‘My lord,’ said Talavera, ‘if you destroy these people’s literature they may seek revenge on us. They are quiet people only among their friends.’

‘They will find they never had a better friend than myself,’ said Ximenes. ‘Look how many of them I have brought to baptism!’

He was determined to continue with his project and would have no interference. Only when he saw those works reduced to ashes would he feel he was making some headway. He would make sure that none of the children should suffer from contamination with those heathen words.

The decree went out. Every manuscript in every Moorish house was to be brought out. They were to be put in heaps in the squares of the town. Severest penalties would be inflicted on those who sought to hide any work in Arabic.

Stunned, the Moors watched their literature passing from their hands into that of the man whom they now knew to be their enemy. Zegri had returned from his visit to the Archbishop’s Palace a changed man. He was thin and ill; and he seemed deeply humiliated; it was as though all his spirit had gone from him.

Ximenes had ordered that works dealing with religion were to be piled in the squares; but those dealing with medicine were to be brought to him. The Moors were noted for their medical knowledge and it occurred to Ximenes that there could be no profanity in profiting from it. He therefore selected some two or three hundred medical works, examined them and had them sent to Alcalá to be placed in the University he was building there.

Then he gave himself up to the task of what he called service to the Faith.

In all the open places of the town the fires were burning.

The Moors sullenly watched their beautiful works of art turned to ashes. Over the city there hung a pall of smoke, dark and lowering.

In the Albaycin, that part of the city which was inhabited entirely by the Moors, people were getting together behind shutters and even in the streets.

Tendilla came to see Ximenes. He was not alone; he brought with him several leading Castilians who had lived for years in Granada.

‘This is dangerous,’ Tendilla blurted out.

‘I do not understand you,’ retorted Ximenes haughtily.

‘We have lived in Granada for a long time,’ pointed out Tendilla. ‘We know these people. Am I not right?’ He turned to his companions, who assured Ximenes that they were in complete agreement with Tendilla.

‘You should rejoice with me,’ cried Ximenes contemptuously, ‘that there is no longer an Arabic literature. If these people have no books, their foolish ideas cannot be passed on to their young. Our next plan shall be to educate their children in the true Faith. In a generation we shall have everyone, man, woman and child, a Christian.’

Tendilla interrupted boldly: ‘I must remind you of the conditions of the treaty.’

‘Treaty indeed!’ snapped Ximenes. ‘It is time that was forgotten.’

‘It will never be forgotten. The Moors remember it. They have respected the Sovereigns because ever since ’92 that treaty has been observed … and now you would disregard it.’

‘I ask the forgiveness of God because I have not attempted to do so before.’

‘My lord Archbishop, may I implore you to show more forbearance. If you do not there will be bloodshed in our fair city of Granada.’

‘I am not concerned with the shedding of blood. I am only concerned with the shedding of sin.’

‘To follow their own religion is not to sin.’

‘My lord, have a care. You come close to heresy.’

Tendilla flushed an angry red. ‘Take the advice of a man who knows these people, my lord Archbishop. If you must make Christians of them, I implore you, if you value your life …’

‘Which I do not,’ Ximenes interjected.

‘Then the lives of others. If you value them, I pray you take a tamer policy towards these people.’

‘A tamer policy might suit temporal matters, but not those in which the soul is at stake. If the unbeliever cannot be drawn to salvation, he must be driven there. This is not the time to stay our hands, when Mohammedanism is tottering.’

Tendilla looked helplessly at those citizens whom he had brought with him to argue with Ximenes.

‘I can see,’ he said curtly, ‘that it is useless to attempt to influence you.’

‘Quite useless.’

‘Then we can only hope that we shall be ready to defend ourselves when the time comes.’

Tendilla and his friends took their leave of Ximenes, who laughed aloud when he was alone.

Tendilla! A soldier! The Queen had been mistaken to appoint such a man as Alcayde. He had no true spirit. He was a lover of comfort. The souls of Infidels meant nothing to him as long as these people worked and grew rich and so made the town rich.

They thought he did not understand these Moors. They were mistaken. He was fully aware of the growing surliness of the Infidels. He would not be in the least surprised if they were making some plot to attack him. They might attempt to assassinate him. What a glorious death that would be – to die in the service of the Faith. But he had no wish to die yet, for unlike Torquemada he knew no one who would be worthy to wear his mantle.

This very day he had sent three of his servants into the Albaycin. Their task was to pause at the stalls and buy some of the goods displayed there, and to listen, of course. To spy on the Infidel. To discover what was being said about the new conditions which Ximenes had brought into their city.

He began to pray, asking for success for his project, promising more converts in exchange for Divine help. He was working out new plans for further forays against the Moors. Their literature was destroyed. What next? He was going to forbid them to follow their ridiculous customs. They were constantly taking baths or staining themselves with henna. He was going to stamp out these barbarous practices.

He noticed that the day was drawing to its close. It was time his servants returned. He went to the window and looked out. Only a little daylight left, he mused.

He went back to his table and his work, but he was wondering what had detained his servants.

When he heard the sound of cries below, he went swiftly down to the hall and there he saw one of those servants whom he had sent into the Albaycin; he was staggering into the hall surrounded by others who cried out in horror at the sight of him. His clothes were torn and he was bleeding from a wound in his side.

‘My lord …’ he was moaning. ‘Take me to my lord.’

Ximenes hurried forward. ‘My good man, what is this? What has happened to you? Where are your companions?’

‘They are dead. Murdered, my lord. In the Albaycin. We were set upon … known as your servants. They are coming here. They have long knives. They have sworn to murder you. My lord … they are coming. There is little time left …’

The man fell swooning at the feet of the Archbishop.

Ximenes ordered: ‘Make fast all doors. See that they are guarded. Take this man and call my physician to attend to him. The Infidel comes against us. The Lord is with us. But the Devil is a formidable enemy. Do not stand there. Obey my orders. We must prepare.’

There followed hours of terror for all those in the Palace with the exception of Ximenes. From an upper chamber he watched those glowering faces in the light of their torches. He heard their shouts of anger.

He thought: Only these frail walls between myself and the Infidel. ‘Lord,’ he prayed, ‘if it be Thy will to take me into Heaven, then so be it.’

They were throwing stones. They had tried to storm the gates but the Palace had stood many a siege and would doubtless stand many more.

They shouted curses on this man who had come among them and destroyed their peace; but Ximenes smiled blandly, for the cursings of the Infidel, he told himself, could be counted as blessings.