Daughters of Spain

Chapter XII THE FATE OF THE MOORS

Ximenes was excited. He looked almost human as he waited to receive his guests. He had planned this meeting so carefully and it was to be the first step in a mighty campaign. He had not asked the Sovereigns’ permission to act as he did; he was very glad that they were on their way to Seville. They would be delighted when they saw the results of his work; they would also know that, well as he served them, he served God and the Faith better.

He had had some difficulty with those two old fools, Tendilla and Talavera. They had assured him that his proposed methods would not work. The Moors were courteous by nature; they would listen to what he had to say; they would not contradict his word that the most fortunate people in the world were those who called themselves Christians; but they would remain Mohammedans.

He must understand that these were not savages; they were not as little children to be taught a catechism which they could repeat parrot fashion.

‘Not savages!’ Ximenes had cried. ‘All those who are not Christians are savages.’

He was not going to diverge from his plan in any way. He was the Primate of Spain and as such was in complete authority under the Sovereigns; as for the Sovereigns, they were on their way to Seville and none could appeal to them.

He ordered that bales of silk and a quantity of scarlet hats should be brought to him. He now studied these with a wry smile on his lips. They were the bait and he believed the expenditure on the articles would be well worth while.

When his guests arrived he received them graciously. They were alfaquis of Granada, the learned Moorish priests whose word was law to the Mussulmans of Granada. Once he had seduced these men from their faith, the simple people would be ready to follow their leaders.

The alfaquis bowed low. They knew that they were in the presence of the greatest Archbishop in Spain, and their eyes lighted when they saw the bales of rich silk and the scarlet hats which they greatly admired, for they guessed these were gifts.

‘I am delighted that you should have accepted my invitation,’ said Ximenes, and his face showed none of the contempt that he felt for these people. ‘I wish to talk to you. I think it would be of great interest to us all if we compared our respective religions.’

The alfaquis smiled and bowed again. And eventually they sat cross-legged around the chair of Ximenes while he talked to them of the Christian Faith and the joys of Heaven which awaited those who embraced it; also of the torments of Hell which were reserved for those who refused it. He spoke of baptism, a simple ceremony which enabled all those who partook of it to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.

He then took one of the bales and unfurled the crimson silk.

There was a murmur of admiration among his guests.

He wished to make presents, he told them, to all those who would undergo baptism.

Black eyes sparkled as they rested on the bales of coloured silks, and those delightful red hats were irresistible.

Several of the alfaquis agreed to be baptised, a ceremony which Ximenes was prepared to perform on the spot; and they went away with their silks and scarlet hats.

There was talk in the streets of Granada.

A great man had come among them. He gave rich presents, and to receive these presents all that was required was to take part in a strange little ceremony.

Each day little companies of Moors would present themselves before Ximenes, to receive baptism, a bale of silk and a scarlet hat.

Ximenes felt such delight that he had to curb it. It seemed sinful to be so happy. He was anxious that Talavera and Tendilla should not know what was happening, for he was sure they would endeavour to let the innocent Moors know what they were undertaking when they submitted to baptism.

What did it matter how they were brought into the Church, Ximenes asked himself, as long as they came?

So he continued with his baptisms and his presents. The costliness of the silk and hats was disturbing, but Ximenes had always been ready to dig deep into the coffers of Toledo for the sake of the Faith.

News of what was happening came to the ears of one of the most learned of the alfaquis in Granada; this was Zegri, who, quietly studious, had not known what was taking place in the city.

One of his fellows called on him wearing a magnificent red hat, and he said: ‘But you are extravagant. You have become rich, my friend.’

‘This is not all,’ he was told. ‘I have a silk robe, and both were presents from the great Archbishop who is now in Granada.’

‘Costly presents are often given that costlier presents may be received.’

‘Ah, but all I did to earn these was to take part in some little Christian game called baptism.’

‘Baptism! But that is the ceremony which is performed when one accepts the Christian Faith.’

‘Oh, I was a Christian for a day … and for this I received my silk and hat.’

‘What is this you say?’ cried Zegri. ‘You cannot be a Christian for a day!’

‘It is what the Archbishop told us. “Be baptised,” he said, “and these gifts are yours.” Our fellows are crowding to his Palace each day. We play this little game and come away with our gifts.’

‘Allah preserve us!’ cried Zegri. ‘Do you not know that once you have been baptised you are a Christian, and do you not know what these Christians do to those whom they call heretics?’

‘What do they do?’

Zegri seized his robe as though he would rend it apart. He said: ‘Here in Granada we live in peace. In other parts of Spain, there is that which is called the Inquisition. Those who do not practise Christianity – and Christianity in a particular manner – are called heretics. They are tortured and burned at the stake.’ His visitor had turned pale.

