Текст книги "Spain for the Sovereigns "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Jean Plaidy, one of the pre-eminent authors of historical fiction for most of the twentieth century, is the pen name of the prolific English author Eleanor Hibbert, also known as Victoria Holt. Jean Plaidy’s novels had sold more than 14 million copies worldwide by the time of her death in 1993.
For further information about Jean Plaidy reissues and mailing list, please visit www.randomhouse.co.uk/minisites/jeanplaidy
Also by Jean Plaidy
The Tudors
Uneasy Lies the Head
Katharine, the Virgin Widow
The Shadow of the Pomegranate
The King’s Secret Matter
Murder Most Royal
St Thomas’s Eve
The Sixth Wife
The Thistle and the Rose
Mary Queen of France
Lord Robert
Royal Road to Fotheringay
The Captive Queen of Scots
The Medici Trilogy
Madame Serpent
The Italian Woman
Queen Jezebel
The Plantagenets
The Plantagenet Prelude
The Revolt of the Eaglets
The Heart of the Lion
The Prince of Darkness
The Battle of the Queens
The Queen from Provence
The Hammer of the Scots
The Follies of the King
The French Revolution
Louis the Well-Beloved
The Road to Compiègne
Flaunting, Extravagant Queen
Isabella and Ferdinand Trilogy
Castile for Isabella
Spain for the Sovereigns
Daughters of Spain
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Published by Arrow Books in 2008
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Copyright © Jean Plaidy, 1960
Initial lettering copyright © Stephen Raw, 2008
The Estate of Eleanor Hibbert has asserted its right to have Jean Plaidy identified as the author of this work.
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First published in the United Kingdom in 1960 by Robert Hale and Company
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ISBN 9780099510338
CONTENTS
Cover
About the Author
Also by Jean Plaidy
Title Page
Copyright
I: Ferdinand
II: Isabella
III: The Prince of the Asturias
IV: Isabella and the Archbishop of Saragossa
V: Tomás de Torquemada
VI: La Susanna
VII: The Birth of Maria and the Death of Carillo
VIII: Inside the Kingdom of Granada
IX: The Dream of Christoforo Colombo
X: The Royal Family
XI: Cristobal Colon and Beatriz de Arana
XII: Before Malaga
XIII: Marriage of an Infanta
XIV: The Last Sigh of the Moor
XV: Triumph of the Sovereigns
Bibliography
FERDINAND
It was growing dark as the cavalcade rode into the silent city of Barcelona on its way to the Palace of the Kings of Aragon. On it went, through streets so narrow that the tall grey houses – to which the smell of sea and harbour clung – seemed to meet over the cobbles.
At the head of this company of horsemen rode a young man of medium height and of kingly bearing. His complexion was fresh and tanned by exposure to the wind and sun; his features were well formed, his teeth exceptionally white, and the hair, which grew far back from his forehead, was light brown with a gleam of chestnut.
When any of his companions addressed him, it was with the utmost respect. He was some twenty-two years old, already a warrior and a man of experience, and only in the determination that all should respect his dignity did he betray his youth.
He turned to the man who rode beside him. ‘How she suffered, this city!’ he said.
‘It is true, Highness. I heard from the lips of the King, your father, that when he entered after the siege he could scarce refrain from weeping – such terrible sights met his eyes.’
Ferdinand of Aragon nodded grimly. ‘A warning,’ he murmured, ‘to subjects who seek to defy their rightful King.’
His companion replied: ‘It is so, Highness.’ He dared not remind Ferdinand that the civil war which had recently come to an end had been fought because of the murder of the rightful heir – Ferdinand’s half-brother Carlos, his father’s son by his first wife. It was a matter best forgotten, for now Ferdinand was very ready to take and defend all that his ambitious father, all that his doting mother, had procured for him.
The little cavalcade had drawn up before the Palace in which John of Aragon had his headquarters, and Ferdinand cried in his deep resonant voice: ‘What ails you all? I am here. I, Ferdinand, have come!’
There was immediate bustle within. Doors were flung open and grooms ran forward surrounding the party. Ferdinand leaped from his horse and ran into the Palace, where his father, who had heard his arrival, came to meet him, arms outstretched.
‘Ferdinand! Ferdinand!’ he cried, and his eyes filled with tears as he embraced his son. ‘Ah, I knew you would not delay your coming. I knew you would be with me. I am singularly blessed. I was given the best of wives, and although she has now been taken from me, she has left me the best of sons.’
