The people of Saragossa, who had declined to accept his mother, assembled to greet little Miguel as their future King.
Ferdinand and Isabella swore that they would be his faithful guardians, and that before he was allowed to assume any rights as Sovereign he should be made to swear to respect those liberties to which the proud people of Aragon were determined to cling.
‘Long live the lawful heir and successor to the crown of Aragon!’ cried the Saragossa Cortes.
This ceremony was repeated not only throughout Aragon and Castile but in Portugal, for this frail child would, if he came to the throne, unite those countries.
Isabella took her leave of the sorrowing Emanuel.
‘Leave the child with me,’ she said. ‘You know how deeply affected I have been by the loss of my daughter. I have brought up many children. Give me this little one who will be our heir, that he may help to assuage my grief.’
Emanuel was stricken with pity for his stoical mother-in-law. He knew that she was thinking it could not be long before her remaining daughters were taken from her. Moreover, his Spanish inheritance would be of greater importance to little Miguel than that which would come from his father.
‘Take the child,’ he said. ‘Bring him up as you will. I trust he will never give you cause for anxiety.’
Isabella held the child against her and, as she did so, she felt a stirring of that pleasure which only her own beloved family could give her.
It was true that the Lord took away, but He also gave.
She said: ‘I will take him to my city of Granada. There he shall have the greatest care that it is possible for any child to have. Thank you, Emanuel.’
So Emanuel left the child with her, and Ferdinand was delighted that they would be in a position to supervise his upbringing.
Isabella gently kissed the baby’s face, and Ferdinand came to stand beside her.
If I could only be as he is, thought Isabella, and feel as he does that the death of our daughter Isabella was not such a great tragedy, since their child lives.
‘Emanuel will need a new wife,’ Ferdinand mused.
‘It will be a long time yet. He dearly loved our Isabella.’
‘Kings have little time for mourning,’ answered Ferdinand. ‘He said nothing of this matter to you?’
‘Taking a new wife! Indeed he did not. I am sure the thought has not occurred to him.’
‘Nevertheless it has occurred to me,’ retorted Ferdinand. ‘A King in need of a wife. Have you forgotten that we have a daughter as yet not spoken for?’
Isabella gave him a startled look.
‘Why should not our Maria be Queen of Portugal?’ demanded Ferdinand. ‘Thus we should regain that which we have lost by the death of Isabella.’
‘Farewell,’ said Margaret. ‘It grieves me to leave you, but I know that I must go’
Catalina embraced her sister-in-law. ‘How I wish that you would stay with us.’
‘For how long?’ asked Margaret. ‘My father will be making plans for a new marriage for me. It is better that I go.’
‘You have not been very happy here,’ said Maria quietly.
‘It was not the fault of the King and Queen, nor of any of you. You have done everything possible to make me happy. Farewell, my sisters. I shall think of you often.’
Catalina shivered. ‘How life changes!’ she said. ‘How can we know where any of us will be this time next year … or even this time next month?’
Catalina was terrified every time envoys came from England. She knew that her mother was putting off the day when her youngest daughter would leave her home; but it could not be long delayed. Catalina was too fatalistic to believe that was possible.
‘Farewell, farewell,’ said Margaret.
And that day she was on her way to the coast, to board the ship which would take her back to Flanders.
Isabella’s great delight was her little grandson. He was too young as yet to accompany her on all her journeys throughout the country so, after his acceptance by the Cortes of Castile and Aragon, he was left with his nurses in the Alhambra at Granada. Isabella often discussed his future with Ferdinand, and it was her desire that as soon as he was old enough he should always be with them.
‘He cannot learn his state duties too early,’ she said; but what she really meant was that she was not going to be separated from the child more than she could possibly help.
Ferdinand smiled indulgently. He was ready to pass over Isabella’s little weaknesses as long as they did not interfere with his plans.
The Court was on its way to Seville, and naturally Isabella would call first at Granada to see her little Miguel.
Catalina, who was with the party, was delighted to note her mother’s recovery from despair, and she herself thought as tenderly of Miguel as Isabella did. Miguel was the means of making the Queen happy again; therefore Catalina loved him dearly.
Leisurely the Court moved southwards, and with them travelled the Archbishop of Toledo.
Ximenes had been deeply affected by the death of Tomás de Torquemada. There was a man who had written his name large across a page of Spanish history. He had clearly in his heyday been the most important man in his country, for he had guided the King and Queen and in the days of his strength had had his will.
It was due to him that the Inquisition was now a power in the land and that there was not a man, woman or child who did not dread the knock on the door in the dead of night, the entry of the alguazils and the dungeons of torture.
That was well, thought Ximenes, for only through torture could man come to God. And for those who had denied God the greatest torture man could devise was not bad enough. If these people burned at the stake, it was but a foretaste of the punishment which God would give them. What were twenty minutes at the stake compared with an eternity in Hell?
Riding south towards Granada, Ximenes was conscious of a great desire: to do, for Spain and the Faith, work which could be compared with that of Torquemada.
He thought of those who were in this retinue, and it seemed to him that the conduct of so many left much to be desired.
Ferdinand was ever reaching for material gain; Isabella’s weakness was her children. Even now she had Catalina beside her. The girl was nearly fifteen years old and still she remained in Spain. She was marriageable, and the King of England grew impatient. But for her own gratification – and perhaps because the girl pleaded with her – Isabella kept her in Spain.
Ximenes thought grimly that her affection for the new heir, young Miguel, must approach almost idolatry. The Queen should keep a sharp curb on her affections. They overshadowed her devotion to God and duty.
Catalina had withdrawn herself as far as possible from the stern-faced Archbishop. She read his thoughts and they terrified her. She hoped he would not accompany them to Seville; she was sure that, if he did, he would do his utmost to persuade her mother to send her with all speed to England.
Granada, which some had called the most beautiful city in Spain, was before them. There it lay, a fairy-tale city against the background of the snow-tipped peaks of the Sierra Nevada. High above the town was the Alhambra, that Moorish Palace, touched by a rosy glow, a miracle of architecture, strong as a fortress, yet so daintily and so delicately fashioned and carved, as Catalina knew.
There was a saying that God gives His chosen people the means to live in Granada; and Catalina could believe that was so.
She hoped that Granada would bring happiness to them all, that the Queen would be so delighted with her little grandson that she would forget to mourn, that there would be no news from England; and that, for the sunny days ahead, her life and that of her family would be as peacefully serene as this scene of snowy mountains, of rippling streams, the water of which sparkled like diamonds and was as clear as crystals.