‘It would seem,’ said Zegri impatiently, ‘that our countrymen have been lulled into stupidity by the beauty of the flowers that grow about our city, by the prosperity of our merchants, by the continued brilliance of our sunshine.’

‘But … they are going in their hundreds!’

‘We must call a meeting at once without delay. Send out messages to all. Tell them that I have a stern warning to give. Bring here to me as many of the alfaquis as you can muster. I must stop this at once.’

Ximenes waited for more visitors. They did not come. There were his bales of silk, his scarlet hats, but it seemed that now nobody wanted them.

Ximenes, enraged, sent for Talavera and Tendilla.

They came immediately. Tendilla had discovered what had been happening and was very angry. Talavera also knew, but he was less disturbed; as a Churchman he admired the zeal of Ximenes; never had he seen such rapid proselytism.

‘Perhaps,’ said Ximenes, ‘you can tell me what is happening in this city.’

‘It would seem,’ replied Tendilla lightly, ‘that certain simple men have become Christians without understanding what this means.’

‘You sound regretful,’ accused Ximenes.

‘Because,’ Tendilla answered, ‘these men have accepted baptism without understanding. They have accepted your gifts and in return they wished to give you what you asked – baptism into the Christian Faith for a bale of silk and a red hat. I should be glad to hear they had accepted our Faith without the bribe.’

‘Yet there are more conversions in this city since the Archbishop of Toledo came here,’ Talavera reminded him.

‘I do not call this true conversion to Christianity,’ retorted Tendilla. ‘These simple souls have no knowledge of what they are undertaking.’

‘We need not discuss your views on this matter,’ Ximenes put in coldly. ‘For the last two days there have been no conversions. There must be a reason. These savages cannot have taken a dislike to bales of silk and scarlet hats.’

‘They have become wary of baptism,’ said Tendilla.

‘You two go among them as though you were of the same race. You doubtless know the reason for this sudden absence. I command you to tell me.’

Tendilla was silent, but Talavera, as an Archbishop himself, although of junior rank, answered his superior’s command: ‘It is due to the warnings of Zegri.’

‘Zegri? Who is this man Zegri?’

Tendilla spoke then. ‘He is the leading alfaquis, and not such a simple fellow as some. He understands a little of what baptism into the Christian Faith means. He has heard what has been going on and has warned his fellow Moors that baptism demands more of men and women than the acceptance of gifts.’

‘I see,’ said Ximenes. ‘So it is this man Zegri. Thank you for your information.’

When they had left him he sent for one of his servants, a man named Leon, and he said to him:’ I wish you to take a message from me to the house of the alfaquis, Zegri.’

Zegri stood before Ximenes, while Ximenes showed him two bales of silk. ‘You may take as many of the hats as you wish,’ he told his guest.

‘No,’ said Zegri.’ I know of this baptism. I know what it means. Here in Granada we have not known the Inquisition, but I have heard what it does to Jews who have accepted baptism and go back to their own Faith.’

‘Once you were a Christian you would not wish to go back to your own Faith. Each day you would become more and more aware of the advantages which Christianity has to offer.’

‘I am a Mohammedan. I do not look for advantages.’

‘You are a man stumbling in darkness.’

‘I live very well, I am a happy man … with the love of Allah.’

‘There is only one true Faith,’ said Ximenes. ‘That is the Christian Faith.’

‘Allah forgive you. You know not what you say.’

‘You will go to eternal torment when you die.’

‘Allah will be good to me and mine.’

‘If you become a Christian you will go to Heaven when you die. Allow me to give you baptism and eternal joy shall be yours.’

Zegri smiled and said simply: ‘I am a Mohammedan. I do not change my religion for a bale of silk and a red hat.’ His eyes flashed defiance as he stood there, and Ximenes realised that argument would never convince such a man. Yet it was necessary that he should be convinced. This was a powerful man, a man who would sway a multitude. One word from him and the conversions had ceased.

It was not to be tolerated, and in Ximenes’s eyes all that was done in the service of the Faith was well done.

‘I see,’ he said, ‘that I cannot make you a good Christian.’

‘I do not believe that I could make you a good Mussulman,’ retorted Zegri, smiling widely.

Ximenes crossed himself in horror.

‘Here in Granada we shall continue in our own Faith,’ said Zegri quietly.

But you shall not! thought Ximenes. I have sworn to convert this place to Christianity, and I will do it.

‘I will take my leave of you,’ said Zegri, ‘and I will thank you for receiving me in your Palace, oh mighty Archbishop.’

