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

She was disturbed to hear that Ximenes was not recovering, that his fever was accompanied by a languor which confined him to his bed; she ordered that he should take up his residence in that summer Palace, the Generalife, where he would only be a stone’s throw from the Alhambra, but in quieter surroundings.

Ximenes availed himself of this offer, but his health did not improve and the fever and the languor continued.

He lay in his apartment in that most delicately beautiful of summer palaces. From his window he looked out on the terraced gardens in which the myrtles and cypresses grew; he longed to leave his bed that he might wander through the tiny courtyards and meditate beside the sparkling fountains.

But even the peace of the Generalife did not bring a return to good health; and he thought often of Tomas de Torquemada who had lain thus in the Monastery of Avila and waited for the end.

Torquemada had lived his life; Ximenes had the feeling that he had only just begun. He had not completed his work in Granada, and that he believed to be only a beginning. He admitted now that he had seen himself as the power behind the throne, as head of this great country, with Ferdinand and Isabella in leading strings.

The Queen’s health was failing. He had been aware of that when he had last seen her. If she were to die and Ferdinand were left, he would need a strong guiding hand. The fact that Ferdinand did not like him and would always be resentful of him, did not disturb him. He knew Ferdinand well – an ambitious man, an avaricious man – one who needed the guiding hand of a man of God.

I must not die, Ximenes told himself. My work is not yet completed.

Yet each day he felt weaker.

One day as he lay in his bed, a Moorish servant of the Generalife came to his bedside and stood watching him.

For a moment he thought she had come to do him some injury, and he remembered that day when his brother Bernardin had tried to suffocate him by holding a pillow over his face. He had not seen Bernardin since that day.

These Moors might feel the need for vengeance on one who had disrupted the peace of their lives. He knew many of them had accepted baptism because they preferred it to the exile which was to be imposed on those who did not come into the Christian Faith. They were not such an emotional people as the Jews. He believed many of them had said to each other: ‘Be a Mussulman in private and a Christian in public. Why not, if that is the only way to live in Granada?’

There would be the Inquisition, of course, to deal with those who were guilty of such perfidy. The Inquisitors would have to watch these people with the utmost care. They would have to be taught what would happen to them if they thought to mock baptism and the Christian Faith.

All these thoughts passed through Ximenes’s mind as the woman stood by his bedside.

‘What is it, woman?’ he asked.

‘Oh, lord Archbishop, you are sick unto death. I have seen this fever and the languor often. It has a meaning. With the passing of each day and night the fever burns more hot, the languor grows.’

‘Then,’ said Ximenes, ‘if that is so, it is the will of God and I shall rejoice in it.’

‘Oh, lord Archbishop, a voice has whispered to me to come to you; to tell you that I know of one who could cure your sickness.’

‘One of your people?’

The woman nodded. ‘A woman, oh lord. She is a very old woman. Eighty years she has lived in Granada. Often I have seen her cure those of whom the learned doctors despaired. She has herbs and medicines known only to our people.’

‘Why do you wish to save me? There are many of your people who would rejoice to see me die.’

‘I have served you, oh lord. I know you for a good man, a man who believes that all he does is in the service of God.’

‘You are a Christian?’

A glazed look came into the woman’s eyes. ‘I have received baptism, oh lord.’

Ximenes thought: Ay, and practise Mohammedanism in private doubtless. But he did not voice these thoughts. He was a little excited. He wanted to live. He knew now that he wanted it desperately. A little while before he had prayed for a miracle. Was this God’s answer? God often worked in a mysterious way. Was he going to cure Ximenes through the Moors whom he had worked so hard to bring to God?

The Moors were skilled in medicine. Ximenes himself had preserved their medical books when he had committed the rest of their literature to the flames.

‘Do you propose bringing this wise woman to me?’ asked Ximenes.

‘I do, oh lord. But she could only come at midnight and in secret.’

‘Why so?’

‘Because, my lord, there are some of my people who would wish you dead for all that has happened since you came to Granada, and they would not be pleased with this wise woman who will cure you.’

‘I understand,’ said Ximenes. ‘And what does this woman want for her reward should she cure me?’

‘She cures for the love of the cure, oh lord. You are sick unto death, she says, and the Queen’s own doctors cannot cure you. She would like to show you that we Moors have a medicine which excels yours. That is all.’

Ximenes was silent for a few seconds. It might be that this woman would attempt to avenge her people. It might be that she had some poison to offer him.

He thought again of Bernardin, his own brother, who had hated him so much that he had attempted to murder him.

There were many people in the world who hated a righteous man.

He made a quick decision. His condition was growing daily weaker. He would die in any case unless some miracle were performed. He would trust in God, and if it were God’s will that he should live to govern Spain – by means of the Sovereigns – he would rejoice. If he must die he would accept death with resignation.

He believed that this was an answer to his prayers.

‘I will see your woman,’ he said.

She came to him at midnight, smuggled into the apartment, an old Moorish woman whose black eyes were scarcely visible through the folds of flesh which encircled them.

She laid her hands on him and felt his fever; she examined his tongue and his eyes and his starved body.

‘I can cure you in eight days,’ she told him. ‘Do you believe me?’

‘Yes,’ answered Ximenes, ‘I do.’

‘Then you will live. But you must tell none that I am treating you, and you must take only the medicines I shall give you. None must know that I come to you. I shall come in stealth at midnight eight times. At the end of that time your fever will have left you. You will begin to be well. You must then abandon your rigorous diet until you are recovered. You must eat rich meat and broths. If you will do this I can cure you.’

‘It shall be done. What reward do you ask if you cure me?’

She came close to the bed and the folds of flesh divided a little so that he saw the black eyes. There was a look in them which matched his own. She believed in the work she did, even as he believed in his. To her he was not the man who had brought misery to Granada; he was a malignant fever which the doctors of his own race could not cure.

‘You seek to save souls,’ she said. ‘I seek to save bodies: If my people knew that I had saved yours they would not understand.’

‘It is a pity that you do not burn with the same zeal to save souls as you do to save bodies.’

‘Then, my lord Archbishop, it might well be that eight days from now you would be dead.’

She gave him a potion to drink and she left more with the woman who had brought her. Then she was stealthily taken away.

When she had gone Ximenes lay still thinking about her. He wondered whether the herbs she had given him had been poisoned, but he did not wonder for long. Had he not seen that look in her eyes?

Why had she, a Moorish woman, risked perhaps her life in coming to him – for he knew he had many enemies in the Albaycin and any friend of his would be their enemy. Did she hope that if she saved his life he would relent towards the people of Granada, would restore the old order in payment for his life? If she thought that, she would be mistaken.