Текст книги "Spain for the Sovereigns "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 19 страниц)
‘An Archbishop, ten years old?’ said Isabella.
‘Why yes, Highness, the Archbishop of Saragossa. He cannot be much more.’
‘He is very young to have attained such a post. The Archbishop of Saragossa must be a remarkable person indeed.’
Isabella changed the subject, but she kept in mind the young Archbishop of Saragossa.
Isabella was discussing that ever-present problem with Ferdinand – the state of the treasury; and she said: ‘I am determined to divert the wealth of the great Military and Religious Orders to the royal coffers.’
‘What?’ cried Ferdinand. ‘You will never do that.’
‘I think I shall.’
‘But how?’
‘By having you elected Grand Master of each of them when those offices fall vacant.’
Ferdinand’s eyes took on that glazed look which the contemplation of large sums of money always brought to them.
‘Calatrava, Alcantara, Santiago . . .’ he murmured.
‘All shall fall gradually into our hands,’ said Isabella. ‘When I contemplate the wealth in the possession of these Orders – the armies, the fortresses – it is inconceivable that they should exist to threaten the crown. We should be able to rely on the loyalty of these Orders without question, to use their arms and their wealth as we need it. Therefore they should be the property of the crown. And when you are Grand Master that will be achieved.’
‘It is a brilliant idea,’ agreed Ferdinand gleefully, and he gave his wife a glance of admiration. At such times he did not resent her determination to stand supreme as ruler of Castile.
‘You shall see it achieved,’ she told him. ‘But it will be when the time is ripe.’
‘I believe,’ said Ferdinand, ‘that our struggles are behind us. A glorious future will be ours, Isabella, if we stand together.’
‘And so we shall stand. It was what I always intended.’
He embraced her, and she drew back from his arms to smile at him.
‘Castile and Aragon are ours! We have three healthy children,’ she said.
Ferdinand caught her hands and laughed.’ We are young yet,’ he reminded her.
‘Our little Isabella will be Queen of Portugal. We must arrange grand marriages for the others.’
‘Never fear. There will be many who will wish to marry with the children of Ferdinand and Isabella.’
‘Ferdinand, I am glad they are young yet. I shall suffer when they are forced to go from us.’
‘But they are still children as yet. Why, our little Isabella is but eleven years old.’
‘Eleven years old,’ mused Isabella. ‘But perhaps that is not so young. I hear you have an Archbishop in Saragossa of that age.’
Ferdinand’s face grew a little pale and then flushed. His eyes had become alert and suspicious.
‘An Archbishop . . .’ he murmured.
‘You must have had your reasons for sanctioning the appointment,’ she said with a smile. ‘I wondered what great qualifications one so young could have.’
She was unprepared for Ferdinand’s reaction. He said: ‘You have made the affairs of Castile yours. I pray you leave to me those of Aragon.’
It was Isabella’s turn to grow pale. ‘Why, Ferdinand . . .’ she began.
But Ferdinand had bowed and left her.
Why, she asked herself, should he have been so angry? What had she done but ask a simple question?
She stared after him and then sat down heavily. Understanding had come to her.
To have made a boy of that age an Archbishop, Ferdinand must have a very special reason for favouring him. What reason could Ferdinand have?
She refused to accept the explanation which was inevitably forcing itself into her mind.
He would have been born about the same time as their . . . first-born, little Isabella.
‘No!’ cried Isabella.
She, who had been so faithful to him in every way, could not tolerate this suspicion. But it was fast becoming no longer a suspicion. She now knew that Ferdinand was the lover of other women, that they had given him children – children whom he must love dearly to have risked exposure by making one of them Archbishop of Saragossa.
There was nothing that could have hurt her more. And this discovery had come to her at a time when all that she had hoped for seemed to be coming her way.
Her marriage was to have been perfect. She had known that he was jealous of her authority, but that she had understood. This was different.
She felt numb with the pain of this discovery. She felt a longing to give way to some weakness, to find Ferdinand, to rail against him, to throw herself onto her bed and give way to tears – to rage, to storm, to ease in some way the bitterness of this knowledge which wounded her more deeply than anything had ever done before.
Her women were coming to her.
She set her face in a quiet smile. None would have guessed that the smiling face masked such turbulent emotions and jealous humiliation.
TOMÁS DE TORQUEMADA
In a cell in the Monastery of Santa Cruz in the town of Segovia, a gaunt man, dressed in the rough garb of the Dominican Order, was on his knees.
