Daughters of Spain - Plaidy Jean (онлайн книга без TXT) 📗

Therefore Isabella was not entirely surprised when, one day while she mourned her mother and waited anxiously for news of Juana’s safe arrival in Flanders, she found herself confronted by the General of the Franciscan Order who had come from Rome especially to see her.

She received him at once and invited him to tell her his grievance.

‘Your Highness,’ he cried, ‘my grievance is this: the Archbishop of Toledo seeks to bring reforms into our Order.’

‘I know it, General,’ murmured the Queen. ‘He would have you all following the rules laid down by your Founder. He himself follows those rules and he deems it the duty of all Franciscans to do the same.’

‘His high position has gone to his head, I fear,’ said the General.

The Queen smiled gently. She knew that the General was a Franciscan of the Conventual Order while Ximenes belonged to the Observatines, a sect which believed it should follow the ways of the Founder in every detail. The Conventuals had broken away from these rigid rules, believing that they need not live the lives of monks to do good in the world. They were good-livers, some of these Conventuals, and Isabella could well understand and sympathise with the desire of Ximenes to abolish their rules and force them to conform with the laws of the Observatines.

‘I crave Your Highness’s support,’ he went on. ‘I ask you to inform the Archbishop that he would be better employed attending to his duties than making trouble within the Order of which he is honoured to be a member.’

‘The Archbishop’s conduct is a matter for his own conscience,’ said Isabella.

The General forgot he was in the presence of the Queen of Spain. He cried out: ‘What folly is this! To take such a man and set him up in the highest position in Spain! Archbishop of Toledo! The right hand of the King and Queen. A man who is more at home in a forest hut than in a Palace. A man without ability, without noble birth. Your Highness should remove him immediately from this high office and put someone there who is worthy of the honour.’

‘I think,’ said Isabella quietly, ‘that you are mad. Have you forgotten to whom you speak?’

‘I am not mad,’ replied the General. ‘I know I am speaking to Queen Isabella – she who will one day be a handful of dust … even as I or anyone else.’

With that he turned from her and hurried out of the room.

Isabella was overcome by astonishment, but she did not seek to punish this man.

She was astounded though at the hatred which Ximenes engendered, but she was more certain than she had ever been that, in making him Archbishop of Toledo, she had made a wise choice.

Francisco Ximenes de Cisneros lay in his bed in his house at Alcala de Henares. He preferred this simpler dwelling to the Palace which could have been his home at Toledo, and there were often times when he yearned for his hermit’s hut in the forest of Our Lady of Castanar.

His thoughts were now on Bernardin, that erring brother of his who would come to him soon; he had sent for him and he did not believe even Bernardin would dare disobey.

It was disconcerting to have to receive his brother while in bed, but he was now enduring one of his spells of illness, which some said were due to his meagre diet and the rigorous life he led. He spent most of his time in a cell-like room, the floor of which was uncovered and which he kept unheated during the coldest weather. He felt great need to inflict punishment on himself.

It was true that he now lay in this luxurious bed, because here he must receive those who came to see him on matters of State and Church. At night he would leave this luxury and lie on his hard pallet bed with a log for his pillow.

He longed to torture his body, and deplored the fact that orders had come from the Pope commanding him to accept the dignity of his office. There had been many to lay complaints against him. They complained because he was often seen in his shabby Franciscan robe, which he had patched with his own hands. Was this the way for the Archbishop of Toledo to conduct himself? many demanded.

It was useless to tell them that it was the way of a man who wished to follow in the footsteps of his Master.

But instructions had come from Rome.

‘Dear brother,’ Alexander had written, ‘the Holy and Universal Church, as you know, like heavenly Jerusalem, has many and diverse adornments. It is wrong to seek them too earnestly, so it is also wrong to reject them too contemptuously. Each state of life has its appropriate conditions, which are pleasing to God and worthy of praise. Everyone, therefore, especially prelates of the Church, must avoid arrogance by excessive display, and superstition by excessive humility; for in both cases the authority of the Church will be weakened. Wherefore we exhort and advise you to order your life suitably to the rank which you hold; and since the Holy Father has raised you from humble station to that of Archbishop, it is reasonable that as you live in your conscience according to the rules of God (at which we feel great joy), so in your external life you should maintain the dignity of your rank.’

That was the command of the Pope and not to be ignored. So Ximenes had since worn the magnificent garments of an Archbishop, though beneath them had been the robe of the Franciscan, and beneath that the hair shirt itself.

Ximenes felt that there was something symbolic about the manner in which his emaciated body appeared to the public. The people saw the Archbishop, but beneath the Archbishop was the real man, the Franciscan friar.

But which was the real man? Often his fingers itched to deal with problems of State. He longed to see Spain great among the nations and himself at the helm guiding the great ship of state from one triumph to another until the whole world was under the domination of Spain … or Ximenes.

‘Ah,’ he would cry swiftly when such a thought came to him. ‘It is because I wish to see the Christian flag flying over all the Earth.’ He wished all lands to be governed as Spain was being governed since Torquemada had set the fires of the Inquisition burning in almost every town.

But now his thoughts must turn to Bernardin, for soon his brother would be with him and he would have to speak to him with the utmost sternness.

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 Bernardin 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 Bernardin 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 Bernardin 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 Bernardin? Banished him to a monastery, and there Bernardin 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 Bernardin 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 Bernardin who was always one for mischief.’