The seventy-eight-year-old King of Aragon showed no signs of failing. Still strong and energetic – in spite of recent operations which had restored the sight of both eyes – he rarely permitted himself to show any weakness. But there was one emotion which he always failed to hide; that was the love he had for his dead wife and his son by her: Ferdinand.
His arm about Ferdinand’s shoulder, John led his son into a small apartment and called for refreshment. When it was brought and they were alone Ferdinand said: ‘You sent for me, Father; that was enough to bring me hastening to your side.’
John smiled. ‘But such a newly married husband, and such a charming wife!’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Ferdinand, with a complacent smile. ‘Isabella was loth to lose me, but she is deeply conscious of duty, and when she heard of your need, she was certain that I should not fail you.’
John nodded. ‘And all is well . . . in Castile, my son?’
‘All is well, Father.’
‘And the child?’
‘Healthy and strong.’
‘I would your little Isabella had been a boy!’
‘There will be boys,’ said Ferdinand.
‘Indeed there will be. And I will say this, Ferdinand. When you have a son, may he be so like yourself that all will say: “Here is another Ferdinand come among us.” I cannot wish you better than that.’
‘Father, you think too highly of your son.’ But the young man’s expression belied the charge.
John shook his head. ‘King of Castile! And one day . . . perhaps not far distant, King of Aragon.’
‘For the second title I would be content to wait all my life,’ said Ferdinand. ‘As for the first . . . as yet it is little more than a courtesy title.’
‘So Isabella is the Queen and you the Consort . . . for a time . . . for a time. I doubt not that very soon you will have brought her to understanding.’
‘Mayhap,’ agreed Ferdinand. ‘It is regrettable that the Salic law is not in force in Castile as in Aragon.’
‘Then, my son, you would be undoubted King and Isabella your Consort. Castile should be yours through your grandfather and namesake but for the fact that females are not excluded from the Castilian throne. But Isabella, the female heir, is your wife, my dearest son, and I am sure that this little difficulty is only a temporary one.’
‘Isabella is very loving,’ Ferdinand replied with a smile.
‘There! Then soon all will be as we could wish.’
‘But let us talk of your affairs, Father. They are of greater moment, and it is for this purpose that I have come to you.’
King John looked grave. ‘As you know,’ he said, ‘during the revolt of the Catalans it was necessary for me to ask help of Louis of France. He gave it to me, but Louis, as you know, never gives something for nothing.’
‘I know that the provinces of Roussillon and Cerdagne were placed in his custody as security, and that now they have risen in revolt against this foreign yoke.’
‘And have called to me for succour. Alas, the Seigneur du Lude has now invaded Roussillon with ten thousand infantry and nine hundred lances. Moreover, he has brought supplies that will keep his armies happy for months. The civil war has been long. You know how it has drained the exchequer.’
‘We must raise money, Father, in some way.’
‘That is why I have called you. I want you to go to Saragossa and by some means raise the money for our needs. Defeat at the hands of France would be disastrous.’
Ferdinand was silent for a few seconds. ‘I am wondering,’ he said at length, ‘how it will be possible to wring the necessary funds from the estates of Aragon. How do matters stand in Saragossa?’
‘There is much lawlessness in Aragon.’
‘Even as in Castile,’ answered Ferdinand. ‘There has been such strife for so long that civil affairs are neglected and rogues and robbers spring up all around us.’
‘It would seem,’ John told him, ‘that a certain Ximenes Gordo has become King of Saragossa.’
‘How can that be?’
‘You know the family. It is a noble one. Ximenes Gordo has cast aside his nobility. He has taken municipal office and has put himself into a position of such influence that it is not easy, from this distance, to deal with him. All the important posts have been given to his friends and relations and those who offer a big enough bribe. He is a colourful rogue and has in some manner managed to win the popular esteem. He makes a travesty of justice and I have evidence that he is guilty of numerous crimes.’
‘His trial and execution should be ordered.’
‘My dear son, to do so might bring civil strife to Saragossa. I have too much on my hands. But if you are going to raise funds for our needs a great deal will depend on Ximenes Gordo.’
‘The King of Aragon dependent on a subject!’ cried Ferdinand. ‘That seems impossible.’
‘Does it not, my son. But I am in dire need, and far from Saragossa.’
