Daughters of Spain - Plaidy Jean. Страница 48

But the way was long and even the fleetest of foot grew tired; the throat became parched, and there on the road between Granada and Seville the slave saw a tavern. Tied to a post was the horse which had passed him on the way, and standing close to the horse was the rider.

The man called to the Negro: ‘Good day to you. I saw you running on the road.’

‘I envied you your horse,’ said the Negro, pausing.

‘ ’Tis thirsty work, running as you run.’

‘You speak truth there.’

‘Well, here is an inn and the wine is good. Why do you not fortify yourself with some of this good wine?’

‘Oh … I am on a mission. I have to reach Seville with all speed.’

‘You’ll go the quicker for the wine.’

The Negro considered this. It might be true.

‘Come,’ said the Moor. ‘Drink with me. Let me be your host.’

‘You are generous,’ said the Negro, smiling.

‘Come inside and wine shall be brought for us.’

They sat together drinking the wine. The Moor encouraged the Negro to talk of his triumphs: how he had won many a race and had not in recent years met the man who could outrun him.

The Moor replenished his glass, and the Negro did not notice how much he was drinking, and forgot that he was unused to such wine.

His speech became slower; he had forgotten where he was; he slumped forward and, smiling, the Moor rose and taking him by the hair jerked his face upwards. The Negro was too intoxicated to protest; he did not even know who the man was.

The Moor called to the innkeeper.

‘Let your servants take this man to a bed,’ he said. ‘He has drunk much wine and he will not be sober until morning. Give him food then and more wine … a great deal of it. It is necessary that he should stay here for another day and night.’

The innkeeper took the money which was given him, and assured his honoured customer that his wishes should be carried out.

The Moor smiled pleasantly, went out to his horse and began the journey back to Granada.

Later that night the Count of Tendilla set out for Seville with his retinue. There was rejoicing in the Albaycin. The cunning of Ximenes would be foiled. Isabella and Ferdinand would first hear the story of the Moorish revolt from their friend, not from their enemy.

When Ferdinand heard from Tendilla what had happened in Granada his first feeling was of anger, then dismay, but these were later tinged with a faint satisfaction.

He lost no time in confronting Isabella.

‘Here is a fine state of affairs,’ he cried. ‘Revolt in Granada. All brought about through this man Ximenes. So we are to pay dear for the conduct of your Archbishop. That for which we fought for years has been endangered in a few hours by the rashness of this man whom you took from his humble station to make Archbishop of Toledo and Primate of Spain.’

Isabella was astounded by the news. She had taken great pride in maintaining the treaty. She had always been delighted to hear of the prosperity of her city of Granada, of the industry of the Moorish population and the manner in which they lived peaceably side by side with the Christians. She was overjoyed when she heard of the few conversions to Christianity which Talavera had brought about. But revolt in Granada! And Ximenes, her Archbishop – as Ferdinand always called him – was apparently at the very root of it.

‘We have not heard his side of the story …’ she began.

‘And why not?’ demanded Ferdinand. ‘Does your Archbishop think he may act without our sanction? He has not thought fit to inform us. Who are we? Merely the Sovereigns. It is Ximenes who rules Spain.’

‘I confess I am both alarmed and astonished,’ admitted Isabella.

‘I should think so, Madam. This is what comes of giving high office to those who are unable to fill it with dignity and responsibility.’

‘I shall write to him at once,’ said the Queen, ‘informing him of my displeasure and summoning him to our presence without delay.’

‘It would certainly be wise to recall him from Granada before we have a war on our hands.’

Isabella went to her table and began to write in the most severe terms, expressing her deep concern and anger that the Archbishop of Toledo should have so far forgotten his duty to his Sovereigns and his office as to have acted against the treaty of Granada and, having brought about such dire results, had not thought fit to tell his Sovereigns.

Ferdinand watched her, a slow smile curving his mouth. He was anxious as to the state of Granada, but he could not help feeling this pleasure. It was very gratifying to see his prophecies, concerning that upstart, coming true. How different it would have been if his own dear son Alfonso had graced the highest office in Spain.

Ximenes stood before the Sovereigns. His face was pale but he was as arrogant as ever.

There was no contrition at all, Ferdinand noticed in amazement. What sort of man was this? He had no fear whatsoever. He could be stripped of office and possessions and he would still flaunt his self-righteousness. He could be beaten, tortured, taken to the stake – still he would preserve that air of arrogance.

Even Ferdinand was slightly shaken as he looked at this man. As for Isabella, from the moment he had stood before her she was ready to listen sympathetically and to believe that what she had heard before had not been an accurate account.

‘I do not understand,’ began Isabella, ‘on what authority you have acted as you did in Granada.’

‘On that of God,’ was the answer.

Ferdinand made an impatient gesture but Isabella went on gently: ‘My lord Archbishop, did you not know that the Treaty of Granada lays down that the Moorish population should continue to worship as it wished?’

‘I did know this, Highness, but I thought it an evil treaty.’

‘Was that your concern?’ demanded Ferdinand with sarcasm.

‘It is always my concern to fight evil, Highness.’

Isabella asked: ‘If you wished to take these measures would it not have been wiser to have consulted us, to ask our permission to do so?’

‘It would have been most unwise,’ retorted Ximenes. ‘Your Highnesses would never have given that permission.’

‘This is monstrous!’ cried Ferdinand.

‘Wait, I beg of you,’ pleaded Isabella. ‘Let the Archbishop tell us his side of the story.’

‘It was necessary,’ continued Ximenes, ‘that action should be taken against these Infidels. Your Highness did not see fit to do so. In the name of the Faith I was forced to do it for you.’

‘And,’ fumed Ferdinand, ‘having done it, you did not even take the trouble to inform us.’

‘There you wrong me. I dispatched a messenger to you in all haste. He should have reached you before you received the news from any other. Unhappily my enemies waylaid him and intoxicated him so that he did not reach you … and then, having failed in his duty, was afraid to present himself either to you or to me.’

Isabella looked relieved. ‘I knew I could trust you to keep us informed, and the failure of your messenger to arrive was certainly no fault of yours.’

‘There is still this astonishing conduct, which led to revolt in Granada, to be explained,’ Ferdinand reminded them.

Then Ximenes turned to him and delivered one of those sermons of invective for which he was famous. He reminded them of the manner in which he had served God, the state, and themselves. He told them how much of the revenues of Toledo had gone into the work of proselytising. He hinted that both had been guilty of indifference to the Faith – Ferdinand in his desire for aggrandisement, Isabella in her affection for her family. Here he touched them both where they were most vulnerable. He made them feel guilty; slowly, with infinite cunning he turned the argument in his favour so that it was as though they were under an obligation to explain themselves to him, not he to them.