Ferdinand was welcomed at Saragossa by its most prominent citizen – Ximenes Gordo. It was Gordo who rode through the streets at the side of the heir to the crown. One would imagine, thought Ferdinand, that it was Ximenes Gordo who was their Prince, and Ferdinand his henchman.
Some men, young as Ferdinand was, might have expressed displeasure. Ferdinand did not; he nursed his resentment. He had noticed how the poor, who gathered in the streets to watch the procession, fixed their eyes admiringly on Gordo. The man had a magnetism, a strong personality; he was like a robber baron who held the people’s respect because they both feared and admired him.
‘The citizens know you well,’ said Ferdinand.
‘Highness,’ was the bland answer, ‘they see me often. I am always with them.’
‘And I am often far away, of necessity,’ said Ferdinand.
‘They rarely have the pleasure and honour of seeing their Prince. They must content themselves with his humble servant who does his best to see that justice is administered in the absence of his King and Prince.’
‘It would not appear that the administration is very successful,’ Ferdinand commented dryly.
‘Why, Highness, these are lawless times.’
Ferdinand glanced at the debauched and crafty face of the man who rode beside him; but still he did not betray the anger and disgust he felt.
‘I come on an urgent errand from my father,’ he announced.
Gordo waited for Ferdinand to proceed – in a manner which seemed to the young Prince both royal and condescending. It was as though Gordo were implying: You may be the heir to Aragon, but during your absence I have become the King of Saragossa. Still Ferdinand restrained his anger, and continued: ‘Your King needs men, arms and money – urgently.’
Gordo put his head on one side in an insolent way. ‘The people of Saragossa will not tolerate further taxation, I fear.’
Ferdinand’s voice was silky. ‘Will not the people of Saragossa obey the command of their King?’
‘There was recently a revolt in Catalonia, Highness. There might be a revolt in Saragossa.’
‘Here . . . in the heart of Aragon! The Aragonese are not Catalans. They would be loyal to their King. I know it.’
‘Your Highness has been long absent.’
Ferdinand gazed at the people in the streets. Had they changed? he wondered. What happened when men such as Ximenes Gordo took charge and ruled a city? There had been too many wars, and how could kings govern their kingdoms wisely and well when they must spend so much time away from them in order to be sure of keeping them? Thus it was that scoundrels seized power, setting up their evil control over neglected cities.
‘You must tell me what has been happening during my absence,’ said Ferdinand.
‘It shall be my pleasure, Highness.’
Ferdinand had been several days in the Palace of Saragossa, yet he had made no progress with his task. At every turn, it seemed, there were Ximenes Gordo and his friends to obstruct him.
They ruled the town, for Gordo had placed all his adherents in the important posts. All citizens who were possessed of wealth were being continually robbed by him; his power was immense, because wherever he went he was cheered by the great army of beggars. They had nothing to lose, and it delighted them to see the industrious townsfolk robbed of their possessions.
Ferdinand listened to all that his spies told him. He was astounded at the influence Gordo exercised in the town. He had heard of his growing power, but he had not believed it could be so great.
Gordo was not perturbed by the visit of the heir to the throne, so convinced was he of his own strength, and he believed that, if it came to a battle between them, he would win. His friends, who profited from his unscrupulous ways, would certainly not want a return to strict laws and justice. He had only to call to the rabble and the beggars to come to his aid and he would have a fierce mob to serve him.
Ferdinand said: “There is only one course open to me; I must arrest that man. I must show him and the citizens who is master here. Until he is imprisoned I cannot begin to raise the money my father needs, and there is no time for delay.’
‘Highness,’ he was told by his advisers, ‘if you arrest Gordo, the Palace will be stormed by the mob. Your own life might be in danger. The scum of Saragossa and his rascally friends stand behind him. We are powerless.’
Ferdinand was silent; he dismissed his advisers, but his thoughts were not idle.
Gordo was with his family when the message arrived from the Prince.
He read it and cried: ‘Our haughty little Prince has changed his tune. He implores me to visit him at the Palace. He wishes to talk with me on an urgent matter. He has something to say to me which he wishes to say to no other.’
Gordo threw back his head and laughed aloud.
‘So he has come to heel, our little Ferdinand, eh! And so it should be. This young bantam! A boy! What more? They say that in Castile he is the one who wears the skirt. Well, as Dona Isabella can keep him in order in Castile, so can Ximenes Gordo in Saragossa.’
He waved a gay farewell to his wife and children, called for his horse and rode off to the Palace.
The people in the streets called to him: ‘Good fortune, Don Ximenes Gordo! Long life to you!’
And he answered these greetings with a gracious inclination of the head. After all, he was King of Saragossa in all but name.
Arriving at the Palace he flung his reins to a waiting groom. The groom was one of the Palace servants, but he bowed low to Don Ximenes Gordo.
Gordo was flushed with pride as he entered the building. He should be the one who was living here. And why should he not do so?
Why should he not say to young Ferdinand: ‘I have decided to take up my residence here. You have a home in Castile, my Prince; why do you not go to it? Dona Isabella, Queen of Castile, will be happy to welcome her Consort. Why, my Prince, it may well be that there is a happier welcome awaiting you there in Castile than you find even here in Aragon.’
And what pleasure to see the young bantam flinch, to know that he realised the truth of those words!
The servants bowed to him – he imagined they did so with the utmost obsequiousness. Oh, there was no doubt that Ferdinand was beaten, and realised who was the master.
Ferdinand was waiting for him in the presence chamber. He looked less humble than he had expected, but Gordo reminded himself that the young man was arrogant by nature and found it difficult to assume a humble mien. He must be taught. Gordo relished the thought of watching Ferdinand ride disconsolately out of Saragossa, defeated.
Gordo bowed, and Ferdinand said in a mild and, so it seemed, placating voice: ‘It was good of you to come so promptly at my request.’
‘I came because I have something to say to Your Highness.’
‘First,’ said Ferdinand, still mildly, ‘I shall beg you to listen to me.’
Gordo appeared to consider this, but Ferdinand had taken his arm, in a most familiar manner, as though, thought Gordo, he accepted him as an equal. ‘Come,’ said Ferdinand, ‘it is more private in my ante-chamber, and we shall need privacy.’
Ferdinand had opened a door and gently pushed Gordo before him into a room. The door had closed behind them before Gordo realised that they were not alone.
As he looked round that room Gordo’s face turned pale; in those first seconds he could not believe that his eyes did not deceive him. The room had been converted into a place of execution. He saw the scaffolding, the rope and a masked man whom he knew to be the public hangman. Beside him stood a priest, and several guards were stationed about the room.