Ferdinand smiled. ‘You must leave this matter to me, Father. I will go to Saragossa. You may depend upon it, I will find some means of raising the money you need.’
‘You will do it, I know,’ said John. ‘It is your destiny always to succeed.’
Ferdinand smiled complacently. ‘I shall set off without delay for Saragossa, Father,’ he said.
John looked wistful. ‘So shortly come, so soon to go,’ he murmured.’ Yet you are right,’ he added. ‘There is little time to lose.’
‘Tomorrow morning, at dawn, I shall leave,’ Ferdinand told him. ‘Your cause – as always – is my own.’
On his way through Catalonia to Saragossa there was one call which Ferdinand could not deny himself the pleasure of making.
It must be as far as possible a secret call. There was one little person whom he longed to see and who meant a great deal to him, but he was determined to go to great lengths to conceal his existence from Isabella. He was beginning to realise that it was going to be somewhat difficult to live up to the ideal which his wife had made of him.
He and his followers had rested at an inn and, declaring that he would retire early, he with two of his most trusted attendants went to the room which had been assigned to him.
As soon as they were alone, he said: ‘Go to the stables. Have the horses made ready and I will join you when all is quiet.’
‘Yes, Highness.’
Ferdinand was impatient when they had left him. How long his party took to settle down! He had to resist an impulse to go to them and demand that they retire to their beds immediately and fall into deep sleep.
That would be folly, of course, since the great need was for secrecy. He was not by nature impulsive. He knew what he wanted and was determined to get it; but experience had taught him that it was often necessary to wait a long time for success in one’s endeavours. Ferdinand had learned to wait.
So now he did so, impatient yet restrained, until at last his servant was at the door.
‘All is quiet, Highness. The horses are ready.’
‘That is well. Let us be off.’
It was pleasant riding through the night. He had wondered whether to send a messenger ahead of him to warn her. But no. It should be a surprise. And if he found her with a lover, he did not greatly care. It was not she – beautiful as she was – who called him, it was not merely for her sake that he was ready to make this secret journey, news of which might be brought to the ears of Isabella.
‘Oh, Isabella, my wife, my Queen,’ he murmured to himself, ‘you will have to learn something of the world one day. You will have to know that men, such as I am, who spend long periods away from the conjugal bed, cannot be denied a mistress now and then.’
And from love affairs such as that which he had enjoyed with the Viscountess of Eboli there were often results.
Ferdinand smiled. He was confident of his powers to obtain what he would from all women – even his sedate, and rather alarmingly prim, Isabella.
He was remembering the occasion when he and the Viscountess had become lovers. It was during one of those spells when he was away from Castile, in Catalonia on his father’s business. It was Isabella who had insisted that he leave her. ‘It is your duty to go to your father’s aid,’ she had said.
Duty! he thought. It was a word frequently recurrent in Isabella’s vocabulary.
She would never fail to do her duty. She had been brought up to regard it as of paramount importance. She would risk her life for the sake of duty; she did not know, she must not guess that, when she had allowed her husband to depart into Catalonia, she had risked his fidelity to their marriage bed.
It had happened. And now here he was at the Eboli mansion; the house was stirring and the cry went forth: ‘He is come! The Master is within the gates.’
When he had given his horse to the waiting groom, he said: ‘Softly, I pray you all. This is an unofficial visit. I am passing on my way to Aragon and I but pause to pay a friendly call.’
The servants understood. They knew of the relationship between their mistress and Don Ferdinand. They did not speak of it outside the household. They knew that it was the wish of Don Ferdinand that this should be kept secret, and that it could be dangerous to offend him.
He had stepped into the house.
‘Your mistress?’ he asked of two women who had immediately dropped deep curtsies.
‘She had retired for the night, Highness. But already she has heard of your coming.’
Ferdinand looked up and saw his mistress at the head of the staircase. Her long dark hair fell in disorder about her shoulders; she was wearing a velvet robe of a rich ruby colour draped round her naked body.
She was beautiful; and she was faithful. He saw the joy in her face and his senses leaped with delight as he bounded up the stairs and they embraced.
‘So . . . you have come at last . . .’
‘You know that I would have been here before this, could I have arranged it.’
She laughed, and keeping her arms about his neck, she said: ‘You have changed. You have grown older.’
‘A fate,’ he reminded her, ‘which befalls us all.’
