But that gay young son of his was not suited to this high post. There was only one man in Spain whom she believed to be worthy of it, and always she must think first of Spain. This was why she was now determined that the Franciscan Ximenes should be Primate of Spain, no matter how the appointment displeased Ferdinand.
She rose from the table and went to the door of the apartment.
‘Highness!’ Several of the attendants who had been waiting outside sprang to attention.
‘Go and discover whether Fray Francisco Ximenes de Cisneros is in the Palace. If he is, tell him that it is my wish that he present himself to me without delay.’
Fray Francisco Ximenes de Cisneros was praying silently as he approached the Palace. Beneath the rough serge of his habit the hair shirt irritated his skin. He took a fierce delight in this. He had eaten nothing but a few herbs and berries during his journey to Madrid from Ocaña, but he was accustomed to long abstinence from food.
His nephew, Francisco Ruiz, whom he loved as dearly as he could love anyone, and who was closer to him than his own brothers, glanced anxiously at him.
‘What,’ he asked, ‘do you think is the meaning of the Queen’s summons?’
‘My dear Francisco, as I shall shortly know, let us not waste our breath in conjecture.’
But Francisco Ruiz was excited. It had so happened that the great Cardinal Mendoza, who had occupied the highest post in Spain – that of the Archbishop of Toledo – had recently died and the office was vacant. Was it possible that such an honour was about to be bestowed on his uncle? Ximenes might declare himself uninterested in great honours, but there were some honours which would tempt the most devout of men.
And why not? Ruiz demanded of himself. The Queen thinks highly of her confessor – and rightly so. She can never have had such a worthy adviser since Torquemada himself heard her confessions. And she loves such men, men who are not afraid to speak their minds, men who are clearly indifferent to worldly riches.
Torquemada, suffering acutely from the gout, was now an old man with clearly very little time left to him. He was almost entirely confined to the monastery of Avila. Ximenes on the other hand was at the height of his mental powers.
Ruiz was certain that it was to bestow this great honour on his uncle that they were being thus recalled to Madrid.
As for Ximenes, try as he might, he could not thrust the thought from his mind.
Archbishop of Toledo! Primate of Spain! He could not understand this strange feeling which rose within him. There was so much about himself which he could not understand. He longed to suffer the greatest bodily torture, as Christ had suffered on the cross. And even as his body cried out for this treatment, a voice within him asked: ‘Why, Ximenes, is it because you cannot endure that any should be greater than yourself? None must bear pain more stoically. None must be more devout. Who are you, Ximenes? Are you a man? Are you a God?
‘Archbishop of Toledo,’ the voice gloated within him. ‘The power will be yours. You will be greater than any man under the Sovereigns. And the Sovereigns may be swayed by your influence. Have you not had charge of the Queen’s conscience; and is not the Queen the real ruler of Spain?
‘It is for your own vanity, Ximenes. You long to be the most powerful man in Spain; more powerful than Ferdinand whose great desire is to fill his coffers and extend his Kingdom. Greater than Torquemada who has set the holy fires scorching the limbs of heretics throughout the land. More powerful than any. Ximenes, Primate of Spain, the Queen’s right hand. Ruler of Spain?’
I shall not take this post if it is offered to me, he told himself.
He closed his eyes and began to pray for strength to refuse it, but it was as though the Devil spread the kingdoms of the Earth at his feet.
He swayed slightly. There was little nourishment in berries, and when he travelled he never took food or money with him. He relied on what he could find growing by the wayside, or the help from the people he met.
‘My Master did not carry bread and wine,’ he would say, ‘and though the birds had their nests and the foxes their lairs there was no place in which the Son of Man might lay his head.’
What his Master had done Ximenes must do also.
When they entered the Palace the Queen’s messenger immediately called to him.
‘Fray Francisco Ximenes de Cisneros?’
‘It is I,’ answered Ximenes. He felt a certain pride every time he heard his full title; he had not been christened Francisco but Gonzalo, and had changed his first name that he might bear the same one as the founder of the Order in which he served.
‘Her Highness Queen Isabella wishes you to wait upon her with all speed.’
‘I will go to her presence at once.’
Ruiz plucked at his sleeve. ‘Should you not wipe away the stains of the journey before presenting yourself to the Queen’s Highness?’
‘The Queen knows I have come on a journey. She will expect me to be travel-stained.’
Ruiz looked after his uncle in some dismay. The lean figure, the emaciated face with the pale skin tightly drawn across the bones were in great contrast to the looks of the previous Archbishop of Toledo, the late Mendoza, sensuous, good-natured epicure and lover of comfort and women.
Archbishop of Toledo! thought Ruiz. Surely it cannot be!
Isabella gave a smile of pleasure as her confessor entered the apartment.
She waved her hand to the attendant and they were alone.
‘I have brought you back from Ocaña,’ she said almost apologetically, ‘because I have news for you.’
‘What news has Your Highness for me?’
His manner lacked the obsequiousness with which Isabella was accustomed to being addressed by her subjects, but she did not protest. She admired her confessor because he was no great respecter of persons.
But for the truly holy life this man led, it might have been said that he was a man of great pride.
‘I think,’ said Isabella, ‘that this letter from His Holiness the Pope will explain.’ She turned to the table and took up that document which had caused such displeasure to Ferdinand, and put it into the hands of Ximenes.
‘Open it and read it,’ urged Isabella.
Ximenes obeyed. As he read the first words a change passed across his features. He did not grow more pale – that would have been impossible – but his mouth hardened and his eyes narrowed; for a few seconds a mighty battle was raging within his meagre frame.
The words danced before his eyes. They were in the handwriting of Pope Alexander VI himself, and they ran as follows:
‘To our beloved son, Fray Francisco Ximenes de Cisneros, Archbishop of Toledo …’
Isabella was waiting for him to fall on his knees and thank her for this great honour; but he did no such thing. He stood very still, staring before him, oblivious of the fact that he was in the presence of his Queen. He was only aware of the conflict within himself, the need to understand what real motives lay behind his feelings.
Power. Great power. It was his to take. For what purpose did he want power? He was unsure. He was as unsure as he had been years ago when he had lived as a hermit in the forest of Castañar.
Then it seemed to him that devils mocked him. ‘You long for power, Ximenes,’ they said. ‘You are a vain and sinful man. You are ambitious, and by that sin fell the angels.’
He put the paper on to the table and murmured: ‘There has been a mistake. This is not for me.’ Then he turned and strode from the room, leaving the astonished Queen staring after him.