He had remained thus for several hours, and this was not unusual for it was his custom to meditate and pray alternately for hours at a time.
He prayed now that he might be purged of all evil and given the power to bring others to the same state of exaltation which he felt that he himself – with minor lapses – enjoyed.
‘Holy Mother,’ he murmured, ‘listen to this humble supplicant . . .’
He believed fervently in his humility and, if it had been pointed out to him that this great quality had its roots in a fierce pride, he would have been astonished. Tomás de Torquemada saw himself as the elect of Heaven.
Beneath the drab robe of rough serge he wore the hair shirt which was a continual torment to his delicate skin. He revelled in the discomfort it caused; yet after years of confinement in this hideous garment he had grown a little accustomed to it and he fancied that it was less of a burden than it had once been. The thought disturbed him, for he wanted to suffer the utmost discomfort. He slept on a plank of wood without a pillow. Soft beds were not for him. In the early days of his austerity he had scarcely slept at all; now he found that he needed very little sleep and, when he lay on his plank, he fell almost immediately into unconsciousness. Thus another avenue of self-torture was closed to him.
He ate only enough to keep him alive; he travelled barefoot wherever he went and took care to choose the stony paths. The sight of his cracked and bleeding feet gave him a similar pleasure to that which fine garments gave to other men and women.
He gloried in austerity with a fierce and fanatical pride – as other men delighted in worldly glitter.
It was almost sixty years ago that he had been born in the little town of Torquemada (which took its name from the Latin turre cremata – burnt tower) not far from Valla-dolid in North Castile.
From Tomás’s early days he had shown great piety. His uncle, Juan de Torquemada, had been the Cardinal of San Sisto, a very distinguished theologian and writer on religious subjects.
Tomás had known that his father, Pero Fernandez de Torquemada, hoped that he would make the care of the family estates his life work, as he was an only son, and Pero was eager for Tomás to marry early and beget sons that this branch of the family might not become extinct.
Tomás had inherited a certain pride in his family, and this may have been one of the reasons why he decided so firmly that the life he had been called upon to lead, by a higher authority than that of Pero, should be one which demanded absolute celibacy.
At a very early age Tomás became a Dominican. With what joy he cast aside the fine raiment of a prosperous nobleman! With what pleasure he donned the rough serge habit, even at that age refusing to wear linen so that the coarse stuff could irritate his skin! It was very soon afterwards that he took to wearing the hair shirt, until he discovered that he must not wear it continually for fear that he should grow accustomed to it and the torment of it grow less.
He had become Prior of Santa Cruz of Segovia, but the news of his austere habits had reached the Court, and King Henry IV had chosen him as confessor to his sister Isabella.
He had refused at first; he wanted no soft life at Court. But then he had realised that there might be devils to tempt him at Court who could never penetrate the sanctity of Santa Cruz; and there would be more spiritual joy in resisting temptation than never encountering it.
The young Isabella had been a willing pupil. There could rarely have been a young princess so eager to share her confessor’s spirituality, so earnestly desirous of leading a rigidly religious life.
She had been pleased with her confessor, and he with her.
He had told her of his great desire to see an all-Christian Spain and, in an access of fervour, had asked that she kneel with him and swear that, if ever it were in her power to convert to Christianity the realm over which she might one day rule, she would seize the opportunity to do so.
The young girl, her eyes glowing with a fervour to match that of her confessor, had accordingly sworn.
It often occurred to Tomás de Torquemada that the opportunity must soon arise.
Torquemada had kept the esteem of the Queen. She admired his piety; she respected his motives; in a Court where she was surrounded by men who sought temporal power, this ascetic monk stood out as a man of deep sincerity.
As Torquemada prayed there was a thought at the back of his mind: now that Castile had ceased to be tormented by civil war, the time had come when the religious life of the country should be examined, and to him it seemed that the best way of doing this was to reintroduce the Inquisition into Castile, a new form of the Inquisition which he himself would be prepared to organise, an Inquisition which should be supervised by men like himself – monks of great piety, of the Dominican and Franciscan orders.
But another little matter had intruded into Torquemada’s schemes, and he had been diverted. It was because of this that he now prayed so earnestly. He had allowed himself to indulge in pleasure rather than duty.
A certain Hernan Nuñez Arnalt had recently died, and his will had disclosed that he had named Tomás de Torquemada as its executor. Arnalt had been a very rich man, and had left a considerable sum for the purpose of building a monastery at Avila which should be called the Monastery of Saint Thomas.