Ximenes bowed his head and called to his servant Leon.

‘Leon,’ he said, ‘show my guest the way out. He will come and talk with me again, for I have yet to persuade him.’

Leon, a tall man with broad shoulders answered: ‘So shall it be, Your Excellency.’ He led the way, and Zegri followed. They went through chambers which he did not remember seeing before, down some stairs to more apartments.

This was not the way he had come in, Zegri was thinking as Leon opened a door and stood aside for him to enter.

Unthinking, Zegri stepped forward. Then he stopped. But he was too late. Leon gave him a little push from behind and he stumbled down a few dark steps. He heard the door shut behind him and a key turned in the lock.

He was not outside the Archbishop’s Palace. He was in a dark dungeon.

Zegri lay on the floor of his dungeon. He was weak, for it must have been long since food had passed his lips. When the door had been locked on him he had beaten on it until his hands had bled; he had shouted to be let out, but no one answered him.

The floor was damp and cold and his limbs were numb.

‘They have tricked me,’ he said aloud, ‘as they have tricked my friends.’

He thought that they would leave him here until he died, but this was not their intention.

Exhausted, he was lying on the floor, when he was aware of a blinding light flashed into his face. It was only a man with a lantern, but Zegri had been so long in the dark that it seemed as brilliant as the sun at noon.

This man was Leon, and with him was another. He pulled Zegri to his feet and slipped an iron ring about his neck; to this was attached a chain which he fixed to a staple in the wall.

‘What do you plan to do with me?’ demanded Zegri. ‘What right have you to make me your prisoner? I have done no wrong. I must have a fair trial. In Granada all men must have fair trials.’

But Leon only laughed. And after a while the Archbishop of Toledo came into the dungeon.

Zegri cried out: ‘What is this you would do to me?’

‘Make a good Christian of you,’ Ximenes told him.

‘You cannot make me a Christian by torturing me.’

A gleam came into Ximenes’s eyes, but he said: ‘You have nothing to fear if you accept baptism.’

‘And if I will not?’

‘I do not despair easily. You will stay here in the darkness until you see the light of truth. You shall be without food for the body until you are prepared to accept food for the soul. Will you accept baptism?’

‘Baptism is for Christians,’ answered Zegri. ‘I am a Mussulman.’

Ximenes inclined his head and walked from the dungeon. Leon followed him, and Zegri was in the cold darkness again.

He waited for these visits. There were several of them. Always he hoped that they would bring him food and drink. It was long since he had eaten and his body was growing weak. There were gnawing pains in his stomach and it cried out for nourishment. Always the words were the same. He would stay here in cold and hunger until he accepted baptism.

At the end of a few days and nights Zegri’s discomfort was intense. He knew that if he continued thus he could not live very long. Zegri had spent all his life in the prosperous city of Granada. He had never known hardship before.

What good can I do by remaining here? he asked himself. I should only die.

He thought of his fellow Moors who had been deceived by the bales of silk and the red hats. They had been lured to baptism by bribes; he was being forced to it by this torture.

He knew there was only one way out of his dungeon.

The blinding light was flashed into his face. There was the big man with the cruel eyes – Leon, the servant of the even more terrifying one with the face of a dead man and the eyes of a fiend.

‘Bring him a chair, Leon,’ said Ximenes. ‘He is too weak to stand.’

The chair was brought and Zegri sat in it.

‘Have you anything to say to me?’ asked Ximenes.

‘Yes, my lord Archbishop, I have something to say. Last night Allah came to my prison.’

Ximenes’s face in the light from the lantern looked very stern.

‘And he told me,’ went on Zegri, ‘that I must accept Christian baptism without delay.’

‘Ah!’ It was a long drawn out cry of triumph from the Archbishop of Toledo. For a second his lips were drawn back from his teeth in what was meant to be a smile. ‘I see your stay with us has been fruitful, very fruitful. Leon, release him from his fetters. We will feed him and clothe him in silk. We will put a red hat on his head and we will baptise him in the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ. I thank God this victory is won.’

It was a great relief to have the heavy iron removed from his neck, but even so Zegri was too weak to walk.

Ximenes signed to the big man, Leon, who slung Zegri over his shoulder and carried him out of the damp dark dungeon.

He was put on a couch; his limbs were rubbed; savoury broth was put into his mouth. Ximenes was impatient for the baptism. He had rarely been as excited as when he scattered the consecrated drops from a hyssop over the head of this difficult convert.

So Zegri had now received Christian baptism.

‘You should give thanks for your good fortune,’ Ximenes told him. ‘Now I trust many of your countrymen will follow your example.’

