Both resented the tone of Ximenes, but they had to remember that as Archbishop of Toledo he held the highest post in Spain under the Sovereigns.

‘I could not change my mind,’ went on Ximenes coldly, ‘while I see this city dominated by that which is heathen.’

Tendilla put in: ‘We obey the rules of their Highnesses’ agreement with Boabdil at the time of the reconquest. As Alcayde and Captain-General of the Kingdom of Granada it is my duty to see that this agreement is adhered to.’

Ximenes shook his head. ‘I know well the terms of that agreement, and pity it is that it was ever made.’

‘Yet,’ said Talavera, ‘these conditions were made and the Sovereigns could not so dishonour themselves and Spain by not observing them.’

‘What conditions!’ cried Ximenes scornfully. ‘The Moors to retain possession of their mosques with freedom to practise their heathen rites! What sort of a city is this over which to fly the flag of the Sovereigns?’

‘Nevertheless these were the terms of surrender,’ Tendilla reminded him.

‘Unmolested in their style of dress, in their manners and ancient usages; to speak their own language, to have the right to dispose of their own property! A fine treaty.’

‘Yet, my lord Archbishop, these were the terms Boabdil asked for surrender. Had we not accepted them there would have been months – perhaps years – of slaughter, and no doubt the destruction of much that is beautiful in Granada.’

Ximenes turned accusingly to these two men. ‘You, Tendilla, are the Alcayde; you, Talavera, are the Archbishop. And you content yourselves with looking on at these practices which cannot but anger our God and are enough to make the saints weep. Are you surprised that we suffer the ill fortune we do? Our heir dead. His child stillborn. The Sovereigns’ eldest daughter dead in childbirth. What next, I ask you? What next?’

‘My lord Archbishop cannot suggest that these tragedies are the result of what happens here in Granada!’ murmured Tendilla.

‘I say,’ thundered Ximenes, ‘that we have witnessed the disfavour of God, and that it behoves us to look about and ask ourselves in what manner we are displeasing Him.’

Talavera spoke then. ‘My lord, you do not realise what efforts we have made to convert these people to Christianity.’

Ximenes turned to the Archbishop. It was from a man of the Church that he might expect good sense, rather than from a soldier. Talavera had at one time been Prior of the Monastery of Santa Maria del Prado, not far from Valladolid; he had also been confessor to the Queen. He was a man of courage. Ximenes had heard that when Isabella’s confessor had listened to the Queen’s confession he had insisted on her kneeling while he sat, and when Isabella had protested Talavera had remarked that the confessional was God’s tribunal and that, as he acted as God’s minister, it was fitting that he should remain seated while the Queen knelt. Isabella had approved of such courage; so did Ximenes.

It was known also that this man, who had previously been the Bishop of Avila, refused to accept a larger income when he became Archbishop of Granada; he lived simply and spent a great deal of his income on charity.

This was all very well, thought Ximenes; but what good was it to appease the hunger of the poor, to give them sensuous warmth, when their souls were in peril? What had this dreamer done to bring the heathen Moor into the Christian fold?

‘Tell me of these efforts,’ said Ximenes curtly.

‘I have learned Arabic,’ said Talavera, ‘in order that I may understand these people and speak with them in their own tongue. I have commanded my clergy to do the same. Once we speak their language we can show them the great advantages of holding to the true Faith. I have had selections from the Gospels translated into Arabic.’

‘And what conversions have you to report?’ demanded Ximenes.

‘Ah,’ put in Tendilla, ‘this is an ancient people. They have their own literature, their own professions. My lord Archbishop, look at our Alhambra itself. Is it not a marvel of architecture? This is a symbol of the culture of these people.’

‘Culture!’ cried Ximenes, his eyes suddenly blazing. ‘What culture could there be without Christianity? I see that in this Kingdom of Granada the Christian Faith is considered of little importance. That shall not continue, I tell you. That shall not continue.’

Talavera looked distressed. Tendilla raised his eyebrows. He was annoyed, but only slightly so. He understood the ardour of people such as Ximenes. Here was another Torquemada. Torquemada had set up the Inquisition, and men such as Ximenes would keep the fires burning. Tendilla was irritated. He hated unpleasantness. His beloved Granada delighted him with its beauty and prosperity. His Moors were the most industrious people in Spain now that they had rid themselves of the Jews. He wanted nothing to break the peaceful prosperity of his city.

He smiled. Let this fanatical monk rave. It was true he was Primate of Spain – what a pity that the office had not been given to a civilised nobleman – but Tendilla was very well aware of the agreement which Isabella and Ferdinand had made with Boabdil, and he believed that Isabella at least would honour her agreement.

Therefore he smiled without much concern while Ximenes ranted.

Granada was safe from the fury of the fanatic.

Isabella held the baby in her arms. The lightness of the little bundle worried her.

Some children are small, she comforted herself. I have had so much trouble that I look for it where it does not exist.

She questioned his nurses.

His little Highness was a good child, a contented child. He took his food and scarcely cried at all.

Isabella thought, Would it not be better if he kicked and cried lustily? Then she remembered her daughter Juana who had done these things.

I must not build up fears where they do not exist, she admonished herself.

There was his wet nurse – a lusty girl, her plump breasts bursting out of her bodice, smelling faintly of olla podrida in a manner which slightly offended the Queen’s nostrils. But the girl was healthy and she had the affection which such girls did have for their foster children.

It was useless to question the girl. How does he suck? Greedily? Is he eager for his feed?

She would give the answers which she thought would best please the Queen, rather than what might be the truth.

Catalina begged to be allowed to hold the baby, and Isabella laid the child in her daughter’s arms.

‘Here, sit beside me. Hold our precious little Miguel tightly.’

Isabella watched her daughter with the baby. Perhaps it would not be long before she held a child of her own in such a manner.

The thought made her uneasy. How could she bear to part with Catalina? And she would have to part with her soon. The King of England was indicating that he was growing impatient. He was asking for more concessions. Since the death of Juan and his child the bargaining position had not been so favourable for Spain. It was very likely that Margaret would be married soon, and her share of the Habsburg inheritance was lost.

Ferdinand had said to her during their journey to Granada: ‘The English alliance is more important to us now than ever.’

So it would not be long.

Ferdinand came into the nursery. He too took a delight in the child. Isabella, watching him peering into the small face, realised that he suffered from none of those fears which beset her.

‘How like his father Miguel begins to grow,’ he said, beaming. ‘Ah, my daughter, I trust it will not be long before you hold a child of your own in your arms. A Prince of England, eh, a Prince who will one day be a King.’

He had shattered the peace of the nursery for Catalina. It was no use being annoyed with him. He could never understand Catalina’s fears as her mother could.