Текст книги "Spain for the Sovereigns "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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‘You are right. But should they not be examined? And in that case, who should be the examiners? Should this task not be the duty of Inquisitors?’
‘Can we be sure, Highness, that this desire to set up the Inquisition in Castile does not come from Rome?’
Isabella smiled faintly. ‘It is as though you speak my thoughts aloud.’
‘May I remind you of the little controversy which recently occurred?’
‘There is no need to remind me,’ answered Isabella. ‘I remember full well.’
Her thoughts went to that recent incident, when she had asked for the appointment of one of her chaplains, Alonso de Burgos, to the bishopric of Cuenca; but because the nephew of Pope Sixtus, Raffaele Riario, had desired the post it had gone to him. As Isabella had on two previous occasions asked for appointments for two of her proteges – which had gone to the Pope’s candidates – she was angry and had recalled her ambassador from the Vatican. With Ferdinand’s help she had proposed to get together a council, that the conduct of the Pope might be examined. Sixtus, alarmed that his nepotism would be exposed in all its blatancy, gave way to Isabella and Ferdinand, and bestowed the posts they had demanded on their candidates.
It was quite reasonable to suppose therefore that Sixtus would have his alert eyes on Isabella and Ferdinand and would seek some means of curbing their power. How could this be done with greater effect than by installing the Inquisition – an institution which was apart from the state and had its roots in Rome? The Inquisition could grow up side by side with the state, gradually usurping more and more of its power. It could be equivalent to a measure of Roman rule in Spain.
Isabella looked with grateful affection at the Cardinal, who had been thinking on the same lines and who saw the issues at stake as clearly as she did herself.
‘I know Your Highness will agree with me that we must be continually watchful of the power of Rome. Here in Castile Your Highness is supreme. It is my urgent desire that you should remain so.’
‘You are right as usual,’ answered Isabella. ‘But I am disturbed that some of my subjects should revile the Christian faith.’
The Cardinal was thoughtful. In his heart – although this was something he could never explain to Isabella, for he knew she would never understand him – he believed in taking his religion lightly. He was aware that belief – to be real belief – must be free. It was something which could not be forced. This was contrary to the accepted notion, he was fully aware, and for this reason he must keep his thoughts to himself. He wished life to be comfortably pleasant and, above all, dignified. The Inquisition in Aragon, Valencia and Catalonia was, he realised, at this stage a lethargic institution. Its officers lived easily and did not much concern themselves with the finding of heretics. If such were discovered they could, no doubt, by the means of a little bribery and diplomacy, escape disaster.
But when he thought of this earnest young Queen who, by her single-minded purpose and strict punishment of all offenders, had changed a state of anarchy into one of ever-growing law and order, he could imagine what such a new and terrifying institution as the Inquisition could become under the sway of Isabella and such men as Tomás de Torquemada, whom it was almost certain, Isabella would nominate – perhaps with himself – as her chief adviser if she should establish the Inquisition in Castile.
Isabella and Torquemada were stern with themselves; they would be more dreadfully so with others.
To a man who loved luxury, who cared for good living, who was devoted to the study of literature and enjoyed translating Ovid, Sallust and Virgil into verse, the thought of forcing opinions on men who were reluctant to receive them, and would only do so under threat of torture and death, was abhorrent.
Cardinal Mendoza would have enjoyed calling to his presence those men of different opinion, discussing their views, conceding a point, setting forth his own views. To force his opinions on others was nauseating to a man of his culture and tolerance. As for the thought of torture, it disgusted him.
This he could not explain to Isabella. He admired Isabella. She was shrewd; she was earnest; she was determined to do what was right. But, in the Cardinal’s opinion, she was uneducated; and he deplored her lack of education, which had resulted in a narrow mind and a bigotry which prevented her from meeting the Cardinal on his own intellectual level.
The Cardinal was going to fight against the installation of the Inquisition with certain enthusiasm. He could not, however, bring to bear the fervour of a Torquemada, for he was not of the same fervent nature. But he would certainly attempt to lead Isabella away from that line of action.
He said: ‘Highness, let us give a great deal of thought to this matter. Before we decide to bring in the Inquisitors, let us warn the people of Seville that they place themselves in danger by denying the faith.’