‘If you and your servant do to my countrymen as you have done to me,’ said Zegri, ‘you will make so many Christians that there will not be a Mussulman left within the walls of Granada.’

Ximenes kept Zegri in his Palace until he had recovered from the effects of his incarceration, but he let the news be carried through the city: ‘Zegri has become a Christian.’

The result satisfied even Ximenes. Hundreds of Moors were now arriving at the Archbishop’s Palace to receive baptism and what went with it – bales of silk and scarlet hats.

Ximenes was not satisfied for long. The more learned of the Moorish population held back and exhorted their friends to do the same. They stressed what had happened to Jews who had received baptism and had been accused of returning to the faith of their fathers; they talked of the dreary autos de fe which were becoming regular spectacles in many of the towns of Spain. This must not be so in Granada. And those foolish people whose desire for silk and red hats had overcome their good sense were making trouble for themselves.

The people of Granada could not believe in any such trouble. This was Granada, where living had been easy for years; and even after their defeat at the hands of the Christians and the end of the reign of Boabdil, they had gone on as before. They would always go on in that way. Many of them remembered the day when the great Sovereigns, Ferdinand and Isabella, had come to take possession of the Alhambra. Then they had been promised freedom of thought, freedom of action, freedom to follow their own faith.

Ximenes knew that those who were preventing his work from succeeding as he wished it to, were the scholars, and he decided to strike a blow at them. They had declared that they had no need of this Christian culture because they had a greater culture of their own.

‘Culture!’ cried Ximenes. ‘What is this culture? Their books, is it?’

It was true that they produced manuscripts of such beauty that they were spoken of throughout the world. Their binding and illuminations were exquisite and unequalled.

‘I will have an auto de fe in Granada,’ he told Talavera. ‘It shall be the first. They shall see the flames rising to their beautiful blue sky.’

‘But the agreement with the Sovereigns …’ began Talavera.

‘This auto de fe shall be one in which not bodies burn but manuscripts. This shall be a foretaste of what shall come if they forget their baptismal oaths. Let them see the flames rising to the sky. Let them see their evil words writhing in the heat. It would be wise to say nothing of this to Tendilla as yet. There is a man who doubtless would wish to preserve these manuscripts because the bindings are good. I fear our friend Tendilla is a man given to outward show.’

‘My lord,’ said Talavera, ‘if you destroy these people’s literature they may seek revenge on us. They are quiet people only among their friends.’

‘They will find they never had a better friend than myself,’ said Ximenes. ‘Look how many of them I have brought to baptism!’

He was determined to continue with his project and would have no interference. Only when he saw those works reduced to ashes would he feel he was making some headway. He would make sure that none of the children should suffer from contamination with those heathen words.

The decree went out. Every manuscript in every Moorish house was to be brought out. They were to be put in heaps in the squares of the town. Severest penalties would be inflicted on those who sought to hide any work in Arabic.

Stunned, the Moors watched their literature passing from their hands into that of the man whom they now knew to be their enemy. Zegri had returned from his visit to the Archbishop’s Palace a changed man. He was thin and ill; and he seemed deeply humiliated; it was as though all his spirit had gone from him.

Ximenes had ordered that works dealing with religion were to be piled in the squares; but those dealing with medicine were to be brought to him. The Moors were noted for their medical knowledge and it occurred to Ximenes that there could be no profanity in profiting from it. He therefore selected some two or three hundred medical works, examined them and had them sent to Alcalá to be placed in the University he was building there.

Then he gave himself up to the task of what he called service to the Faith.

In all the open places of the town the fires were burning.

The Moors sullenly watched their beautiful works of art turned to ashes. Over the city there hung a pall of smoke, dark and lowering.

In the Albaycin, that part of the city which was inhabited entirely by the Moors, people were getting together behind shutters and even in the streets.

Tendilla came to see Ximenes. He was not alone; he brought with him several leading Castilians who had lived for years in Granada.

‘This is dangerous,’ Tendilla blurted out.

‘I do not understand you,’ retorted Ximenes haughtily.

‘We have lived in Granada for a long time,’ pointed out Tendilla. ‘We know these people. Am I not right?’ He turned to his companions, who assured Ximenes that they were in complete agreement with Tendilla.

‘You should rejoice with me,’ cried Ximenes contemptuously, ‘that there is no longer an Arabic literature. If these people have no books, their foolish ideas cannot be passed on to their young. Our next plan shall be to educate their children in the true Faith. In a generation we shall have everyone, man, woman and child, a Christian.’

Tendilla interrupted boldly: ‘I must remind you of the conditions of the treaty.’

