Falling Pomegranate Seeds: The Duty of Daughters (The Katherine of Aragon Story Book 1) (12 page)

Softly closing the door, Catalina almost dragged Beatriz away. Feeling like life repeated itself, she allowed Catalina to lead her, this time to the safety of the infanta’s bedchamber. Once there, Catalina collapsed on the clothes chest at the end of the bed and looked at her. “Warwick? That’s the son of Richard III’s older brother, the one Edward IV executed for treason. He is in the Tower of London, isn’t he?” she asked.

Many of Beatriz’s lessons included long study of the court and nobility the infanta would one day rule. She eyed Catalina and shrugged. “Like your sister said, most believe him simple-minded and no threat to anyone.”

“But Mother thinks he threatens me?” Catalina chewed at her thumb. “My mother said she asked the English king for his death. You heard her say this too?”

Beatriz nodded. The horror she saw on Catalina’s white face made her blink and glance away from her. She tightened her lips and inhaled her deep breath. “She does it for your safety, Catalina.” She dared look at the child again. Her horror hadn’t lessened, rather she trembled and held herself, as if stricken with fever.

“Someone to die? To die for me, Latina? I did not ask it. I do not want it!” Catalina burst into tears and flung herself on the bed.

Beatriz stood by her. Lying on her back, staring at the ceiling, Catalina no longer cried, but heaved in deep breaths as if struggling for air.

‘Let her be a child a while longer,’ Queen Isabel had said.
A child a while longer?
Looking down at Catalina’s pale, still face, Beatriz wondered if the queen wished for the impossible.

‘Allah has grievously visited my sins upon my head. For your sake, my people, I have now made this treaty, to protect you from the sword, your little ones from famine, your wives and daughters from outrage, and to secure you in the enjoyment of your properties, your liberties, your laws, and your religion under a sovereign of happier destinies than the ill-starred
Boabdil.’

G
ranada fell at last, cannon crumbled its final walls of defence before winter brought its own desolation and famine. Ravens circled the skies. Flocking and fluttering on the broken city’s walls, the ravens seemed an edge of black lace on the fabric of reddish stone.

Knowing many hated the defeat, and fearful of his people’s unrest, Boabdil set the second day of January as the date for the final surrender. Waiting for that time to come, Queen Isabel and her court no longer dwelled in the alcázar found for her after the fire, but at the newly readied Santa Fe.

Messengers went to and fro, exchanging a flurry of letters between the two courts, royal protocol the main matter of concern. Boabdil’s mother refused to allow her son to humble himself to the king and queen, insisting the ceremony not include the king of the Moors kissing the hands of the victors.

Suspecting that Boabdil’s mother might yet disrupt the smooth transition from one ruler to another, King Ferdinand and Queen Isabel chose to gentle the way of the vanquished. Word was sent to the Moorish king to come forth on horseback on the morning he was to give them the city keys. An offer of homage was all that King Ferdinand and Queen Isabel desired and expected from him, homage they agreed to decline on the day.

The promise that Boabdil would be treated with all due respect to his rank at last satisfied his mother. The final terms of surrender now agreed, Boabdil swore his loyalty to the Castilian crown and freed the city’s captive Christians. The queen summoned those caring for Ahmed to bring him to the Santa Fe.

The last night before the city’s hand-over, Beatriz stood with Francisco, watching together as the sun set behind the mountains, both of them relieved of duties for a time. The royal family wanted to spend this night with Ahmed, saying farewell to a boy brought up like a beloved son and a brother. There was no certainty any at court would ever see him again.

Grieving too about Ahmed’s approaching departure, Beatriz studied the sun-kissed mountains and then the hill of La Sabica.
How the walls of the Alhambra ringed it in a fit marriage.
The setting sun turned the walls a deeper red, giving it glorious luminosity. The Alhambra meant crimson alcázar – crimson, the colour of blood. The colour of fire and war.

Surrounded by the jubilant expectancy of the camp, Beatriz listened to the cold, cutting wind, tinged with death, defeat, and despair, bringing down to Santa Fe the lament of the Moors.