Isabella nodded. ‘We will prepare a manifesto . . . a special catechism in which we will explain the duties of a true Christian. This could be set up in all churches in Seville and preached from all pulpits.’
‘Those who do not conform,’ said the Cardinal, ‘will be threatened with the fires of hell.’
‘It may well be,’ said Isabella, ‘that this will be enough to turn these men and women of Seville from their evil ways.’
‘Let us pray that it will serve,’ said the Cardinal. ‘Is it Your Highness’s wish that I should prepare this catechism?’
‘None could do it so well, I am sure,’ said Isabella.
The Cardinal withdrew, well pleased. He had – for the time at least – foiled the attempt of the Dominicans to install the Inquisition in Castile. Now he would produce his catechism, and he hoped that it would bring about the required effect.
Shortly afterwards Mendoza’s Catecismo de la Doctrina Cristiana was being widely circulated throughout the erring town of Seville.
When Torquemada heard that Mendoza’s Catecismo was being circulated in Seville he laughed aloud, and laughter was something he rarely indulged in. But this laughter was scornful and ironical.
‘There is a great deal you have to learn about the wickedness of human nature, Cardinal Mendozal!’ he murmured to himself.
Torquemada was sure that the heretics of Seville would pretend to study the catechism; they would feign belief in the Christian faith; then they would creep away and jeer at Mendoza, at Isabella, at all good Christians while they practised their Jewish rites in secret.
‘This is not the way to cleanse Seville!’ cried Torquemada; and he was on his knees asking for Divine help, imploring the Virgin to intercede for him, that he might be given the power to cleanse not only Seville but the whole of Castile of the taint of heresy.
In time, he told himself, understanding will dawn on the Queen – even on the Cardinal who, though a good Catholic himself, leads a far from virtuous life. Scented linen, frequent baths, amours . . . indulgence in the sensuous enjoyment of music and literature! The Cardinal would on his deathbed have to ask remission of many sins.
Torquemada embraced himself, pressing his arms round his torso so that the hair shirt came into even more painful contact with his long-suffering body. Secretly he thanked God and the saints that he was not as other men.
It seemed to him then that he had a glimmer of the Divine will. His time would come. The Cardinal would fail, and into the hands of Torquemada would be placed the task of bringing Castile to repentance.
Until then he might concern himself with the building of the monastery of St Thomas. So to Avila he travelled with a good conscience. He was sure that soon he would receive the call to desert pleasure for duty.
Isabella had journeyed to Seville.
It had been the custom of the Kings of Castile to sit in the great hall of the Alcazar and pronounce judgement on offenders who were brought before them.
Each day Isabella attended in the great hall. Occasionally Ferdinand accompanied her and they sat side by side administering justice.
These sessions were conducted in a ceremonial manner, and Isabella was sumptuously dressed for the purpose. She took little delight in fine clothes, but was always ready to see the need for splendour. It was imperative that she be recognised in this turbulent city as the great Queen of Castile; and in this place, where the inhabitants had lived among the remains of Moorish splendours, it was necessary to impress them with her own grandeur.
Isabella proved herself to be a stern judge.
Determined as she was to eradicate crime in her kingdom, she showed little mercy to those who were found guilty. She believed that the slightest leniency on her part might send certain of her subjects back to a life of crime, and that, she was determined, should not happen. If she could not make them reform for the love of virtue she would make them do so from the fear of dire punishment.
Executions were numerous, and a daily ceremony.
The people were beginning to understand that this woman, who was their Queen, was far stronger than the male rulers of the past years. Four thousand robbers escaped across the frontiers, while Isabella dealt with those who had been caught and found guilty. They would suffer as they had made others suffer, and they should be an example to all.
It was in the great hall of the Seville Alcazar that a party of weeping women, led by the Church dignitaries of Andalucia, came to her and implored her for mercy.
Isabella received them gravely. She sat in regal state, her face quite impassive, while she watched those women in their anguish.
They were the mothers and daughters of men who had offended against the laws of the land.
‘Highness,’ cried their spokesman, ‘these people admit that their loved ones have sinned and that the Queen’s rule is just, but they implore your mercy. Grant them the lives of their husbands and fathers on condition that they swear never to sin again.’