‘Treaty indeed!’ snapped Ximenes. ‘It is time that was forgotten.’

‘It will never be forgotten. The Moors remember it. They have respected the Sovereigns because ever since ’92 that treaty has been observed … and now you would disregard it.’

‘I ask the forgiveness of God because I have not attempted to do so before.’

‘My lord Archbishop, may I implore you to show more forbearance. If you do not there will be bloodshed in our fair city of Granada.’

‘I am not concerned with the shedding of blood. I am only concerned with the shedding of sin.’

‘To follow their own religion is not to sin.’

‘My lord, have a care. You come close to heresy.’

Tendilla flushed an angry red. ‘Take the advice of a man who knows these people, my lord Archbishop. If you must make Christians of them, I implore you, if you value your life …’

‘Which I do not,’ Ximenes interjected.

‘Then the lives of others. If you value them, I pray you take a tamer policy towards these people.’

‘A tamer policy might suit temporal matters, but not those in which the soul is at stake. If the unbeliever cannot be drawn to salvation, he must be driven there. This is not the time to stay our hands, when Mohammedanism is tottering.’

Tendilla looked helplessly at those citizens whom he had brought with him to argue with Ximenes.

‘I can see,’ he said curtly, ‘that it is useless to attempt to influence you.’

‘Quite useless.’

‘Then we can only hope that we shall be ready to defend ourselves when the time comes.’

Tendilla and his friends took their leave of Ximenes, who laughed aloud when he was alone.

Tendilla! A soldier! The Queen had been mistaken to appoint such a man as Alcayde. He had no true spirit. He was a lover of comfort. The souls of Infidels meant nothing to him as long as these people worked and grew rich and so made the town rich.

They thought he did not understand these Moors. They were mistaken. He was fully aware of the growing surliness of the Infidels. He would not be in the least surprised if they were making some plot to attack him. They might attempt to assassinate him. What a glorious death that would be – to die in the service of the Faith. But he had no wish to die yet, for unlike Torquemada he knew no one who would be worthy to wear his mantle.

This very day he had sent three of his servants into the Albaycin. Their task was to pause at the stalls and buy some of the goods displayed there, and to listen, of course. To spy on the Infidel. To discover what was being said about the new conditions which Ximenes had brought into their city.

He began to pray, asking for success for his project, promising more converts in exchange for Divine help. He was working out new plans for further forays against the Moors. Their literature was destroyed. What next? He was going to forbid them to follow their ridiculous customs. They were constantly taking baths or staining themselves with henna. He was going to stamp out these barbarous practices.

He noticed that the day was drawing to its close. It was time his servants returned. He went to the window and looked out. Only a little daylight left, he mused.

He went back to his table and his work, but he was wondering what had detained his servants.

When he heard the sound of cries below, he went swiftly down to the hall and there he saw one of those servants whom he had sent into the Albaycin; he was staggering into the hall surrounded by others who cried out in horror at the sight of him. His clothes were torn and he was bleeding from a wound in his side.

‘My lord …’ he was moaning. ‘Take me to my lord.’

Ximenes hurried forward. ‘My good man, what is this? What has happened to you? Where are your companions?’

‘They are dead. Murdered, my lord. In the Albaycin. We were set upon … known as your servants. They are coming here. They have long knives. They have sworn to murder you. My lord … they are coming. There is little time left …’

The man fell swooning at the feet of the Archbishop.

Ximenes ordered: ‘Make fast all doors. See that they are guarded. Take this man and call my physician to attend to him. The Infidel comes against us. The Lord is with us. But the Devil is a formidable enemy. Do not stand there. Obey my orders. We must prepare.’

There followed hours of terror for all those in the Palace with the exception of Ximenes. From an upper chamber he watched those glowering faces in the light of their torches. He heard their shouts of anger.

He thought: Only these frail walls between myself and the Infidel. ‘Lord,’ he prayed, ‘if it be Thy will to take me into Heaven, then so be it.’

They were throwing stones. They had tried to storm the gates but the Palace had stood many a siege and would doubtless stand many more.

They shouted curses on this man who had come among them and destroyed their peace; but Ximenes smiled blandly, for the cursings of the Infidel, he told himself, could be counted as blessings.

How long could the Palace hold out against the mob? And what would happen when those dark-skinned men broke through?

There was a lull outside, but Ximenes guessed that soon the tumult would break out again. They would storm the walls; they would find some way in, and then …

‘Let them come, if it be Thy will,’ he cried aloud.

He stood erect, waiting. He would be the one they sought. He wondered if they would inflict torture on him before they killed him. He was not afraid. His body had been schooled to suffer.

