Виктория Холт: Daughters of Spain

‘I believe that is what you wish to do.’

‘I think I am more suited to be a hermit than a courtier.’

‘We do not ask you to be a courtier, Ximenes, but Archbishop of Toledo.’

‘They are one and the same, Your Highness.’

‘If you took the office I am sure they would be quite different.’ Isabella smiled serenely. She was certain that within the next few days Ximenes would accept the Archbishopric of Toledo.

She dismissed him and he went back to the small chamber which he occupied in the Palace. It was like a monk’s cell. There was straw on the floor; this was his bed, and his pillow was a log of wood. There would be no fire in this room whatever the weather.

It was said in the Palace: Fray Francisco Ximenes enjoys punishing himself.

As he entered this cell-like apartment he found a Franciscan monk awaiting him there and, as the hood of this newcomer fell back, Ximenes saw that his visitor was his own brother Bernardín.

The grim face of Ximenes was as near to expressing pleasure as it could be. It delighted him that Bernardín had entered the Franciscan brotherhood. Bernardín had been a wild boy and the last thing to have been expected of him was that he should enter the Order.

‘Why, brother,’ he said, ‘well met. What do you do here?’

‘I come to pay a call on you. I hear that you are highly thought of at Court.’

‘The man who is highly thought of at Court one day is often in disgrace the next.’

‘But you are not in disgrace. Is it true that you are to be Archbishop of Toledo?’

Bernardín’s eyes sparkled with pleasure, but Ximenes said quickly: ‘You have been misinformed. I am not to be Archbishop of Toledo.’

‘It can’t be true that the post has been offered to you and you refused it! You wouldn’t be such a fool.’

‘I have refused it.’

‘Ximenes! You … idiot! You crass … stupid …’

‘Have done. What do you know of these matters?’

‘Only what good you could have brought to your family if you had become the most important man in Spain.’

‘I feared they had not made a monk of you, Bernardín. Tell me, what advantages should a good Franciscan hope for from the most important man in Spain?’

‘You don’t expect an answer to such a stupid question. Any man would hope for the highest honours. Whom should an Archbishop honour if not his own family?’

‘Is this my brother speaking?’

‘Don’t be an old hypocrite!’ burst out Bernardín. ‘Do you think you can hide your true feelings from me ? You’ve refused this, have you not? Why? So that you can be pressed more strongly. You’ll take it. And then, when you see what power is yours, perhaps you’ll give a little something to a needy fellow Franciscan who also happens to be your own brother.’

‘I should prefer you to leave me,’ said Ximenes. ‘I do not like the way you talk.’

‘Oh, what a fool I have for a brother!’ wailed Bernardín. His expression changed suddenly. ‘You have forgotten, have you not, that there are so many wrongs that you can put right. Why, even within our own Order there is much that you dislike. Some of our fellows love luxury too much. You would like to see us all tormenting our bodies with our hair shirts; you would like to see us all using planks as our pillows; starvation should be our lot. Well, it is in your power to bring all these discomforts to us, oh holy brother.’

‘Get you gone,’ cried Ximenes. ‘You are no brother of mine … nay, even though our mother bore us both and you wear the habit of the Franciscans.’

Bernardín bowed ironically. ‘Even though you are a hypocrite, even though you are so holy that you will not take the honours which would enable you to help your family, it is not a bad thing to be the brother of Francisco Ximenes de Cisneros. Men already are wary how they treat me, and seek my favour.’ Bernardín came closer to his brother and whispered: ‘They all know that in good time you will not be able to resist this honour. They all know that I, Bernardín de Cisneros, will one day be the brother of the Archbishop of Toledo.’

‘They shall not have that gratification,’ Ximenes told him.

Bernardín laughed slyly and left his brother. When he was alone Ximenes fell to his knees and began to pray. The temptation was very great.

‘Oh Lord,’ he murmured, ‘if I accepted this great honour there are so many reforms I could bring about. I would work in Thy name. I would work for Thy glory and for that of Spain. Might it not be my duty to accept this honour?

‘No, no,’ he admonished himself. ‘It is temporal power which you are seeking. You want to wear the robes of the Archbishop, to see the people kneel before you.’

But that was not true.

What did he want? He did not know.

‘I will never accept the Archbishopric of Toledo!’ he said aloud.

It was but a few days later when he was summoned to the Queen’s apartment.

Isabella received him with a gracious smile which held a hint of triumph.

She put a document into his hand. ‘It is for you, Fray Francisco Ximenes,’ she said. ‘You will see it is from His Holiness and addressed to you.’

Once more the Pope had addressed Ximenes as Archbishop of Toledo, and this document contained direct instructions from Rome.

There must be no more refusals. Alexander VI wrote from the Vatican that Fray Francisco Ximenes de Cisneros was henceforth Archbishop of Toledo, and any refusal on his part to accept the post would be regarded as disobedience to the Holy See.

The decision had been made for him.

Ximenes wondered whether the feeling he experienced was exultation. The Kingdoms of the world were no longer merely shown to him. He was forced by the Holy Father himself to accept his destiny.

Isabella sat with her children. Whenever she could spare the time from her state duties she liked to be with them, and it was comforting to know that they enjoyed this intimacy as she did.

Juan put a shawl about her shoulders. ‘There is a draught coming from the window, dear Mother.’

‘Thank you, Angel.’ She offered a silent prayer of thankfulness because, whoever else was taken from her, Angel would always be near.

Catalina was leaning against her knee, dreamily happy. Poor defenceless little Catalina, who was the baby. Isabella remembered well the day the child had been born, a miserably cold December day in Alcalá de Henares. Little did she think then that this, her fifth child, would be her last.

Juana could not cease chattering. ‘Mother, what are the women like in Flanders? They have golden hair, I hear … most of them. They are big women with great breasts.’

‘Hush, hush!’ said the Princess Isabella. She was sitting on her stool, her fingers caressing her rosary. The Queen believed she had been praying. She was constantly praying. And for what? A miracle which would bring her young husband back to life? Was she praying that she would not have to leave home and go once more as a bride to Portugal? Perhaps that would be as much a miracle as the return to life of Alonso would have been.

‘But,’ cried Juana, ‘the Queen said there was to be no ceremony. There never is ceremony when we are together thus.’

‘That is so, my daughter,’ said the Queen. ‘But it is not seemly to discuss the size of the breasts of the women in your future husband’s country.’

‘But Mother, why not? Those women might be of the utmost importance to me.’

Has she been hearing tales of this handsome philanderer who is to be her husband? the Queen wondered. How could she? Has she second sight? What strangeness is this in my Juana? How like her grandmother she grows … so like that I never look at her without feeling this fear twining itself about my heart like ivy about a tree … strangling my contentment.