What could a man such as Torquemada – whose life had been spent in subduing the flesh – have in common with such as Roderigo Borgia, Pope Alexander VI? Very little.

Alexander knew this and, because he was a mischievous man, he had continually obstructed Torquemada in his endeavours.

Torquemada remembered early conflicts.

As far back as four years ago he had received a letter from the Pope; he could remember the words clearly now.

Alexander cherished him in ‘the very bowels of affection for his great labours in raising the glory of the Faith’. But Alexander was concerned because from the Vatican he considered the many tasks which Torquemada had taken upon himself, and he remembered the great age of Torquemada and he was not going to allow him to put too great a strain upon himself. Therefore he, Alexander, out of love for Torquemada, was going to appoint four assistants to be at his side in this mighty work of establishing and maintaining the Inquisition throughout Spain.

There could not have been a greater blow to his power. The new Inquisitors, appointed by the Pope, shared the power of Torquemada and the title Inquisitor General lost its significance.

There was no doubt that Alexander in the Vatican was the enemy of Torquemada in the monastery of Avila. It may have been that the Pope considered the Inquisitor General wielded too much power; but Torquemada suspected that the enmity between them grew from their differences – the desire of a man of great carnal appetites, which he made no effort to subdue, to denigrate one who had lived his life in the utmost abstention from all worldly pursuits.

And now, when Torquemada was near to death, Alexander had yet another snub to offer.

The Pope had held an auto de fe in the square before St Peter’s, and at this had appeared many of those Jews who had been expelled from Spain. If the Pope had wished to do the smallest honour to Torquemada he would have sent those Jews to the flames or inflicted some other severe punishment.

But Alexander was laughing down his nose at the monk of Avila. Sometimes Torquemada wondered whether he was laughing at the Church itself which he used so shamefully to his advantage.

Alexander had ordered that a service should be read in the square, and the one hundred and eighty Judaizers, and fugitives from Torquemada’s wrath were dismissed. No penalties. No wearing of the sanbenito. No imprisonment. No confiscation of property.

Alexander dismissed them all to go about their business like good citizens of Rome.

Torquemada clenched his fists tightly together as he thought of it. It was a direct insult, not only to himself but to the Spanish Inquisition; and he believed that the Pope was fully aware of this and it was his main reason for acting as he had.

‘And here I lie,’ he mused, ‘in this my seventy-eighth year of life, my body crippled, unable to protest.’

His heart began to beat violently, shaking his spare frame. The walls of the cell seemed to close in upon him.

‘My life’s work is done,’ he whispered and sent for his sub-prior.

‘I feel my end is near,’ he told the man. ‘Nay, do not look concerned. I have had a long life and in it I think I have served God well. I would not have you bury me with pomp. Put me to rest in the common burial ground among the friars of my monastery. There I would lie happiest.’

The sub-prior said quickly: ‘You are old in years, Excellency, but your spirit is strong. There are years ahead of you.’

‘Leave me,’ Torquemada commanded; ‘I would make my peace with God.’

He waved the man away, but he did not believe it was necessary to make his peace with God. He believed that there would be a place in Heaven for him as there had been on Earth.

He lay quietly on his pallet while the strength slowly ebbed from him.

He thought continually of his past life, and as the days went on his condition grew weaker.

It was known throughout the monastery that Torquemada was dying.

On the 16th of September, one month after the death of the Queen of Portugal, Torquemada opened his eyes and was not sure where he lay.

He dreamed he was ascending into Heaven to the sound of music – music which was composed of the cries of heretics as the flames licked their limbs, the murmurs of a band of exiles who trudged wearily, from the land which had been their home for centuries, to what grim horrors they could not know but only fear.

‘All this in Thy name …’ murmured Torquemada and, because he was too weak to control his feelings, a smile of assurance and satisfaction touched his lips.

The sub-prior came to him a little later, and he knew that it was time for the last rites to be administered.

Isabella roused herself from her bed of sickness and grief. She had her duty to perform.

The little Prince Miguel must be shown to the citizens and accepted by the Cortes as heir to the throne. So the processions began.

The people of Saragossa, who had declined to accept his mother, assembled to greet little Miguel as their future King.

Ferdinand and Isabella swore that they would be his faithful guardians, and that before he was allowed to assume any rights as Sovereign he should be made to swear to respect those liberties to which the proud people of Aragon were determined to cling.

‘Long live the lawful heir and successor to the crown of Aragon!’ cried the Saragossa Cortes.

This ceremony was repeated not only throughout Aragon and Castile but in Portugal, for this frail child would, if he came to the throne, unite those countries.

Isabella took her leave of the sorrowing Emanuel.

‘Leave the child with me,’ she said. ‘You know how deeply affected I have been by the loss of my daughter. I have brought up many children. Give me this little one who will be our heir, that he may help to assuage my grief.’

Emanuel was stricken with pity for his stoical mother-in-law. He knew that she was thinking it could not be long before her remaining daughters were taken from her. Moreover, his Spanish inheritance would be of greater importance to little Miguel than that which would come from his father.

‘Take the child,’ he said. ‘Bring him up as you will. I trust he will never give you cause for anxiety.’

Isabella held the child against her and, as she did so, she felt a stirring of that pleasure which only her own beloved family could give her.

It was true that the Lord took away, but He also gave.

She said: ‘I will take him to my city of Granada. There he shall have the greatest care that it is possible for any child to have. Thank you, Emanuel.’

So Emanuel left the child with her, and Ferdinand was delighted that they would be in a position to supervise his upbringing.

Isabella gently kissed the baby’s face, and Ferdinand came to stand beside her.

If I could only be as he is, thought Isabella, and feel as he does that the death of our daughter Isabella was not such a great tragedy, since their child lives.

‘Emanuel will need a new wife,’ Ferdinand mused.

‘It will be a long time yet. He dearly loved our Isabella.’

‘Kings have little time for mourning,’ answered Ferdinand. ‘He said nothing of this matter to you?’

‘Taking a new wife! Indeed he did not. I am sure the thought has not occurred to him.’

‘Nevertheless it has occurred to me,’ retorted Ferdinand. ‘A King in need of a wife. Have you forgotten that we have a daughter as yet not spoken for?’

Isabella gave him a startled look.

‘Why should not our Maria be Queen of Portugal?’ demanded Ferdinand. ‘Thus we should regain that which we have lost by the death of Isabella.’

‘Farewell,’ said Margaret. ‘It grieves me to leave you, but I know that I must go’