To Tomás de Torquemada had fallen the task of carrying out his wishes and he found great joy in this duty. He spent much time with architects and discovered a great love of building; but so great was this pleasure that he began to be doubtful about it. Anything that made a man as happy as the studying of plans for this great work made him, must surely have an element of sin in it. He was suspicious of happiness; and as he looked back to that day when he had first heard of the proposed endowment, and that he had been entrusted to see the work carried out, he was alarmed.
He had neglected his duties at Santa Cruz; he had thought only occasionally of the need to force Christianity on every inhabitant of Castile; he had ceased to consider the numbers who, while calling themselves Christians, were reverting to the Jewish religion in secret. These sinners called for the greatest punishment that could be devised by the human mind; and he, the chosen servant of God and all his saints, had been occupying himself by supervising the piling of stone on stone, by deciding on the exquisite line of the cloisters, by taking sensuous enjoyment in planning with sculptors the designs for the chapel.
Torquemada beat his hands on his breast and cried: ‘Holy Mother of God, intercede for this miserable sinner.’
He must devise some penance. But long austerity had made him careless of what his body suffered. ‘Yet,’ he said, ‘the Monastery will be dedicated to the glory of God. Is it such a sin to erect a building where men will live as recluses, a spiritual life, in great simplicity and austerity, and so come close to the Divine presence? Is that sin?’
The answer came from within. ‘It is sin to indulge in any earthly desire. It is sin to take pleasure. And you, Tomás de Torquemada, have exulted over these plans; you have made images of stone, works of exquisite sculpture; and you have lusted for these earthly baubles as some men lust for women.’
‘Holy Mother, scourge me,’ he prayed. ‘Guide me. Show me how I can expiate my sin. Shall I cut myself off from the work on the monastery? But it is for the glory of God that the monastery will be built. Is it such a sin to find joy in building a house of God?’
He would not visit the site of Avila for three weeks; he would look at no more plans. He would say: ‘My work at Santa Cruz demands all my energy. Castile is an unholy land, and I must do all in my power to bring sinners back to the Church.’
He rose from his knees. He had decided on the penance. He would shut his beautiful monastery from his mind for three weeks. He would live on nothing but dry bread and water; and he would increase his hours of prayer.
As he left his cell a monk came to him to tell him that two Dominicans from Seville had arrived at Santa Cruz, and they had come to speak with the Sacred Prior, Tomás de Torquemada.
Torquemada received the visitors in a cell which was bare of all furniture except a wooden table and three stools. On a wall hung a crucifix.
‘My brothers,’ said Torquemada in greeting, ‘welcome to Santa Cruz.’
‘Most holy Prior,’ said the first of the monks, ‘you know that I am Alonso de Ojeda, Prior of the monastery of Saint Paul. I would present our fellow Dominican, Diego de Merlo.’
‘Welcome, welcome,’ said Torquemada.
‘We are disturbed by events in Seville and, knowing of your great piety and influence with the Queen, we have come to ask your advice and help.’
‘I shall be glad to give it, if it should be in my power,’ was the answer.
‘Evil is practised in Seville,’ said Ojeda.
‘What evil is this, brother?’
‘The evil of those who work against the Holy Catholic Church. I speak of the Marrams.’
Torquemada’s face lost its deathlike pallor for an instant, and his blood showed pale pink beneath his skin; his eyes flashed momentarily with rage and hatred.
‘These Marrams,’ cried Diego de Merlo, ‘they abound in Seville . . . in Cordova . . . in every fair city of Castile. They are the rich men of Castile. Jews! Jews who feign to be Christians. They are Conversos. They are of the true faith; so they would imply. And in secret they practise their foul rites.’
Torquemada clenched his fists tightly and, although his face was bloodless once more, his eyes continued to gleam with fanatical hatred.
Ojeda began to speak rapidly. ‘Alonso de Spina warned us some years ago. They are here among us. They jeer at all that is sacred . . . in secret, of course. Jeer! If that were all! They are the enemies of Christians. In secret they practise their hideous rites. They spit upon holy images. You remember what Spina wrote of them?’
‘I remember,’ said Torquemada quietly.
But Ojeda went on as though Torquemada had not spoken: ‘They cook their food in oils, and they stink of rancid food. They eat kosher food. You can tell a Jew by his stink. Should we have these people among us? Only if they renounce their beliefs. Only if they are purified by their genuine acceptance of the Christian faith. But they cheat, I tell you.’
‘They are cheats and liars,’ echoed Diego de Merlo.