Isabella considered the assembly.
To her there was only wrong and right – completely clear cut. She could condemn malefactors to great suffering and be quite unmoved; Isabella had not much imagination, and it would never occur to her to see herself in another’s place. Therefore she could contemplate the utmost suffering unperturbed.
But her aim was not punishment in itself, but only as a means to law and order; and, as she studied these weeping women, it occurred to her that if they would be responsible for the good conduct of their men she had no wish to punish them.
‘My good people,’ she said, ‘you may go your way in peace. My great desire is not to inflict harsh punishment on you and your folk, but to ensure for you all a peaceful land. I therefore grant an amnesty for all sinners – except those who have committed serious crimes. There is a condition. Those who are freed must give an undertaking to live in future as peaceful citizens. If they do not, and are again brought before myself or any of the judges, their punishment will be doubly severe.’
A great cry went up in the hall. ‘Long live Isabella!’ In the streets, the cry was taken up; and as a tribute to her strength they added: ‘Long live King Isabella!’
From Andalucia to Galicia went Ferdinand and Isabella. Galicia was a turbulent province, ready to give trouble to Isabella as Catalonia had given trouble to Aragon.
But how different was the state of the country! Already there were signs of prosperity where there had been desolation. Travellers no longer had their fear of robbers which had once made travelling a nightmare. The inns were looking prosperous and almost gay.
Isabella felt a wave of exultation as she rode through the countryside and received the heartfelt gratitude of her subjects.
Ferdinand, riding beside her, said: ‘We see a prosperous country emerging from the chaos. Let us hope that soon it will be not only a prosperous but an all-Christian country.’
Isabella knew that this was a reference to her refusal to establish the Inquisition in Castile, but she feigned ignorance of the meaning behind his words. ‘I share that hope,’ she said gently.
‘It will not be until we have defeated Muley Abul Hassan and have set the holy banner flying over Granada.’
‘I fear not, Ferdinand.’
‘He showed his defiance of us when he asked for a peace treaty and refused to pay the tribute I demanded on your behalf. Because he had paid none to your brother, that did not mean that we should allow him to pay none to you. You remember his insolent answer.’
‘I remember it very well,’ answered Isabella. ‘“Tell the Queen and King of Castile that we do not coin gold but steel in Granada.”’
‘An insolent threat,’ cried Ferdinand, ‘made by Muley Abul Hassan because he knew that we were not in a position to chastise him for it. But the position is changing, eh, Isabella.’
She smiled at him. He was restive, always eager for action. It was as though he said: Since we cannot have the Inquisition installed in Castile let us make immediate war on Granada.
She said, continuing her thoughts aloud: ‘We have recently emerged from one war. There is nothing that saps a country’s resources so surely as war, there is nothing so fraught with danger.’
‘This would be a holy war,’ said Ferdinand piously. ‘We should have Heaven on our side.’
‘A holy war,’ mused Isabella.
She was thinking of herself as a young Princess, kneeling with Tomás de Torquemada, who had said: ‘You must swear that if ever you have the power you will work with all your might to make an all-Christian Spain.’ And she had replied: ‘I swear.’
‘I swear,’ now said Isabella the Queen.
In Galicia Isabella dispensed justice with the same severity as she did in Castile. For those who had robbed and murdered she showed little mercy; and she dealt justice alike to rich and poor.
Often Ferdinand would be on the point of making suggestions to her. She did her utmost to avoid this; one of the things she hated most was to have to deny Ferdinand what he asked; yet she never hesitated to do so if she felt that justice demanded it.
It was thus in the case of Alvaro Yañez de Lugo. De Lugo was a very wealthy knight of Galicia who had been found guilty of turning his castle into a robber’s den; travellers had been lured there to be robbed and murdered; and Isabella had judged that his punishment should be death.
She had left the judgement hall for her apartments when she heard that a man was imploring an audience with her on a matter of extreme importance.
Ferdinand was with her, and she asked that the man be brought to her presence immediately.
When he came, he looked furtively about him, and Isabella gave the order for all except Ferdinand to retire.
The man still looked apprehensive, and Isabella said: ‘I pray you tell me your mission. Have no fear, none but the King and myself will hear what you have to say.’
