The Cortes then discussed the finances of the country; and it was agreeable to realise that these had been placed on a much firmer foundation than had existed when Isabella had inherited the throne.

But the most important edicts of that Cortes were the rules against the Jews, which were being reinforced.

These were unanimously adopted.

‘All Jews in the kingdom to wear a red circle of cloth on the shoulders of their cloaks that they may be recognised as Jews by all who behold them.

‘All Jews to keep within the juderias, the gates of which shall be locked at nightfall.

‘No Jew is to take up a profession as innkeeper, apothecary, doctor or surgeon.’

The persecution had been renewed.

Alonso de Ojeda was on the scent. As he walked through the streets of Seville he promised himself that very soon these carefree citizens would see sights to startle them.

The Jews did not believe that the laws were to be taken seriously. They had found living easy for too many years, thought Ojeda grimly.

They were to be seen without their red circles; they continued to practise as surgeons and doctors, and many people patronised them – for they were noted as being very skilled in these professions. They were not keeping to their ghettos.

They shrugged aside the new law. They could be seen sunning themselves under the palms and acacias, or strolling with their families along the banks of the Guadalquivir.

They had not realised that the old sun-drenched life was fast coming to an end.

One of Ojeda’s fellow Dominicans brought a pamphlet to him and, as Ojeda read it, he smiled cynically.

Some Jew who was a little too sure of himself had written this.

What, he demanded, were these new laws but an attack on the Jewish community? The country was under the spell of priests and monks. Was that the way to prosperity? The Christian religion sounded impressive in theory; but how was it in practice?

‘Blasphemy! Blasphemy!’ cried Ojeda, and hurried with all speed to Torquemada, who, when he had read the pamphlet, was in full agreement with Ojeda that something must be done immediately.

He went to see Isabella.

Isabella, reading the pamphlet, shared the horror of the Dominicans.

She sent for Cardinal Mendoza and Torquemada.

‘You see, Cardinal,’ she said, ‘your plan of persuasion has failed.’

The Cardinal answered: ‘Highness, dire punishment will prove no more effective than persuasion, I feel sure.’

Torquemada’s fiery eyes blazed in his emaciated face. ‘Persuasion has undoubtedly failed,’ he cried. ‘We will at least try dire punishment.’

‘I fear, Cardinal,’ said Isabella, ‘that the time has come to do so.’

‘What are Your Highness’s orders?’ Mendoza asked.

‘I desire,’ said Isabella, ‘that you and Tomas de Torquemada appoint Inquisitors; and as the town of Seville would appear to be more tainted with heresy than any other in our dominion, I pray you begin there.’

Tomas de Torquemada flashed a glance of triumph at the Cardinal. His way was to be the accepted one. The catechism had proved fruitless.

The Cardinal was resigned. He saw that there was nothing he could do to hold back the tide of persecution. That Jew and his pamphlet had caused his race a great deal of harm.

The Cardinal had no alternative but to go with the stream.

‘My lord Cardinal,’ said Torquemada, ‘let us obey the Queen’s command and appoint Inquisitors for Seville. I suggest two monks of my order – Miguel Morillo and Juan de San Martino. Do you agree?’

‘I agree,’ said the Cardinal.

In the narrow streets of Seville, dominated by the buildings of a Moorish character, the people lounged. It was warm on that October day, and ladies wearing high combs and black mantillas sat on the balconies overlooking the crowds gathering in the streets.

This was in the nature of a feast day, and the people of Seville loved feast days.

A man and his family sat on the balcony of one of the handsomest houses in the town, overlooking the streets. With them sat a young boy strumming a lute and another with a flute.

People paused to glance at the balcony as they passed along the street. They had been looking at Diego de Susan, who was known as one of the richest merchants in Seville.

They whispered of him: ‘They say he owns ten million maravedis.’

‘Is there so much money in all Spain?’

‘He earned it himself. He is a shrewd merchant.’

‘Like all these Jews.’

‘He has something besides his fortune. Is it true that his daughter is the loveliest girl in Seville?’

‘Take a look at her. There she is, on the balcony. La Susanna, we call her here in Seville. She is his natural daughter and he dotes on her, they tell me. She is well guarded; and needs to be. She is not only full of beauty but full of promise, eh?’

And those who glanced up at the balcony saw La Susanna beside her father. Her large black eyes were slumbrous; her small face an enchanting oval, her heavy black hair caught up with combs which sparkled in the sunshine; her white, ringed hands waved the scarlet and gold fan before her exquisite features.

Diego de Susan was much aware of his daughter. She was his delight, and his great regret was that she was not his legitimate child. He had not been able to resist the temptation to take her into his household and bring her up with all the privileges of one born in wedlock.

He was afraid for La Susanna. She was so beautiful. He feared that the fate of her mother might befall her; and so he guarded her well. This he intended to do until he could make a brilliant marriage for her, which he was sure he would do, since she was so beautiful and he was so rich.

But now his attention was turned to the events of this day.

He had felt a little uneasy when he had heard the proclamation read in the streets.

Great suspicion had been aroused concerning the secret habits of certain New Christians – those Jews who had embraced the Christian religion only to revert in secret to their own faith. This, went on the proclamation, was the worst sort of heresy, and Inquisitors had been appointed to stamp it out. It was the duty of all citizens to watch their neighbours and if they discovered aught that was suspicious they must report it to the Inquisitors or their servants with all speed.

That made Diego de Susan feel vaguely uncomfortable; and when he recalled that it was added that those who did not report such suspicious conduct would themselves be considered guilty, his fear took on a more definite shape.

Were neighbours being asked to spy on each other? Were they being told: ‘Report heretics, for if you do not you in your turn will be considered guilty!’

Diego tried to shrug aside such uneasy thoughts. This was Seville – this beautiful and prosperous town which had been made prosperous by men such as himself and his fellow merchants. Many of them were New Christians, for it was the Jewish community who by their industry and financial genius had brought prosperity to the town.

No, these priests could do no harm in Seville.

He looked at his daughter. Automatically the white hand worked the vivid fan back and forth. Her long lashes drooped. Did she look a little secretive? Was all well with La Susanna?

La Susanna was thinking: What will he say when he knows? What will he do? He will never forgive me. It is what he feared would happen to me.

She grew suddenly angry. She had a fiery temper which could rise within her and madden her temporarily. It is his own fault, she told herself. He should not have shut me away. I am not the kind to be shut away. Perhaps I take after my mother. I must be free. If I wish for a lover, a lover I must have.