‘They are murderers,’ went on Ojeda. ‘They poison our wells; and worst of all they show their secret scorn of the Christian faith by committing hideous crimes. Only recently a little boy was missing from his home . . . a beautiful little boy. His body was discovered in a cave. He had been crucified, and his heart cut out.’
‘So these outrages continue,’ said Torquemada.
‘They continue, brother; and nothing is done to put an end to them.’
‘Something must be done,’ said de Merlo.
‘Something shall be done,’ replied Torquemada.
‘There should be a tribunal set up to deal with heretics,’ cried Ojeda.
‘The Inquisition is the answer,’ replied Torquemada; ‘but a new Inquisition . . . an efficient organization which would in time rid the country of heresy.’
‘There is no Inquisition in Castile at this time,’ went on Ojeda. ‘And why? Because, brother, it is considered that there are not enough cases of heresy existing in Castile to warrant the setting up of such an institution.’
Torquemada said: ‘There are Inquisitors in Aragon, in Catalonia and in Valencia. It is high time there were Inquisitors in Castile.’
‘And because of this negligence,’ said Ojeda, ‘in the town of Seville these knaves flourish. I would ask for particular attention to the men of Seville. Brother, we have come to ask your help.’
‘Readily would I give it in order to drive heresy from Spain,’ Torquemada told them.
‘We propose to ask an audience of the Queen to lay these facts before her. Holy Prior, can we count on your support with Her Highness?’
‘You may count on me,’ said Torquemada. His thin lips tightened, his eyes glistened. ‘I would arrest those who are suspect. I would wring confessions from them that they might implicate all who are concerned with them in their malpractices; and when they are exposed I would offer them a chance to save their souls before the fire consumed them.
Death by the fire! It is the only way to cleanse those who have been sullied by partaking in these evil rites.’ He turned to his guests. ‘When do you propose to visit the Queen?’
‘We are on our way to her now, brother, but we came first to you, for we wished to assure ourselves of your support.’
‘It is yours,’ said Torquemada. His eyes were shining. ‘The hour has come. It has been long delayed. This country has suffered much from civil war, but now we are at peace and the time has come to turn all men and women in Castile into good Christians. Oh, it will be a mighty task. And we shall need to bring them to their salvation through the rack, hoist and faggot. But the hour of glory is about to strike. Yes, yes, my friends, I am with you. Every accursed Jew in this kingdom, who has returned to the evil creed of his forefathers, shall be taken up, shall be put to the test, shall feel the healing fire. Go. Go to the Queen with my blessing. Call on me when you wish. I am with you.’
When his visitors had gone, Torquemada went to his cell and paced up and down.
‘Holy Mother,’ he cried, ‘curse all Jews. Curse those who deny the Christ. Give us power to uncover their wickedness and, when they are exposed in all their horror, we shall know how to deal with them in your holy name and that of Christ your son. We will take them. We will set them on the rack. We will tear their flesh with red-hot pincers. We will dislocate their limbs on the hoist. We will torture their bodies that we may save their souls.
‘A curse on the Marranos. A curse on the Conversos. I hate all practising Jews. I suspect all those who call themselves New Christians. Only when we have purged this land of their loathsome presence shall we have a pure Christian country.’
He fell to his knees and one phrase kept hammering in his brain: I hate all Jews.
He shut his mind to thoughts which kept intruding. It was not true. He would not accept it. His grandmother had not been a Jewess. His family possessed the pure Castilian blood. They were proud of their limpieza.
Never, never would Alvar Fernandez de Torquemada have introduced Jewish blood into the family. It was an evil thought; it was like a maggot working in his brain, tormenting him.
It was impossible, he told himself.
Yet, during the period in which his grandfather had been married, persecution of the Jews was rare. Many of them occupied high posts at Court and no one cared very much what blood they had in their veins. Grandfather Alvar Fernandez had carelessly married, perhaps not thinking of the future trouble he might be causing his family.
Tomás de Torquemada refused to believe it. But the thought persisted.
He remembered early days. The sly knowledge and sidelong looks of other boys, the whispers: ‘Tomás de Torquemada – he boasts of his Castilian blood. Oh, he is so proud of his limpieza – but what of his old grandmother? They say she is a Jewess.’
What antidote was there against this fear? What but hatred?
‘I hate the Jews!’ he had said continually. He forced himself to show great anger against them. Thus, he reasoned, none would believe that he was in the slightest way connected with them. Thus he could perhaps convince himself.