‘But you have done it so becomingly,’ she told him.
They realised that they were being watched, and she took his arm and led him into her bedchamber.
There was a question which he wanted to ask above all others. Shrewdly he did not ask it . . . not yet. Much as she doted on the child, she must not suspect that it was for his sake that he had come and not for hers.
In her bedchamber he parted the velvet gown and kissed her body. She stood as though her ecstasy transfixed her.
He inevitably compared her with Isabella. Any woman, he told himself, would seem like a courtesan compared with Isabella. Virtue emanated from his wife. It surprised him that a halo was not visible about her head. Everything she did was done as a dedicated act. Even the sexual act – and there was no doubt that she loved him passionately – appeared, even in its most ecstatic moments, to be performed for the purpose of begetting heirs for the crown.
Ferdinand made excuses to himself for his infidelity. No man could subsist on a diet of unadulterated Isabella. There must be others.
Yet now, as he made love to his mistress, his thoughts were wandering. He would ask the all-important question at precisely the right moment. He prided himself on his calmness. It had been the admiration of his father and mother. But they had admired everything about him – good and bad qualities. And there had been times when he had been unable to curb his impetuosity. They would become fewer as he grew older. He was fully aware of that.
Now, satiated, his mistress lay beside him. There was a well-satisfied smile on her lips as he laced his fingers in hers.
‘You are superb!’ whispered Ferdinand. And then, as though it were an afterthought: ‘And . . . how is the boy?’
‘He is well, Ferdinand.’
‘Tell me, does he ever speak of me?’
‘Every day he says to me: “Mother, do you think that this day my father will come?”’
‘And what do you say to that?’
‘I tell him that his father is the most important man in Aragon, in Catalonia, in Castile, and it is only because he is such an important man that he has not time to visit us.’
‘And his reply?’
‘He says that one day he will be an important man like his father.’
Ferdinand laughed with pleasure. ‘He is sleeping now?’ he said wistfully.
‘Worn out by the day’s exertions. He is a General now, Ferdinand. He has his armies. You should hear him shouting orders.’
‘I would I could do so,’ said Ferdinand. ‘I wonder . . .’
‘You wish to see him. You cannot wait. I know it. Perhaps if we were very quiet we should not wake him. He is in the next room. I keep him near me. I am always afraid that something may happen to him if I let him stray too far from me.’
‘What could happen to him?’ demanded Ferdinand suddenly fierce.
‘Oh, it is nothing, merely the anxieties of a mother.’ She had risen and put her robe about her. ‘Come, we will take a peep at him while he sleeps.’
She picked up a candlestick and beckoned to Ferdinand, who threw on a few clothes and followed her to a door which she opened quietly.
In a small cot a boy of about three years was sleeping. One plump hand gripped the bedclothes, and the hair which curled about the well-shaped head had a gleam of chestnut in its brown.
This was a very beautiful little boy, and Ferdinand felt an immense pride as he looked down on him.
He and Isabella had a daughter, but this was his son, his first-born son; and the chubby charm and the resemblance to himself filled Ferdinand with an emotion which was rare to him.
‘How soundly he sleeps!’ he whispered; and he could not resist stooping over the bed and placing his lips against that soft head.
In that moment an impulse came to him to pick up the sleeping child and to take him from his mother, to take him into Castile, to present him to Isabella and say to her: ‘This is my son, my first-born son. The sight of him fills me with joy, and I will have him brought up here at Court with any children you and I may have.’
He could never do such a thing. He imagined Isabella’s reactions; and one thing he had learned since his marriage was the necessity of respecting Isabella in all her queenly dignity.
What a foolish thought when what he had to do was prevent Isabella’s ever hearing of this child’s existence.
The little boy awakened suddenly. He stared up at the man and woman by his bedside. Then he knew who the man was. He leaped up and a pair of small hot arms were about Ferdinand’s neck.
‘And what is the meaning of this?’ cried Ferdinand in mock anger.
‘It means my father is come,’ said the child.
‘Then who are you?’ asked Ferdinand.
‘I am Alonso of Aragon,’ was the answer, and spoken like a Prince. ‘And you are Ferdinand of Aragon.’ The boy put his face close to Ferdinand’s and peered into it; with his forefinger he traced the line of Ferdinand’s nose.
‘I will tell you something,’ he said.
‘Well, what will you tell me?’