‘Highnesses,’ said the man falling on his knees, ‘I come from Don Alvaro Yañez de Lugo.’
Isabella frowned. ‘The robber,’ she said coldly, ‘who is under sentence of death?’
‘Yes, Highness. He has rich and powerful friends. They offer you a large sum of money if you will spare his life.’
Isabella indignantly replied: ‘How could his life be spared when he has been justly sentenced to death?’
‘How much money?’ Ferdinand had found it impossible to prevent himself asking that question.
The answer came promptly. ‘Forty thousand doblas of gold.’
‘Forty thousand doblas!’ Ferdinand echoed the words almost unbelievingly. ‘Have his friends so large a sum?’
‘Indeed yes, Highness. And it is at your disposal. All that is asked in return is the life of Alvaro Yanez de Lugo.’
‘His is a very valuable life,’ said Ferdinand with a smile, and to her horror Isabella saw the acquisitive light in his eyes.
‘In gold, Highness,’ whispered the man. ‘Half to be delivered on your Highnesses’ promise, the other half when Don Alvaro is free.’
Isabella spoke then. She said: ‘It seems to have been forgotten that this man is guilty of crimes so great that the death penalty has been imposed on him.’
‘That is why,’ explained Ferdinand, not without some impatience, ‘a great sum is offered for his release.’
‘It would seem to me,’ said Isabella quietly, ‘that this money, which is doubtless stolen property, would be highly tainted.’
‘We would wash it free of all taint,’ said Ferdinand, ‘if . . .’
‘We shall not put ourselves to such pains,’ answered Isabella decisively. ‘You may return to your friends,’ she went on, addressing the man, ‘and tell them that this is not the way the Queen of Castile dispenses justice.’
‘Highness . . . you refuse!’
‘The friends of Alvaro Yañez de Lugo do not know me, or they would not have dared bring such a dishonourable proposal to me. You should leave immediately before I decide to have you arrested for attempted bribery.’
The man bowed and hurried from the apartment.
Ferdinand’s face was white with anger.
‘I see that you do not wish to pursue this holy war against the Moors.’
‘I wish it with all my heart,’ Isabella replied mildly.
‘And as we are debarred from fighting this war because of the low state of the treasury you turn your back on forty thousand gold doblas!’
‘I turn my back on bribery.’
‘But forty thousand doblas . . .’
‘My kingdom shall be built on justice,’ Isabella told him simply. ‘How could that be if I brought to justice only those who could not buy their release?’
Ferdinand lifted his hands in an exasperated gesture. ‘We need money . . . desperately.’
‘We need honour more,’ she told him with dignity.
Ferdinand turned away from her. He could not trust himself to speak. Money . . . gold was in question; and Isabella was learning that her husband loved gold with a fervour he rarely bestowed on anything else.
Alonso de Ojeda had returned to the Monastery of St Paul in Seville a disappointed man. He had hoped by this time to have seen the Inquisition flourishing in Seville; and he feared that since Torquemada – who he knew desired, as much as he did himself, to see the Inquisition set up – could not persuade the Queen to it, there was little hope that anyone else could.
The fiery Ojeda stormed at his fellow Dominicans; he harangued the saints in his prayers. ‘How long, how long,’ he demanded, ‘must you look on at the sin of this city? How long before to us there is given a means of punishing these heretics that they may have a chance of salvation? Give me a sign . . . a sign.’
Then – so Ojeda believed – came the sign, when there arrived at the monastery a young man who asked that he might be allowed an interview with the Prior, as he was deeply disturbed by something he had witnessed. He needed immediate advice.
Ojeda agreed to see him.
The man was young and good looking, and Ojeda, recognising him immediately as a member of the noble house of Guzman, took him into a small cell-like apartment.
‘Now, my son,’ said the Prior, ‘you look distraught. What is this you want to confess, and why did you not take the matter to your own confessor?’
‘Most Holy Prior, I feel this matter to be more than a confession. I feel it could be of the utmost importance. I know that you journeyed to Court recently and saw the Queen. For this reason, I believed I should come to you.’
‘Well, let me hear the nature of this confession.’
‘Holy Prior, I have a mistress.’
‘The lusts of the flesh must be subdued. You must do penance and sin no more.’
‘She is a Marram.’
