Isabella knew now that she could no longer put off the date of departure.

There was an urgent call to Granada, where little Miguel was suffering from a fever. The Queen rode into the city with Ferdinand and her two daughters. The news of Miguel’s illness had had one good result, for because of it Isabella had put off giving Catalina instructions to prepare to leave Spain.

How different the city looked on this day. There were the towers of the Alhambra, rosy in the sunlight; there were the sparkling streams; but Granada had lost its gaiety. It was a sad city since Ximenes had ridden into it and had decided that only Christians should enjoy it.

Everywhere there was evidence of those days when it had been the Moorish capital, so that it was impossible to ride through those streets without thinking of the work which was steadily going forward under the instructions of the Archbishop of Toledo.

Isabella’s heart was heavy. She was wondering now what she would find when she reached the Palace. How bad was the little boy? She read between the lines of the messages she had received and she guessed that he was very bad indeed.

She felt numbed by this news. Was it, she asked herself, that when blow followed blow, one was prepared for the next?

Ferdinand would not mourn. He would tell her that she must be grateful because they had Charles.

But she would not think of Miguel’s dying. She herself would nurse him. She would keep him with her; she would not allow even her State duties to separate her from the child. He was the son of her darling daughter Isabella who had left him to her mother when she died. No matter how many grandsons her children should give her, she would always cherish Miguel, as the first grandson, the heir, the best loved.

She reached that part of this magnificent building which had been erected about the Court of Myrtles and made her way to the apartments which opened on to the Courtyard of Lions.

Her little Miguel could not have lived his short life in more beautiful surroundings. What did he think of the gilded domes and exquisite loveliness of the stucco work? He would be too young as yet to understand the praises which were set out on the walls, praises to the Prophet.

When she went to the apartment which was his nursery, she noticed at once that his nurses wore that grave look which she had become accustomed to see on the faces of those who waited at the sick-beds of the members of her family.

‘How fares the Prince?’ she asked.

‘Highness, he is quiet today.’

Quiet today! She was filled with anguish as she leaned over his bed. There he lay, her grandson who was so like his mother, with the same patient resignation in his gentle little face.

‘Not Miguel,’ prayed Isabella. ‘Have I not suffered enough? Take Charles … if you must take from me, but leave me my little Miguel. Leave me Isabella’s son.’

What arrogance was this? Was she presuming to instruct Providence?

She crossed herself hastily: ‘Not my will but Thine.’

She sat by the bed through the day and night; she knew that Miguel was dying, that only by a miracle could he throw off this fever and grow up to inherit his grandparents’ kingdom.

He will die, she thought wearily; and on the day he dies, our heir is Juana. And the people of Aragon will not accept a woman. But they will accept that woman’s son. They will accept Charles. Charles is strong and lusty, though his mother grows wilder every day. Juana inherits her wildness from my mother. Is it possible that Charles might inherit wildness from his?

What trouble lay in store for Spain? Was there no end to the ills which could befall them? Was there some truth in the rumours that theirs was an accursed House?

She was aware of the short gurgling breaths for which the child was struggling.

She sent for the doctors, but there was nothing they could do.

This frail little life was slowly slipping away.

‘Oh God, what next? What next?’ murmured Isabella.

Then the child lay still, and silent, and the doctors nodded one to another.

‘So he has gone, my grandson?’ asked the Queen.

‘That we fear is so, Your Highness.’

‘Then leave me with him awhile,’ said Isabella. ‘I will pray for him. We will all pray for him. But first leave me with him awhile.’

When she was alone she lifted the child from his bed and sat holding him in her arms while the tears slowly ran down her cheeks.

There was little time to grieve. There was the invasion of Naples to be planned; there was the affair of Christobal Colon to demand Isabella’s attention.

Her feelings towards the adventurer were now mixed. He had incurred her wrath by using the Indians as slaves, a practice which she deplored. She did not follow the reasoning of most Catholics that, as these savages were doomed to perdition in any case, it mattered little what happened to their bodies on Earth. Isabella’s great desire for colonization had been not so much to add to the wealth of Spain as to bring those souls to Christianity which had never been in a position to receive it before. Colon needed workmen for his new colony and he was not over-scrupulous as to how he obtained them. But Isabella at home in Spain asked: ‘By what authority does Christobal Colon venture to dispose of my subjects?’ She ordered that all those men and women who had been taken into slavery should immediately be returned to their own country.

This was the first time she had felt angered by the behaviour of Christobal Colon.

As for Ferdinand he had always regarded the adventurer with some irritation. Since the discovery of the pearl fisheries of Paria he had thought with growing irritation of the agreement he had made – that Colon should have a share of the treasures he discovered. Ferdinand itched to divert more and more of that treasure into his coffers.

There were complaints from the colony, and Isabella had at last been persuaded to send out a kinsman of her friend Beatriz de Bobadilla, a certain Don Francisco de Bobadilla, to discover what was really happening.

Bobadilla had been given great powers. He was to take possession of all fortresses, vessels and property, and to have the right to send back to Spain any man who he thought was not working for the good of the community, that such person should then be made to answer to the Sovereigns for his conduct.

Isabella had at first been pleased to give Bobadilla this important post because he was a distant kinsman of her beloved friend; now she deeply regretted her action, as the only resemblance that Don Francisco bore to his kinswoman Beatriz was in his name.

It was while they were at Granada, mourning the death of little Miguel, that Ferdinand brought Isabella the news that Colon had arrived in Spain.

‘Colon!’ cried Isabella.

‘Sent home for trial by Bobadilla,’ Ferdinand explained.

‘But this is incredible,’ declared Isabella. ‘When we gave Bobadilla such powers we did not think he would use them against the Admiral!’

Ferdinand shrugged his shoulders. ‘It was for Bobadilla to use his power where he thought it would do the most good.’

‘But to send Colon home!’

‘Why not, if he thinks he is incompetent?’

Isabella forgot the disagreement she had had with the Admiral over the sale of slaves. She was immediately ready to spring to his defence because she remembered that day in 1493 when he had come home triumphant, the discoverer of the new land, when he had laid the riches of the New World at the feet of the Sovereigns.

And now to be sent home by Francisco de Bobadilla! It was too humiliating.

‘Ferdinand,’ she cried, ‘do you realise that this man is the greatest explorer the world has known? You think it is right that he should be sent home in disgrace?’