“Why so downcast, love?” Francisco asked, putting his arm around her. “Believe me, there’s no reason for pity. The terms given to the Moors are generous. After a war lasting so many years, the victorious do not usually allow the defeated leave to keep so much.”

“But, Francisco, how can you say this when their city no longer belongs to them?”

Francisco frowned. “The queen has been more than fair to the Moors. She promises to allow those who wish to stay to keep their religion and laws, governed by cadis of their own faith, men overseen by governors trusted by the queen and king. For three years they will be exempt from tribute, and those wishing to return to Africa have free passage to do so.”

“And the secret promises my small infanta heard her mother speak of?”

Glancing around in alarm, Francisco took her arm. “What secret promises?”

“The queen assures Boabdil and his descendants of lands that will replace this city not only for a short time, but for all time. The king and queen will also pay him thirty thousand
castelanos
of gold on the day he leaves the city.”

A grim smile tightened her lover’s mouth. “Thirty thousand castelanos... more like thirty pieces of silver. ’Tis the final betrayal of a weak king. His signing of the treaty broke the heart and spirit of the city. Many Moors would rather die than see this day finally come. Many believe they have lost so much they might as well lose all. You remember the recent rebellion, when one of their prophets provided the spark for the city’s populace to burst into flames? That man declared the king and other Moor leaders cowards and no longer true Moslems. Thousands and thousands, women as well as men, armed themselves, paraded in the streets and shouted for the fight to continue. One leader said, ‘We are men. We have hearts, not to shed tender tears, but drops of blood. Let’s die defending our liberty.’” Gazing up at the city, Francisco gripped his sword’s hilt as if thinking of battle.

Disturbed by his action, Beatriz gnawed her bottom lip. “I thank the good God those words fell on deaf ears.”

Francisco continued. “For a day and a night the king dared not emerge from the Alhambra until the prophet, perchance murdered by the king’s own men, disappeared. The King of the Moors knows there’s nothing more to be done but admit defeat. He is a beaten man, full of despair and guilt. He blames all his misfortunes on coming to the throne in rebellion against his father.”

The setting sun spilled a crown of gold over Francisco’s black hair and made his face difficult to see. Some distance away, soldiers lit night torches, cutting around the camp a trail of light to follow as dark fell. Very soon, the red fading from its walls, the city’s stones would be silvered by starlight.

Her eyes on the guttering torches, Beatriz combed her fingers through her untidy hair, remembering the tale of how men built the Alhambra by torchlight. Now, when the Moors owned their beautiful city this one last night, the light of the torches seemed to throb out a silent dirge to her that the city’s very beginning predicted its end. Perchance ’twas true of everything. Life was an unending circle of birth and death, beginnings and ends. Her own mortality opening before her like a black hole, she swung her gaze back to Francisco.

As if catching her mood, he gripped her shoulders. Kissing her, his fingers dug into her flesh. Usually so gentle, she knew he didn’t mean to hurt her, but was forgetful due to his unspoken fear. Tomorrow Francisco would be gone again – once again risking his life as one of the few who understood gunpowder and its myriad uses in battle. Si – war ended here. Tomorrow the Moors would yield up all their artillery, their city gates, towers and fortresses to the king and queen. But there were still battles to be fought and won before peace could truly be claimed.

···

The hours sped by to the city’s handover. In the dark of night, leaving their king behind, Boabdil’s family stole out of the city, going a way determined in great secrecy when the last treaties were signed. They said his mother rode in haughty silence, while the sobbing of his wife and concubines invaded the dreams of those fortunate enough to find any sleep that night. Boabdil’s household went to a hamlet overlooking the city, and there they stayed in wait for their vanquished king.

Dawn broke to the boom of signal guns from the Alhambra. The snow peaks of Sierra Nevada glowed blood-red, as if nature took upon itself the duty to spread out the Moors’ banner of defeat. Under countless standards, the Christian multitude gathered, garbed in their finest. The queen even convinced Princess Isabel to put aside the colour of mourning. From Santa Fe, led by the king and queen and their two courts, an army trekked across the Vega to halt at the village of Armilla, half a league from the city.

There was already one there who was important in these happenings despite his tender years, the childhood companion of the royal children, Ahmed.