‘We are something else too.’
‘What is that?’
‘You are my father. I am your boy.’
Ferdinand crushed the child in his arms. ‘It is true,’ he said. ‘It is true.’
‘You are holding me too tightly.’
‘It is unforgivable,’ answered Ferdinand.
‘I will show you how I am a soldier now,’ the boy told him.
‘But it is night and you should be asleep.’
‘Not when my father has come.’
‘There is the morning.’
The boy looked shrewd and at that moment was poignantly like Ferdinand. ‘Then he may be gone,’ he said.
Ferdinand’s hand stroked the glossy hair.
‘It is his sorrow that he is not with you often. But tonight I am here and we shall be together.’
The boy’s eyes were round with wonder. ‘All through the night,’ he said.
‘Yes, and tomorrow you will sleep.’
‘Tomorrow I will sleep.’
The boy leaped out of bed. He was pulling open a trunk. He wanted to show his toys to his father. And Ferdinand knelt by the trunk and listened to the boy’s chatter while his mother looked on and ambition gleamed in her eyes.
After a while the boy said: ‘Now tell me a story, Father. Tell me of when you were a soldier. Tell me about battles . . . and fighting and killing.’
Ferdinand laughed. He sat down and nursed the boy in his arms.
And Ferdinand began to tell a story of his adventures, but before he was halfway through his son was asleep.
Ferdinand laid him gently in his bed, then with the boy’s mother he tiptoed out of the room.
She said with a sudden fierceness: ‘You may have legitimate sons, princes born to be kings, but you will never have a child whom you can love as you love that one.’
‘I fear you may be right,’ said Ferdinand.
The door between the two rooms was fast shut, and Ferdinand leaned against it, looking at his mistress in the candlelight; she was no less beautiful when her eyes shone with ambition for her son.
‘You may forget the love you once had for me,’ she went on, ‘but you will never forget me as the mother of your son.’
‘No,’ answered Ferdinand, ‘I shall never forget either of you.’
He drew her to him and kissed her.
She said: ‘In the morning you will have gone. When shall I see you again?’
‘Soon I shall be passing this way.’
‘And you will come,’ she answered, ‘to see the boy?’
‘To see you both.’ He feigned a passion he did not altogether feel, for his thoughts were still with the child. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘there is little time left to us.’
She took his hand and kissed it.’ You will do something for him, Ferdinand. You will look after him. You will give him estates . . . titles.’
‘You may trust me to look after our son.’
He led her to the bed and deliberately turned his thoughts from the child to his passion for the mother.
Later she said: ‘The Queen of Castile might not wish our son to receive the honours which you as his father would be ready to bestow upon him.’
‘Have no fear,’ said Ferdinand a little harshly. ‘I shall bestow them nevertheless.’
‘But the Queen of Castile . . .’
A sudden anger against Isabella came to Ferdinand. Were they already talking in Catalonia about his subservience to his wife? The Queen’s Consort! It was not an easy position for a proud man to find himself in.
‘You do not imagine that I will allow anything or anyone to come between me and my wishes for the boy!’ he exclaimed. ‘I will make a promise now. When the Archbishopric of Saragossa falls vacant it shall be bestowed upon him . . . for a beginning.’
The Viscountess of Eboli lay back, her eyes closed; she was the satisfied mistress, the triumphant mother.
Early next morning, Ferdinand took a hurried leave of the Viscountess of Eboli and kissed their sleeping son; then he sent one of his attendants back to the inn to tell his men who had slept there that he had gone on ahead of them and that they should overtake him before he crossed the Segre and passed into Aragon.
And as he rode on with his few attendants he tried to forget the son from whom he must part, and concentrate on the task ahead of him.
He called one of his men to ride beside him.
‘What have you heard of this Ximenes Gordo who, it seems, rules Saragossa?’
‘That he is a man of great cunning, Highness, and, in spite of his many crimes, has won the support of the people.’
Ferdinand was grave. ‘I am determined,’ he said, ‘to countenance no other rulers but my Father and myself in Saragossa. And if this man thinks to set himself against me, he will discover that he is foolish.’
They rode on in silence and were shortly joined by the rest of the party. Ferdinand believed that none of them was aware of the visit he had paid to the Viscountess of Eboli. Yet, he thought, when it is necessary to bestow honours on the boy there will be speculation.