He heard a shout from without and in the light of the torches he saw a man on horseback riding up to the leader of the Moors.

It was Tendilla.

Ximenes could not hear what was said, but Tendilla was clearly arguing with the Moors. There he stood among them all, and Ximenes felt a momentary admiration for the soldier who could be as careless of his safety as Ximenes was of his.

He was now addressing the Moors, waving his hands and shouting, placating them no doubt, perhaps making promises which Ximenes had no intention of keeping.

But the Moors were listening. They had ceased to shout and it was quiet out there. Then Ximenes saw them turn and move away.

Tendilla was alone outside the Palace walls.

Tendilla was let into the Palace. His eyes were flashing with anger and that anger was directed not against the Moors but against Ximenes.

‘So my lord,’ he said, ‘perhaps now you begin to understand.’

‘I understand that your docile Moors are docile no longer.’

‘They believe they have suffered great provocation. They are a very angry people. Do you realise that in a very short time they would have forced an entry into this place? Then it would have gone hard with you.’

‘You are telling me that I owe you my life.’

Tendilla made an impatient gesture. ‘I would not have you imagine that the danger is past. I persuaded them to return to their homes, and they agreed to do this … tonight. But this will not be an end to this matter. A proud people does not see its literature burned to ashes and murmur, Thank you, my lord. You are unsafe in this place. Your life is not worth much while you stay here. Make ready at once and accompany me back to the Alhambra. There I can give you adequate protection.’

Ximenes stood still as a statue.

‘I shall not cower behind the walls of the Alhambra, my good Tendilla. I shall stay here, and if these barbarians come against me, I shall trust in God. If it be His will that I become a martyr to their barbarism, then I say, Thy will be done.’

‘They believe that they have been victims of your barbarism,’ retorted Tendilla. ‘They seek revenge. They will go back to the Albaycin and prepare for a real attack on your Palace. They will come again … this time in cold blood, fully armed. Do you realise, my lord Archbishop, that a major revolt is about to break out?’

For the first time Ximenes felt a twinge of uneasiness. He had believed he could successfully proselytise without trouble of this nature. If he were setting in motion warfare between Moors and Christians the Sovereigns would not be pleased. Their great aim had been to preserve peace within their own country so that they might conserve their strength for enemies beyond their borders.

But he held his head high and told himself that what he had done had been for the glory of God; and what was the will of the Sovereigns compared with that!

Tendilla said: ‘I will ask one thing of you. If you will not come to the Alhambra, then stay here, as well guarded as possible, and leave me to deal with this insurrection.’

He bowed briefly and left the Archbishop.

Tendilla rode back to the Alhambra. His wife, who was waiting for him, betrayed her relief when she saw him.

‘I was afraid, Iñigo,’ she said.

He smiled tenderly. ‘You need have no fear. The Moors are my friends. They know that I have always been fair to them. They are a people who respect justice. It is not I who am in danger but that fool of an Archbishop of ours.’

‘How I wish he had never come to Granada.’

‘There are many who would echo those words, my dear.’

‘Iñigo, what are you going to do now?’

‘I am going into the Albaycin. I’m going to talk to them and ask them not to arm themselves for a revolt. Ximenes is responsible for this trouble, but if they kill the Archbishop of Toledo they will find the might of Spain raised against them. I must make them understand this.’

‘But they are in a dangerous mood.’

‘It is for this reason that I must not delay.’

‘But, Iñigo, think. They are rising against the Christians, and you are a Christian.’

He smiled at her. ‘Have no fear. This is something which must be done and I am the one to do it. If things should not go as I believe they will, be ready to leave Granada with the children and lose no time.’

‘Iñigo! Do not go. This is the Archbishop’s affair. Let them storm his Palace. Let them torture him … kill him if they will. He has brought this trouble to Granada. Let him take the consequences.’

Tendilla smiled gently. ‘You have not understood,’ he said. ‘I am the Alcayde. I am responsible for this zealous reformer of ours. I have to protect him against the results of his own folly.’

‘So you are determined?’

‘I am.’

‘Go well armed, Iñigo.’

Tendilla did not answer.

Meanwhile Talavera had heard what was happening in the Albaycin. Something must be done quickly to calm the Moors.

They had always respected him. They had listened gravely when he had preached to them of the virtues of Christianity. They knew him for a good man.

Talavera was certain that he, more than any man in Granada, could help to restore order to the Albaycin.

He called for his chaplain and said: ‘We are going into the Albaycin.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ was the answer.

‘You and I alone,’ went on Talavera, watching the expression on the face of the chaplain.

He saw the man’s alarm. The whole of Granada must know, thought Talavera, of the trouble which was brewing in the Moorish quarter.

