‘I am going into the Albaycin. I’m going to talk to them and ask them not to arm themselves for a revolt. Ximenes is responsible for this trouble, but if they kill the Archbishop of Toledo they will find the might of Spain raised against them. I must make them understand this.’
‘But they are in a dangerous mood.’
‘It is for this reason that I must not delay.’
‘But, Iñigo, think. They are rising against the Christians, and you are a Christian.’
He smiled at her. ‘Have no fear. This is something which must be done and I am the one to do it. If things should not go as I believe they will, be ready to leave Granada with the children and lose no time.’
‘Iñigo! Do not go. This is the Archbishop’s affair. Let them storm his Palace. Let them torture him … kill him if they will. He has brought this trouble to Granada. Let him take the consequences.’
Tendilla smiled gently. ‘You have not understood,’ he said. ‘I am the Alcayde. I am responsible for this zealous reformer of ours. I have to protect him against the results of his own folly.’
‘So you are determined?’
‘I am.’
‘Go well armed, Iñigo.’
Tendilla did not answer.
Meanwhile Talavera had heard what was happening in the Albaycin. Something must be done quickly to calm the Moors.
They had always respected him. They had listened gravely when he had preached to them of the virtues of Christianity. They knew him for a good man.
Talavera was certain that he, more than any man in Granada, could help to restore order to the Albaycin.
He called for his chaplain and said: ‘We are going into the Albaycin.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ was the answer.
‘You and I alone,’ went on Talavera, watching the expression on the face of the chaplain.
He saw the man’s alarm. The whole of Granada must know, thought Talavera, of the trouble which was brewing in the Moorish quarter.
‘There is trouble there,’ went on the Archbishop of Granada. ‘The Moors are in an ugly mood. They may well set upon us and murder us in their anger. I do not think they will. I think they will listen to me as they have always done. They are a fierce people but only when their anger is aroused, and I do not think we – you and I, my dear chaplain – have done anything to arouse their anger.’
‘My lord, if we took soldiers with us to protect us …’
‘I have never gone among them with a bodyguard. To do so now would make it appear that I do not trust them.’
‘Do you trust them, my lord?’
‘I trust in my Lord,’ was the answer. ‘And I would not ask you to accompany me if you would not do so of your own free will.’
The chaplain hesitated for a few moments, then he said: ‘Where you go, my lord, there will I go.’
‘Then prepare, for there is little time.’
So with only his chaplain to accompany him the Archbishop of Granada rode into the Albaycin. The chaplain rode before him carrying the crucifix, and the Moors stared at these men in sullen silence for a few moments.
The Archbishop rode right into their midst and said to them: ‘My friends, I hear that you are arming yourselves, and I come among you unarmed. If you desire to kill me, then you must do so. If you will listen to me, I will give you my advice.’
A faint murmuring broke out. The chaplain trembled; many of the Moors carried long knives. He thought of death which might not come quickly; then he looked into the calm face of his Archbishop and felt comforted.
‘Will you do me the honour of listening to me?’ asked the Archbishop.
There was a short silence. Then one of the alfaquis cried out: ‘Speak, oh Christian lord.’
‘You are an angry people, and you seek vengeance which, my friend, is not good for those who plan it nor for those who bear the brunt of it. It is a two-edged weapon, to harm those whom it strikes and those who strike. Do nothing rash. Pause and consider the inevitable result of your actions. Pray for guidance. Do not resort to violence.’
‘We have seen our beautiful manuscripts destroyed before our eyes, oh Talavera,’ cried one voice. ‘We have seen the flames rising in the squares of Granada. What next will be burned? Our mosques? Our bodies?’
‘Be calm. Pray for guidance.’
‘Death to the Christian dogs!’ cried a wild voice in the crowd.
There was a move forward and the alfaquis who had first spoken cried: ‘Wait! This is our friend. This is not that other. This man is not guilty. In all the years he has been with us he has been just and although he has tried to persuade us he has never sought to force us to that which we did not want.’
‘It is true,’ someone called out.
‘Yes,’ cried several voices then. ‘It is true. We have no quarrel with this man.’
‘Allah preserve him.’
‘He is not our enemy.’
Many remembered instances of his goodness. He had always helped the poor, Moor or Christian. They had no quarrel with this man.
One woman came forward and knelt at the side of Talavera’s horse and said: ‘You have been good to me and mine. I pray you, oh lord, give me your benediction.’
And Talavera placed his hands on this woman’s head and said: ‘Go in peace.’
Others came forward to ask his blessing, and when Tendilla rode into the Albaycin this was the scene he witnessed.
Tendilla came with half a dozen soldiers, and when the Moors saw his guards many hands tightened about their knives. But Tendilla’s first action was to take his bonnet from his head and throw it into their midst.
‘I give you my sign,’ he cried, ‘that I come in peace. Many of you are armed. Look at us. We have come among you unarmed.’
The Moors then saw that it was so, and they remembered too that from this man they had received nothing but justice and tolerance. He had come among them unarmed. They could have slain him and his few men together with the Archbishop and his chaplain without any loss to themselves.
This was certainly a sign of friendship.
‘Long life to the Alcayde!’ cried one, and the others took up this cry.
Tendilla lifted a hand.
‘My friends,’ he said, ‘I pray you listen to me. You are armed and plan violence. If you carry out this plan you might have some initial success here in Granada. And what then? Beyond Granada the whole might of Spain would be assembled and come against you. If you gave way to your feelings now you would bring certain disaster and death upon yourselves and your families.’
The leading alfaquis came to Tendilla and said: ‘We thank you, oh lord Alcayde, for coming to us this night. We have in your coming proof of the friendship of yourself and the Archbishop of Granada towards us. But we have suffered great wrongs. The burning of our works of art has caused us great distress.’
‘You have your grievances,’ Tendilla replied. ‘If you will go back to your homes and put all thoughts of rebellion from your minds I will bring your case before the Sovereigns.’
‘You yourself will do this?’
‘I will,’ said Tendilla. ‘Their Highnesses are now in Seville. As soon as I can put my affairs in order I will ride there and explain to them.’
Zegri, who had learned at first hand of what he had come to think of as Christian perfidy, elbowed his way to the side of their leader.
‘How can we know,’ he said, ‘that the Alcayde does not speak thus to gain time? How do we know that he will not become our enemy and bring the Christians against us?’
‘I give you my word,’ said Tendilla.
‘Oh lord Alcayde, I was invited to the house of the Archbishop of Toledo as a guest, and I found myself his prisoner. He changed towards me in the space of an hour. What if you should so change?’