Ojeda’s lids fell over his eyes, but his heart leaped with excitement.
‘If she is a true Christian her Jewish blood should be of small account.’
‘Holy Prior, I believed her to be a true Christian. Otherwise I should never have consorted with her.’
Ojeda nodded. Then he said: ‘She lives in the Jewish quarter?’
‘Yes, Holy Prior. I visited her father’s house in the juderia. She is very young, and it is naturally against the wishes of her family that she should take a lover.’
‘That is understandable,’ said Ojeda sternly. ‘And you persuaded her to defy her father’s commands?’
‘She is very beautiful, Holy Prior, and I was sorely tempted.’
‘How was it that you visited her father’s house when he had forbidden her to take a lover?’
‘I went in secret, Holy Prior.’
‘Your penance must be harsh.’
‘It may be, Holy Prior, that my sin will be readily forgiven me because had I not gone in secret I should never have discovered the evil that was going on in the house of my mistress.’
Ojeda’s voice shook with excitement. ‘Pray continue,’ he said.
‘This is Holy Week,’ went on the young man. ‘I had forgotten that it was also the eve of the Jewish Passover.’
‘Go on, go on,’ cried Ojeda, unable now to suppress his eagerness.
‘My mistress had secreted me in her room, and there we made love. But, Holy Prior, I became aware of much bustle in the house. Many people seemed to be calling, and this was not usual. There were footsteps outside the room in which I lay with my mistress, and I grew alarmed. It occurred to me that her father had discovered my presence in the house and was calling together his friends to surprise us and perhaps kill me.’
‘And this was what they were doing?’
‘They had not a thought of me, Holy Prior, as I was to discover. I could no longer lie there, so I rose hastily and dressed. I told my mistress that I wished to leave as soon as I could, and she, seeming to catch my fear, replied that the sooner I was out of the house the better. So we waited until there was quietness on the stairs, and then we slipped out of her room. But as we reached the hall we heard sounds in a room nearby, and my mistress, in panic, opened a door and pushed me into a cupboard and shut the door. She was only just in time, for her father came into the hall and greeted friends who had just arrived. They were close to the cupboard in which I was hidden, and they did not lower their voices; so I heard all that was said. The friends had arrived at the house to celebrate the Passover. My mistress’s father laughed aloud and jeered at Christianity. He laughed because he, a professing Christian, in secret practised the Jewish religion.’
Ojeda clenched his fists and closed his eyes. ‘And so we have caught them,’ he cried; ‘we have caught them in all their wickedness. You did right, my friend; you did right to come to me.’
‘Then, Holy Prior, I am forgiven?’
‘Forgiven! You are blessed. You were led to that house that you might bring retribution on those who insult Christianity. Be assured the holy saints will intercede for you. You will be forgiven the sin you have committed, since you bring these evil doers to justice. Now tell me, the name of your mistress’s father? The house where he lives? Ah, he will not long live in his evil state!’
‘Holy Prior, my mistress . . .’
‘If she is innocent all will be well with her.’
‘I would not speak against her.’
‘You have saved her from eternal damnation. Living in such an evil house, it may well be that she is in need of salvation. Have no fear, my son. Your sins are forgiven you.’
The Marrano family was brought before Ojeda.
‘It is useless,’ he told them, ‘to deny your sins. I have evidence of them which cannot be refuted. You must furnish me with a list of all those who took part with you in the Jewish Passover.’
The head of the house spoke earnestly to Ojeda. ‘Most Holy Prior,’ he said, ‘we have sinned against the Holy Catholic Church. We reverted to the religion of our Fathers. We crave pardon. We ask for our sins to be forgiven and that we may be taken back into the Church.’
‘There must have been others who joined in these barbarous rites with you. Who were these?’
‘Holy Prior, I beg of you, do not ask me to betray my friends.’
‘But I do ask it,’ said Ojeda.
‘I could not give their names. They came in secrecy and they were promised secrecy.’
‘It would be wiser for you to name them.’
‘I cannot do it, Holy Prior.’
Ojeda felt a violent hatred rising in his heart. It should be possible now to take this man to the torture chambers for a little persuasion. Oh, he could stand there very nobly defending his friends. How would he fare if he were put on the rack, or had his limbs dislocated on the hoist? That would be a very different story.