‘There is trouble there,’ went on the Archbishop of Granada. ‘The Moors are in an ugly mood. They may well set upon us and murder us in their anger. I do not think they will. I think they will listen to me as they have always done. They are a fierce people but only when their anger is aroused, and I do not think we – you and I, my dear chaplain – have done anything to arouse their anger.’

‘My lord, if we took soldiers with us to protect us …’

‘I have never gone among them with a bodyguard. To do so now would make it appear that I do not trust them.’

‘Do you trust them, my lord?’

‘I trust in my Lord,’ was the answer. ‘And I would not ask you to accompany me if you would not do so of your own free will.’

The chaplain hesitated for a few moments, then he said: ‘Where you go, my lord, there will I go.’

‘Then prepare, for there is little time.’

So with only his chaplain to accompany him the Archbishop of Granada rode into the Albaycin. The chaplain rode before him carrying the crucifix, and the Moors stared at these men in sullen silence for a few moments.

The Archbishop rode right into their midst and said to them: ‘My friends, I hear that you are arming yourselves, and I come among you unarmed. If you desire to kill me, then you must do so. If you will listen to me, I will give you my advice.’

A faint murmuring broke out. The chaplain trembled; many of the Moors carried long knives. He thought of death which might not come quickly; then he looked into the calm face of his Archbishop and felt comforted.

‘Will you do me the honour of listening to me?’ asked the Archbishop.

There was a short silence. Then one of the alfaquis cried out: ‘Speak, oh Christian lord.’

‘You are an angry people, and you seek vengeance which, my friend, is not good for those who plan it nor for those who bear the brunt of it. It is a two-edged weapon, to harm those whom it strikes and those who strike. Do nothing rash. Pause and consider the inevitable result of your actions. Pray for guidance. Do not resort to violence.’

‘We have seen our beautiful manuscripts destroyed before our eyes, oh Talavera,’ cried one voice. ‘We have seen the flames rising in the squares of Granada. What next will be burned? Our mosques? Our bodies?’

‘Be calm. Pray for guidance.’

‘Death to the Christian dogs!’ cried a wild voice in the crowd.

There was a move forward and the alfaquis who had first spoken cried: ‘Wait! This is our friend. This is not that other. This man is not guilty. In all the years he has been with us he has been just and although he has tried to persuade us he has never sought to force us to that which we did not want.’

‘It is true,’ someone called out.

‘Yes,’ cried several voices then. ‘It is true. We have no quarrel with this man.’

‘Allah preserve him.’

‘He is not our enemy.’

Many remembered instances of his goodness. He had always helped the poor, Moor or Christian. They had no quarrel with this man.

One woman came forward and knelt at the side of Talavera’s horse and said: ‘You have been good to me and mine. I pray you, oh lord, give me your benediction.’

And Talavera placed his hands on this woman’s head and said: ‘Go in peace.’

Others came forward to ask his blessing, and when Tendilla rode into the Albaycin this was the scene he witnessed.

Tendilla came with half a dozen soldiers, and when the Moors saw his guards many hands tightened about their knives. But Tendilla’s first action was to take his bonnet from his head and throw it into their midst.

‘I give you my sign,’ he cried, ‘that I come in peace. Many of you are armed. Look at us. We have come among you unarmed.’

The Moors then saw that it was so, and they remembered too that from this man they had received nothing but justice and tolerance. He had come among them unarmed. They could have slain him and his few men together with the Archbishop and his chaplain without any loss to themselves.

This was certainly a sign of friendship.

‘Long life to the Alcayde!’ cried one, and the others took up this cry.

Tendilla lifted a hand.

‘My friends,’ he said, ‘I pray you listen to me. You are armed and plan violence. If you carry out this plan you might have some initial success here in Granada. And what then? Beyond Granada the whole might of Spain would be assembled and come against you. If you gave way to your feelings now you would bring certain disaster and death upon yourselves and your families.’

The leading alfaquis came to Tendilla and said: ‘We thank you, oh lord Alcayde, for coming to us this night. We have in your coming proof of the friendship of yourself and the Archbishop of Granada towards us. But we have suffered great wrongs. The burning of our works of art has caused us great distress.’

‘You have your grievances,’ Tendilla replied. ‘If you will go back to your homes and put all thoughts of rebellion from your minds I will bring your case before the Sovereigns.’

‘You yourself will do this?’

‘I will,’ said Tendilla. ‘Their Highnesses are now in Seville. As soon as I can put my affairs in order I will ride there and explain to them.’

Zegri, who had learned at first hand of what he had come to think of as Christian perfidy, elbowed his way to the side of their leader.