Alonso de Spina, who, almost twenty years before, had tried to arouse the people’s anger against the Jews, was himself a Converso. Did he, Tomas de Torquemada, whip himself to anger against them for the same reason?
Torquemada threw himself onto his knees. ‘Give me strength,’ he cried, ‘strength to drive all infidels and unbelievers to their death. Give me strength to bring the whole of Castile together as one Christian state. One God. One religion. And to the fire with all those who believe otherwise.’
Torquemada – who feared there might be a trace of Jewish blood in his veins – would emerge as the greatest Catholic of Castile, the punisher of heretics, the scourge of the Jews, the man who worked indefatigably to make an all-Christian Castile.
Ferdinand was with Isabella when she received Alonso de Ojeda and Diego de Merlo.
Isabella welcomed the monks cordially and begged them to state their business.
Ojeda broke into an impassioned speech in which he called her attention to the number of Converses living in Seville.
‘There are many Conversos throughout Castile,’ said Isabella quietly. ‘I employ some of them in my own service. I rejoice that they have become Christians. It is what I would wish all my subjects to be.’
‘Highness, my complaint is that while many of these Conversos in Seville profess Christianity they practise the Jewish religion.’
‘That,’ said Isabella, ‘is a very evil state of affairs.’
‘And one which,’ put in Diego de Merlo, ‘Your Highness would doubtless wish to end at the earliest possible moment.’
Isabella nodded slowly. ‘You had some project in mind, my friends?’ she said.
‘Highness, the Holy Office does not exist in Castile. We ask that you consider installing it here.’
Isabella glanced at Ferdinand. She saw that the pulse in his temple had begun to hammer. She felt sad momentarily, and almost wished that she did not understand Ferdinand so well. He was possessed by much human frailty, she feared. It had been a great shock to discover that not only had he an illegitimate son but that he had appointed him, at the age of six, Archbishop of Saragossa. That boy was not the only child Ferdinand had had by other women. She had discovered that a noble Portuguese lady had borne him a daughter. There might be others. How should she hear of them?
Now his eyes glistened, and she understood why. The Inquisition had been set up in Aragon and because of it the riches of certain condemned men had found their way into the royal coffers. Money could make Ferdinand’s eyes glisten like that.
‘Such procedure would need a great deal of consideration,’ said Isabella.
‘I am inclined to believe,’ said Ferdinand, his eyes still shining and with the flush in his cheeks, ‘that the installation of the Holy Office in Castile is greatly to be desired.’
The monks had now turned their attention to Ferdinand, and Ojeda poured out a storm of abuse against the Jews. He spoke of ritual murders, of Christian boys, three or four years old, who had been kidnapped to take part in some loathsome rites which involved the crucifixion of the innocent child and the cutting out of his heart.
Ferdinand cried: ‘This is monstrous. You are right. We must have an inquiry immediately.’
‘Have the bodies of these children been discovered?’ asked Isabella calmly.
‘Highness, these people are crafty. They bury the bodies in secret places. It is a part of their ritual.’
‘I think it would be considered necessary to have proof of these happenings before we could believe them,’ said Isabella.
Ferdinand had turned to her. She saw the angry retort trembling on his lips. She smiled at him gently. ‘I am sure,’ she said quietly, ‘that the King agrees with me.’
‘An inquiry might be made,’ said Ferdinand. His voice sounded aloof, as it did when he was angry.
‘An inquiry, yes,’ said Isabella. She turned to the monks. ‘This matter shall have my serious consideration. I am indebted to you for bringing it to my notice.’
She laid her hand on Ferdinand’s arm. It was a command to escort her from the chamber.
When they were alone, Ferdinand said: ‘My opinion would appear to count for little.’
‘It counts for a great deal,’ she told him.
‘But the Queen is averse to setting up the Inquisition in Castile?’
‘I have not yet given the matter sufficient consideration.’
‘I had always believed that it was one of your dearest wishes to see an all-Christian Castile.’
‘That is one of my dearest wishes.’
‘Why, then, should you be against the extirpation of heretics?’
‘Indeed I am not against it. You know it is part of our plans for Castile.’
‘Then who is best fitted to track them down? Surely the Inquisitors are the men for that task?’
‘I am not sure, Ferdinand, that I wish to see the Inquisition in Castile. I would wish first to assure myself that, by installing the Inquisition here, I should not give greater power to the Pope than he already has. We are the sovereigns of Castile, Ferdinand. We should share our power with no one else.’