And here am I, thought Ojeda, with a miserable sinner before me; and I am unable to act.
‘Your penance would be less severe if you gave us the names of your friends,’ Ojeda reminded him.
But the man was adamant. He would not betray his friends.
Ojeda imposed the penance, and since these Marranos begged to be received back into the Christian Church, there was nothing to be done but admit them.
When he was alone Ojeda railed against the laws of Castile. Had the Inquisition been effective in Castile, that man would have been taken to a dungeon; there he would have been questioned; there he would have betrayed his friends; and instead of a few penances, a few souls saved, there might have been hundreds. Nor would they have escaped with a light sentence. They would have been found guilty of heresy, and the true punishment for heresy was surely death . . . death by fire that the sinner might have a foretaste of Hell’s torment for which he was destined.
But as yet the Inquisition had not been introduced into Castile.
Ojeda set out for Avila, where Torquemada was busy with the plans for the monastery of Saint Thomas.
He received Ojeda with as much pleasure as it was possible for him to show, for Ojeda was a man after his own heart.
Ojeda lost no time in coming to the point.
‘I am on my way to Cordova, where the sovereigns are at this time in residence,’ he explained. ‘I have uncovered certain iniquity in Seville which cannot be passed over. I shall ask for an audience and then implore the Queen to introduce the Inquisition into this land.’
He then told Torquemada what had happened in the house in the juderia.
‘But this is deeply shocking,’ cried Torquemada. ‘I could wish that the young Guzman had gone to the house on a different mission – but the ways of God are inscrutable. In the cupboard he heard enough to condemn these people to death – if as much consideration had been given here in Spain to spiritual life as has been given to civil laws. The facts should be laid before the Queen without delay.’
‘And who could do that more eloquently than yourself? It is for this reason that I have come to you now. I pray you accompany me to Cordova, there to add your pleas to mine.’
Torquemada looked with some regret at the plans he had been studying. He forced his mind from a contemplation of exquisite sculpture. This was his duty. The building of a Christian state from which all heresy had been eliminated – that was a greater achievement than the finest monastery in the world.
Torquemada stood before the Queen. A few paces behind her stood Ferdinand, and behind Torquemada was Ojeda.
Ojeda had recounted the story of what the young man had heard in the cupboard.
‘And this,’ cried Torquemada, ‘is an everyday occurrence in Your Highness’s city of Seville.’
‘I cannot like the young man’s mission in that house,’ mused Isabella.
‘Highness, we deplore it. But his discovery is of the utmost importance; and who shall say whether or not this particular young man was led to sin, not by the devil, but by the saints? Perhaps in this way we have been shown our duty?’
Isabella was deeply shocked. To her it seemed sad that certain of her subjects should not only be outside the Christian faith but that they should revile it. Clearly some action must be taken.
She did not trust Sixtus. Yet Ferdinand was eager for the setting up of the Inquisition. She knew, of course, that his hope was that by its action riches would be diverted, from those who now possessed them, to the royal coffers. She knew that many of the New Christians were rich men, for the Jews had a way of enriching themselves. She needed money. But she would not so far forget her sense of honour and justice as to set up the Inquisition for the sake of monetary gain.
She hesitated. Three pairs of fanatical eyes watched her intently while the fate of Spain hung in the balance.
Ojeda and Torquemada believed that torture and death should be the reward of the heretic. Isabella agreed with them. Since they were destined for eternal Hell fire, what was a little baptismal burning on earth? Ferdinand was a fanatic too. When he thought of money and possessions his eyes flashed every bit as fiercely as Torquemada’s did for the faith.
Isabella remembered the vow she had once made before Torquemada; he was reminding her of it now.
An all-Christian Spain. It was her dream. But was she to give the Pope more influence than he already had?
Yet, considering her recent victories over him, she believed she – and Ferdinand with her – could handle him, should the occasion arise. Therefore why should she hesitate to set up the Inquisition in Castile that the land might be purged of heretics?
She turned to Ferdinand. ‘We will ask His Holiness for permission to set up the Inquisition in Castile,’ she said.
The waiting men relaxed.
Isabella had decided the fate of Spain, the fate of thousands.