He felt angry. Why should he have to pay secret calls on a woman? Why should he demean himself by subterfuge? He had never been ashamed of his virility before his marriage. Was he – Ferdinand of Aragon – allowing himself to be overawed by Isabella of Castile?
It was an impossible situation; and Isabella was like no other woman he had ever known. It was strange that when they had first met he had been most struck by her gentleness.
Isabella had two qualities which were strange companions – gendeness and determination.
Ferdinand admonished himself. He was dwelling on domestic matters, on love and jealousy, when he should be giving all his thoughts to the situation in Saragossa, and the all-important task of raising funds for his father.
Ferdinand was welcomed at Saragossa by its most prominent citizen – Ximenes Gordo. It was Gordo who rode through the streets at the side of the heir to the crown. One would imagine, thought Ferdinand, that it was Ximenes Gordo who was their Prince, and Ferdinand his henchman.
Some men, young as Ferdinand was, might have expressed displeasure. Ferdinand did not; he nursed his resentment. He had noticed how the poor, who gathered in the streets to watch the procession, fixed their eyes admiringly on Gordo. The man had a magnetism, a strong personality; he was like a robber baron who held the people’s respect because they both feared and admired him.
‘The citizens know you well,’ said Ferdinand.
‘Highness,’ was the bland answer, ‘they see me often. I am always with them.’
‘And I am often far away, of necessity,’ said Ferdinand.
‘They rarely have the pleasure and honour of seeing their Prince. They must content themselves with his humble servant who does his best to see that justice is administered in the absence of his King and Prince.’
‘It would not appear that the administration is very successful,’ Ferdinand commented dryly.
‘Why, Highness, these are lawless times.’
Ferdinand glanced at the debauched and crafty face of the man who rode beside him; but still he did not betray the anger and disgust he felt.
‘I come on an urgent errand from my father,’ he announced.
Gordo waited for Ferdinand to proceed – in a manner which seemed to the young Prince both royal and condescending. It was as though Gordo were implying: You may be the heir to Aragon, but during your absence I have become the King of Saragossa. Still Ferdinand restrained his anger, and continued: ‘Your King needs men, arms and money – urgently.’
Gordo put his head on one side in an insolent way. ‘The people of Saragossa will not tolerate further taxation, I fear.’
Ferdinand’s voice was silky. ‘Will not the people of Saragossa obey the command of their King?’
‘There was recently a revolt in Catalonia, Highness. There might be a revolt in Saragossa.’
‘Here . . . in the heart of Aragon! The Aragonese are not Catalans. They would be loyal to their King. I know it.’
‘Your Highness has been long absent.’
Ferdinand gazed at the people in the streets. Had they changed? he wondered. What happened when men such as Ximenes Gordo took charge and ruled a city? There had been too many wars, and how could kings govern their kingdoms wisely and well when they must spend so much time away from them in order to be sure of keeping them? Thus it was that scoundrels seized power, setting up their evil control over neglected cities.
‘You must tell me what has been happening during my absence,’ said Ferdinand.
‘It shall be my pleasure, Highness.’
Ferdinand had been several days in the Palace of Saragossa, yet he had made no progress with his task. At every turn, it seemed, there were Ximenes Gordo and his friends to obstruct him.
They ruled the town, for Gordo had placed all his adherents in the important posts. All citizens who were possessed of wealth were being continually robbed by him; his power was immense, because wherever he went he was cheered by the great army of beggars. They had nothing to lose, and it delighted them to see the industrious townsfolk robbed of their possessions.
Ferdinand listened to all that his spies told him. He was astounded at the influence Gordo exercised in the town. He had heard of his growing power, but he had not believed it could be so great.
Gordo was not perturbed by the visit of the heir to the throne, so convinced was he of his own strength, and he believed that, if it came to a battle between them, he would win. His friends, who profited from his unscrupulous ways, would certainly not want a return to strict laws and justice. He had only to call to the rabble and the beggars to come to his aid and he would have a fierce mob to serve him.
Ferdinand said: “There is only one course open to me; I must arrest that man. I must show him and the citizens who is master here. Until he is imprisoned I cannot begin to raise the money my father needs, and there is no time for delay.’
‘Highness,’ he was told by his advisers, ‘if you arrest Gordo, the Palace will be stormed by the mob. Your own life might be in danger. The scum of Saragossa and his rascally friends stand behind him. We are powerless.’