King Ferdinand went on ahead to meet the Moor king. The queen later relayed the day’s happenings to her attendants who didn’t see for themselves.

Before the advance of the queen and king, their armies and cavalry, old Cardinal Mendoza, accompanied by Don Gutierrez de Cardenas, entered the city via a road outside the walls. A horn swelled its long note in signal.

Accompanied by fifty of his companions, Boabdil rode forth from the Tower of the Seven Floors. Once outside the city’s walls, he swung from his horse and approached the cardinal on foot. Mendoza dismounted to meet with him. For a few minutes they spoke so none could overhear. Then Boabdil lifted up his voice: “Go, senor, and take possession in the name of the powerful sovereigns to whom God has been pleased to deliver them in reward of their great merits and in punishment of the sins of the Moors.”

Boabdil took a gold ring from his finger and gave it to Don Inigo Lopez de Mendoza, Count of Tendilla and kinsman to the cardinal, the new governor of the city. “With this ring Granada has been governed. Take it, govern with it, and may you be more fortunate than I.”

Boabdil rode on to King Ferdinand – who now approached the city. He offered to dismount and kiss the king’s hand, but, as promised, King Ferdinand prevented him from doing so. The Moor king leaned across and kissed the king’s arm, while at the same time delivering to him the keys of the city.

“These keys are the last relics of the Arabian empire in Spain. To you, oh king, we give our trophies, our kingdom, and our person. Such is the will of God. Receive them with the clemency you have promised, and which we look for at your hands.”

At the village of Armilla, Boabdil rode in on the wind that brought also to their ears the music from the city, the music of Christian victory.

“My father comes,” said Ahmed in a small voice. Holding their hands, he stood between the infantas Maria and Catalina. Wondering how Ahmed recognised his father, Beatriz noticed the Italian, Columbus, watching them closely as he stood with a small gathering of the queen’s inner court.

Queen Isabel waited for the Moor king to make his way to her. Seeing him about to kneel and offer her homage, she put out her hand and stopped him. “There’s no need for that.”

The queen turned, beckoning to Prince Ahmed. When he reached her side, she rested a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Her eyes shut for a heartbeat, and her mouth trembled. “Kneel, infantico mine no longer, kneel for my blessing.” The prince’s eyes were huge when he fell to his knees. “God bless you, Ahmed, and keep you safe from all harm.” Queen Isabel raised him up. “You’ve been a good son to me, a beloved son, and a beloved brother to my children. I and my family will never forget you. Go with my love.” She turned from him without saying one more word. Mounting her horse, Queen Isabel jerked savagely on its reins. The animal half reared in protest, the queen wheeling it towards the Alhambra. Beatriz saw her slowly ride and a gust of wind gathered strength and began to whine. It seemed she heard the wings of time rush by.

Boabdil embraced his son. Ahmed gazed at the royal children one last time before, accompanied by a few companions of King Ferdinand, he rode off with his father. The king’s men witnessed the Moor king re-joining his family on the bridge just outside the hamlet.

That same night, the grandees recounted their last sight of Boabdil. The Moor king stopped at the bridge and looked back at the royal banners unfurling from the highest towers of the Alhambra. The great silver cross of the crusade rose on the Torre de la Vela, the pennon of the Apostle of Saint James flapping beside it. Despite the distance, all could hear, rising to the heavens, a shout of “Santiago! Santiago!” A Christian multitude sang
Te Deum Laudamus.
Then there was a roar for King Ferdinand and Queen Isabel. Boabdil wept.

His mother looked at him in contempt and snarled at him, “You do well to weep like a woman for what you failed to defend like a man.” Thus, Boabdil and his family departed for their life of exile. Never did Beatriz or the royal family see Ahmed again.

···

While the main war was now over, here and there many Moors still refused to admit defeat and chose to battle on. For years rebellions broke out in the mountains where the last insurgents fought to their deaths and the deaths of others. Sometimes insurgents came to the city itself.

Life at the Alhambra often caused Beatriz to forget this. Si. The Alhambra. A place of perfect beauty – and a homecoming like none other. The place where Catalina’s childhood ended, swiftly, violently, like an eagle swooping down on its prey.