Isabella. ‘Call the priests. They should be with her.’
‘Yes, Highness.’
Isabella went back to the bed and waited.
The Dowager Queen Isabella was lying back on her pillows, her eyes closed, her lips moving; and her daughter, trying to pray for her mother’s soul, could only find the words intruding into her prayers: ‘Oh God, You have made Juana so like her. I pray You, take care of my daughter.’
Catalina was eagerly awaiting the return of her mother from Arevalo, but it was long before she could be alone with her.
Since the little girl had learned that she was to go to England she could not spend enough time in her mother’s company. Isabella understood this and made a point of summoning Catalina to her presence whenever this was possible.
Now she dismissed everyone and kept Catalina with her; the joy on the face of the child was rewarding enough; it moved Isabella deeply.
Isabella made Catalina bring her stool and sit at her feet. This, Catalina was happy to do; she sat leaning her head against her mother’s skirts, and Isabella let her fingers caress her youngest daughter’s thick chestnut hair.
‘Did it seem long that I was away then?’ she asked.
‘So long, Mother. First you went away with Juana, and then as soon as you had returned you must leave for Arevalo.’
‘We have had little time together for so long. We must make up for it. I rejoiced to be with my mother for a little while before she died.’
‘You are unhappy, Mother.’
‘Are you surprised that I should be unhappy now that I have no mother? You who, I believe, love your own mother, can understand that, can you not?’
‘Oh yes. But your mother was not as my mother.’
Isabella smiled. ‘Oh, Catalina, she has caused me such anxieties.’
‘I know it, Mother. I hope never to cause you one little anxiety.’
‘If you did it would be solely because I loved you so well. You would never do aught, I know, to distress me.’
Catalina caught her mother’s hand and kissed it fiercely. Such emotion frightened Isabella.
I must strengthen her, this tender little child, she thought.
‘Catalina,’ she said, ‘you are old enough to know that my mother was kept a prisoner, more or less, at Arevalo because … because her mind was not … normal. She was unsure of what was really happening. She did not know whether I was a woman or a little girl like you. She did not know that I was the Queen but thought that my little brother was alive and that he was the heir to Castile.’
‘Did she … frighten you?’
‘When I was young I was frightened. I was frightened of her wildness. I loved her, you see, and I could not bear that she should suffer so.’
Catalina nodded. She enjoyed these confidences; she knew that something had happened to make her relationship with her mother even more poignantly precious. This had taken place when she had discovered she was destined to go to England; and she believed that the Queen did not want her to go as an ignorant child. She wanted her to understand something of the world so that she would be able to make her own decisions, so that she would be able to control her emotions – in fact, so that she would be a grown-up person able to take care of herself.
‘Juana is like her,’ said Catalina.
The Queen caught her breath. She said quickly: ‘Juana is too high spirited. Now that she is to have a husband she will be more controlled.’
‘But my grandmother had a husband; she had children; and she was not controlled.’
The Queen was silent for a few seconds, then she said: ‘Let us pray together for Juana.’
She took Catalina’s hand and they went into that small anteroom where Isabella had set up an altar; and there they knelt and prayed not only for the safe journey of Juana but for her safe and sane passage through life.
Afterwards they went back to the apartment and Catalina sat once more on her stool at the Queen’s feet.
‘Catalina,’ said Isabella, ‘I hope you will be friends with the Archduchess Margaret when she comes. We must remember that she will be a stranger among us.’
‘I wonder whether she is frightened,’ Catalina whispered, trying not to think of herself setting out on a perilous journey across the sea to England.
‘She is sixteen years old, and she comes to a strange country to marry a young man whom she has never seen. She does not know that in our Juan she will have the kindest, dearest husband anyone could have. She has yet to learn how fortunate she is. But while she is discovering this I want you and your sisters to be very kind to her.’
‘I shall, Mother.’
‘I know you will.’
‘I would do anything you asked of me … gladly I would do it if you commanded me.’
‘I know it, my precious daughter. And when the time comes for you to leave me you will do so with good courage in your heart. You will know, will you not, that wherever I am and wherever you are, I shall never forget you as long as I live.’
Catalina’s lips were trembling as she answered: ‘I will never forget it. I will always do my duty as you would have me do it. I shall not whimper.’
‘I shall be proud of you. Now take your lute, my dearest, and play to me awhile; for very soon we shall be interrupted. But never mind, I shall steal away from state duties and be with you whenever it is possible. Play to me now, my dearest.’
So Catalina brought her lute and played; but even the gayest tunes sounded plaintive because Catalina could not dismiss from her mind the thought that time passed quickly and the day must surely come when she must set out for England.
Those were sad weeks for the Queen. She was in deep mourning for her mother, and there had been such tempests at sea that she feared for the safety of the armada which was escorting Juana to Flanders.
News came that the fleet had had to put into an English port because some of the ships had suffered damage during the tempest. Isabella wondered how Don Fadrique Enriquez was managing to keep the wild Juana under control. It would not be easy and the sooner she was married to Philip the better.
But travelling by sea was a hazardous affair and it might well be that Juana would never reach her destination.
A storm at sea might rob Ferdinand of his dearest dream. If Juana were lost on her way to Flanders, and Margaret on her way to Spain, that would be the end of the proposed Habsburg alliance. Isabella could only think of the dangers to her children, and her prayers were constant.
She tried to concentrate on other matters, but it was not easy to shut out the thought of Juana in peril; and since the recent death of her mother she had had bad dreams in which the sick woman of Arevalo often changed into the unstable Juana.
She was fortunate, she told herself, in her Archbishop of Toledo. Others might rail against him, criticise him because he had taken all the colour and glitter from his office, because he was as stern and unrelenting in his condemnation of others as he was of himself. But for him Isabella had that same admiration which she had had – and still had – for Tomás de Torquemada.
Tomás had firmly established the Holy Inquisition in the land, and Ximenes would do his utmost to maintain it. They were two of a kind and men whom Isabella – as sternly devout as they were themselves – wished to have about her.
She knew that Ximenes was introducing reforms in the Order to which he belonged. It had always seemed deplorable to him that many monks, who appeared in the Franciscan robes, did not follow the rules which had been set down for them by their Founder. They loved good living; they feasted and drank good wine; they loved women, and it was said that many of them were the fathers of illegitimate children. This was something to rouse fury in a man such as Ximenes and, like Torquemada, he was not one to shrug aside the weaknesses of others.
Therefore Isabella was not entirely surprised when, one day while she mourned her mother and waited anxiously for news of Juana’s safe arrival in Flanders, she found herself confronted by the General of the Franciscan Order who had come from Rome especially to see her.