‘How can we know,’ he said, ‘that the Alcayde does not speak thus to gain time? How do we know that he will not become our enemy and bring the Christians against us?’

‘I give you my word,’ said Tendilla.

‘Oh lord Alcayde, I was invited to the house of the Archbishop of Toledo as a guest, and I found myself his prisoner. He changed towards me in the space of an hour. What if you should so change?’

There was a murmuring in the crowd. They were all remembering the experiences of Zegri.

Tendilla saw that the angry mood was returning, the fury which the conduct of Ximenes had aroused was bursting out again.

Tendilla made a decision. ‘I shall go to Seville,’ he said. ‘You well know the love I bear my wife and two children. I will leave them here with you as hostages. That will be a token of my good intentions.’

There was silence in the crowd.

Then the leading alfaquis said: ‘You have spoken, oh lord Alcayde.’

The crowd began to cheer. They did not love violence. They trusted Tendilla and Talavera to rid them of the trouble-making Ximenes that all might be peace once more in their beautiful city of Granada.

News of what had happened in the Albaycin was brought to Ximenes. He was now alarmed. He had hoped to continue with his proselytising unimpeded; he realised now that he must be wary.

Tendilla had come storming into his Palace and had not hesitated to say what he meant. He blamed Ximenes for the first trouble that had occurred in the city since the reconquest, adding that within the next few days he was leaving for Seville, and there he would lay the matter before the Sovereigns.

Ximenes coldly retorted that he would do all that he had done, over again, should the need arise, and the need was sore in Granada.

‘You will do nothing,’ retorted Tendilla, ‘until this matter has been laid before their Highnesses.’

And Ximenes had of course agreed to the wisdom of that.

As soon as Tendilla had left, Ximenes fell on his knees in prayer. This was a very important moment in his life. He knew that the version of this affair which Tendilla would carry to the Sovereigns would differ from the tale he had to tell; and it was all-important that Ferdinand and Isabella should hear Ximenes’s account first.

It might well be that on the following day Tendilla would set out for Seville. Ximenes must therefore forestall him.

He rose from his knees and sent for one of his Negro servants, a tall long-limbed athlete who could run faster than any other known in the district.

‘I shall want you to leave for Seville within half an hour,’ he said. ‘Prepare yourself.’

The slave bowed, and when he was alone Ximenes sat down to write his account of what had happened in Granada. The need to save souls was imperative. He wanted more power and, when he had it, he would guarantee to bring the Moors of Granada into the Christian fold. He had been unable to stand calmly aside and watch the heathenish habits which were practised in that community. He had acted under guidance from God, and he was now praying that his Sovereigns would not shut their eyes to God’s will.

He sent for the slave.

‘With all speed to Seville,’ he commanded.

And he smiled, well satisfied, believing that Isabella and Ferdinand would receive the news from him hours before they could possibly see Tendilla. By that time they would have read his version of the revolt, and all Tendilla’s eloquence would not be able to persuade them that Ximenes had been wrong in what he had done.

The Negro slave ran the first few miles. As he sped onwards there passed him on the road a Moor who was riding on a grey horse; and the Negro wished that he had a horse on which to ride, but he quickly forgot it and gave himself up to the pleasure of exercise.

He was noted for his fleetness of foot and proud of it. Anyone could ride a horse. None could match him for running speed.

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.

Ferdinand was saying to himself: I have found the need always to fight, to protect what is mine and to seek to make it safe; I have seen that only by adding to my possessions can I make Aragon safe.

And Isabella: Perhaps it is sin for a mother to love her children as I have done, to evade her duty in the desire to keep them with her.

Ximenes then came to the point up to which he was leading them.

‘It is true,’ he said, ‘that there was this Treaty of Granada. But the Moors in Granada have been in revolt against Your Highnesses. By so doing they have broken the treaty, the core of which was that both sides were to live in amity. It was they who rose against us. Therefore, since they have broken their word, there is no need for us to have any compunction in changing our attitude towards them.’

Subtly Ximenes reminded the Sovereigns of the expulsion of the Jews. Much of the property of these unfortunate Jews had enriched the state. The thought of that made Ferdinand’s eyes gleam. For Isabella’s sake he spoke of the great work that could be done in bringing these Infidels into the Christian fold.

Then he cried: ‘They have broken the treaty. You are under no obligation. Any means should be used to bring these poor lost souls to Christianity.’

Ximenes had won his battle. The Treaty of Granada was no more.

An almost benevolent expression was on Ximenes’s face. He was already making plans to bring the Moors of Granada to baptism. In a short time there should be what he called a truly Christian Granada.