He rehearsed the words he would say: ‘You are my brother, but that does not mean that I shall treat you with especial leniency. You know my beliefs. I hate nepotism. I shall never allow it to be used in any of my concerns.’
And Bernardín would stand smiling at him in that lazy cynical way of his, as though he were reminding his powerful brother that he did not always live up to his own rigid code.
It was true that he had made exceptions. There was the case of Bernardín for one. He had taken him into his household with a lucrative post as steward. What folly!
‘Yet this was my brother,’ said Ximenes aloud.
And how had Bernardín shown his gratitude? By giving himself airs, by stirring up trouble, by extricating himself from those difficult situations which were of his own making, by truculently reminding those who sought justice: ‘I am the brother of the Archbishop of Toledo. I am greatly favoured by him. If you dare to bring any complaints against me, it will go ill with you.’
‘Oh shame!’ cried Ximenes. ‘This was the very weakness I deplore in others.’
And what had he done with Bernardín? Banished him to a monastery, and there Bernardín had drawn up complaints against his brother in which he had been supported by the Archbishop’s enemies – who were numerous.
There had been nothing to do but send Bernardín to prison. And how his conscience had suffered. ‘My own brother … in prison?’ he had demanded of himself. ‘Yes, but he deserves his fate,’ was the answer. ‘Your own brother! Oh, it is only little Bernardín who was always one for mischief.’
So he had brought him out of prison and taken him back as a steward, and had talked to him sternly, imploring him to lead a better life.
But what had been the use? Bernardín would not mend his ways. It had not been long before news had come to Ximenes that his brother had interfered with the justice of the Courts, threatening that if a judge did not give a certain verdict he would incur the displeasure of the Archbishop of Toledo.
This was the final disaster. For this reason he had sent for Bernardín, for all his peccadilloes of the past seemed slight compared with this interference with the justice of the Courts.
Ximenes raised himself and called Francisco Ruiz.
His nephew came hurrying to his bedside. How he wished that his brother were like this trustworthy man.
‘Francisco, when Bernardín comes, have him brought to me at once and leave us together.’
Ruiz bowed his head and, when Ximenes waved a hand, immediately left the sickroom.
‘I would be alone,’ Ximenes said gently as he went. ‘I want to pray.’
He was still praying when Bernardín was brought to him.
Ximenes opened his eyes and regarded his wayward brother, looking in vain for a sign of penitence in Bernardín’s face.
‘Well, brother,’ said Ximenes, ‘as you see I have been forced to take to my bed.’
‘I pray you do not ask for my sympathy,’ cried Bernardín. ‘You are ill because of this ridiculous life you lead. You could be well and strong if you allowed yourself to live in comfort.’
‘I have not summoned you to me that you may advise me on my way of life, Bernardín, but to remonstrate with you regarding your own.’
‘And what sins have I committed now?’
‘You will know so much better than I.’
‘In your eyes, brother, all human actions are sin.’
‘Not all, Bernardín.’
‘All mine. Your own, of course, are virtues.’
‘I found it necessary recently to have you imprisoned.’
Bernardín’s eyes glittered and he came nearer to the bed. ‘Do not attempt to do such a thing again. I swear to you that if you do you will live to regret the day.’
‘Your threats would never make me swerve from my duty, Bernardín.’
Bernardín leaned over the bed and seized Ximenes roughly by the shoulder. Ximenes tried to throw him off but failed to do so and lay panting helplessly on his pillows.
Bernardín laughed aloud. ‘Why, ’tis not I who am at your mercy, but you at mine. What is the Archbishop of Toledo but a skin full of bones! You are sick, brother. Why, I could put these two hands of mine about your neck and press and press … In a matter of seconds the Sovereigns would find themselves without their Archbishop of Toledo.’
‘Bernardín, you should not even think of murder.’
‘I will think what I will,’ cried Bernardín. ‘What good will you ever do me? What good have you ever done? Had you been a normal brother to me I should have been a Bishop by now. And what am I? Steward in your household! Brought before my Lord Archbishop to answer a charge. What charge? I ask you. A charge of getting for myself what most brothers would have given me.’
‘Have a care, Bernardín.’
‘Should I have a care? I … the strong man? It is you who should take care, Gonzalo Ximenes … I beg your pardon … The name our parents gave you is not good enough for such a holy man. Francisco Ximenes, you are at my mercy. I could kill you as you lie there. It is you who should plead with me for leniency … not I with you.’
A lust for power had sprung up in Bernardín’s eyes. What he said was true. At this moment his brilliant brother was at his mercy. He savoured that power, and longed to exercise it.
He will never do anything for me, he told himself. He is no good to our family … no good to himself. He might just as well have stayed in the hermitage at Castañar. A curse on him! He has no natural feeling.
All Bernardín’s dreams were remembered in that second. Ximenes could have made them come true.
Ximenes had recovered his breath and was speaking.
‘Bernardín, I sent for you because what I heard of your conduct in the Courts distressed and displeased me …’
Bernardín began to laugh out loud. With a sudden movement he pulled the pillow from under his brother’s head and laughing demoniacally he held it high. Then he pushed Ximenes back on the bed and brought the pillow down over his face and held it there.
He could hear Ximenes fighting for his breath. He felt his brother’s hands trying to pull at the pillow. But Ximenes was feeble and Bernardín was strong.
And after a while Ximenes lay still.
Bernardín lifted the pillow; he dared not stop to look at his brother’s face, but hurried from the room.
Tomás de Torquemada had left the peace of his monastery of St Thomas in Avila and was travelling to Madrid. This was a great wrench for him as he was a very old man now and much of the fire and vitality had gone from him.
Only the firm belief that his presence was needed at Court could have prevailed upon him to leave Avila at this time.
He loved his monastery – which was to him one of the greatest loves in his life. Perhaps the other was the Spanish Inquisition. In the days of his health they had fought together for his loving care. What joy it had been to study the plans for his monastery; to watch it built; to glory in beautifully sculptured arches and carvings of great skill. The Inquisition had lured him from that love now and then; and the sight of heretics going to the quemadero in their hideous yellow sanbenitos gave him as much pleasure as the cool, silent halls of his monastery.
Which was he more proud to be – the creator of St Thomas in Avila or the Inquisitor General?
The latter was more or less a title only nowadays. That was because he was growing old and was plagued by the gout. The monastery would always stand as a monument to his memory and none could take that from him.
He would call first on the Archbishop of Toledo at Alcalá de Henares. He believed he could rely on the support of the Archbishop for the project he had in mind.
Painfully he rode in the midst of his protective cavalcade. Fifty men on horseback surrounded him, and a hundred armed men went on foot before him and a hundred marched behind.