Ferdinand hesitated. Then he said: ‘I am sure we could set up our Inquisition – our own Inquisition which should be apart from Papal influence. I may tell you, Isabella, that the Inquisition can bring profit to the crown. Many of the Conversos are rich men, and it is one of the rules of the Inquisition that those who are found guilty of heresy forfeit land . . . wealth . . . all possessions.’
‘The treasury is depleted,’ said Isabella. ‘We need money. But I would prefer to replenish it through other means.’
‘Are the means so important?’
She looked at him almost coldly. ‘They are of the utmost importance.’
Ferdinand corrected himself quickly. ‘Providing the motive is a good one . . .’ he began. ‘And what better motive than to bring salvation to poor misguided fools? What nobler purpose than to lead them into the Catholic Church?’
‘It is what I would wish to see, but as yet I am inclined to give this matter further consideration.’
‘You will come to understand that the Inquisition is a necessity if you are to make an all-Catholic Castile.’
‘You may be right, Ferdinand. You often are.’ She smiled affectionately. Come, she seemed to be saying, let us be friends.
This marriage of ours has brought disappointments to us both. I am a woman who knows she must rule in her own way; you hoped I would be different. You are a man who cannot be faithful to his wife; I hoped you would be different. But here we are – two people of strong personalities which we cannot change, even for the sake of the other. Let us be content with what we have been given. Do not let us sigh for the impossible. For our marriage is more than the union of two people. What matters it if in our hearts we suffer these little disappointments? What are they, compared with the task which lies before us?
She went on: ‘I wish to show you our new device. I trust it will please you, for it gives me so much pleasure. I am having it embroidered on a banner, and I did not mean to show you until it was finished; but soon it will be seen all over Castile, and when the people see it they will know that you and I stand together in all things.’
He allowed himself to be placated; and she called to one of her pages to bring the piece of embroidery to her.
When it was brought she showed him the partly finished pattern.
She read in her quiet voice, which held a ring of triumph: ‘Tanto monta, monta tanto – Isabel como Fernando.’
She saw a slow smile break out on Ferdinand’s face. As much as the one is worth, so much is the other – Isabella as Ferdinand.
She could not say more clearly than that how she valued him, how she looked upon him as her co-ruler in Castile.
Still he knew that in all important matters she considered herself the sole adjudicator. Whatever their device, whatever her gentleness, she still remained Queen in her own right. She held supreme authority in Castile.
As for the installation of the Inquisition, thought Ferdinand, in time she would agree to it. He would arrange for Torquemada to persuade her.
With Ferdinand on one side to show what material good the Inquisitors could bring them, with Torquemada on the other to speak of the spiritual needs of Castile – they would win. But it would not be until they had convinced Isabella that the Inquisition was necessary to Castile.
Isabella sent for Cardinal Mendoza and commanded that it should be a completely private audience.
‘I pray you sit down, Cardinal,’ she said. ‘I am deeply disturbed, and I wish you to give me your considered opinion on the matter I shall put before you.’
The Cardinal waited respectfully; he guessed the matter was connected with the visit of the two Dominicans.
‘Alonso de Ojeda and Diego de Merlo,’ began Isabella, ‘are deeply concerned regarding the behaviour of Marrams in Seville. They declare that there are many men and women who, proclaiming themselves to be Christians, cynically practise Jewish rites in secret. They even accuse them of kidnapping and crucifying small boys. They wish to set up the Inquisition in Castile. What is your opinion of this, Cardinal?’
The Cardinal was thoughtful for a few seconds. Then he said: ‘We have fanatics in our midst, Highness. I am deeply opposed to fanaticism. It warps the judgement and destroys the peace of the community. Through the centuries the Jewish communities have been persecuted, but there is no evidence that such persecution has brought much good to the countries in which it was carried out. Your Highness will remember that in the fourteenth century Fernando Martinez preached against the Jews and declared that they were responsible for the Black Death. The result – pogroms all over Spain. Many suffered, but there is no evidence of any good that this brought. From time to time rumours spring up of the kidnapping and crucifixion of small boys, but we should ask ourselves what truth there is in these rumours. It was not very long ago that Alonso de Spina published his account of the evil doings of Conversos. Strange, when he himself was a Converse. One feels that he wished it to be widely known that he was a good Catholic . . . so good, so earnest that he was determined to expose his fellows. Very soon afterwards rumours of kidnappings and crucifixions occurred again. I think, Highness, knowing your desire for justice, that you would wish to examine these rumours with the utmost care before accepting them as truth.’
