In Madrid, this summer day in 1460, Henry IV of Castile in his usual coarse gray robe and strange cap, stands in the middle of a circle of 6 well known Court figures, playing a game of ball in the gardens created for him by his Moorish gardeners.

 

       Courtiers in their pastel satins and silks clustered along the garden paths and watched with narrowed eyes. No matter that some of the players played badly. Skill was irrelevant. What the audience gauged was what the game revealed about the current status of each player.

     Who had been invited to join the circle on the grass? Who had received the most tosses from the King? Who was allowed to throw the ball most often, to whom, with what remarks? What secrets of the ever-shifting quicksands of power might be divulged, and how might they best be navigated? At Court even a simple ball toss game ceased to be simple.

 

       The young Christian Jew from Toledo, Andrés Cabrera, is about to walk out into the gardens, but he pauses, for today everything will change.

 

        "I am to be promoted as planned," Andrés had informed her.

       She had leaned back and smiled mischievously at him.  She was wondrously beautiful, beyond any reports he had ever heard of her.

    "Confess, Andrés. The prospect of being Assistant Majordomo lures you. The position. The hidden power."

         "The money," he had agreed.   Then he had grinned at her, admitting the accuracy of her insight. �I like the game!"   He hesitated. "If the rules don't change."

       She understood exactly what he meant. She laid a reassuring, well jeweled hand on his.  "There is no danger from the King. He has too kind a heart. Any..." she paused delicately, "...problem will come from others, like Girón."

       "I shall be beneath his notice. I shall be indescribably, indisputably, most tediously insipid."

       "You? Insipid?"

       Andrés had bent his head low and composed his face with care. When he looked up at her, he wore his well rehearsed insipid smile. "Born only to serve, my lady."

          She had laughed and clapped her hands. "Perfect! Absolutely perfect!"

      The bestowal of the medallion of Assistant Majordomo on Andrés Cabrera had given rise to greater speculation than usual.  She had warned him that it would since it exposed him irrevocably as the newest prot�g� of the Marquis of Villena. Among the hundreds of new faces at Court each year whose names were not worth a nobleman's taking the trouble to learn, Andrés Cabrera had suddenly become a face of significance, a figure never to be trusted, merged to the dark power of the Marquis of Villena. . .

       "If Villena finds reason to suspect your true purpose, you will never know until too late," she had warned.      

       But Villena, who suspected everyone, did not suspect Andrés.   An insipid smile has many uses.

 

The Marquis of Villena is also in the gardens, but sits in the shade under a red satin canopy in the shade of the poplar grove, observing.

 

     The Marquis of Villena was easy to find. In stark contrast to the Court, Villena dressed always in black.  As usual when the Court was in the gardens, he sat in a shaded grove, a spider spinning his webs, smiling, elegant, his dark eyes unreadable and his nose hawkish -- a Jewish nose, his enemies liked to comment, as if somehow that in itself were enough to condemn him. . . . . Villena enjoyed always wearing black. Black distinguished him from the pastel Christian noblemen who fluttered about Court like gluttonous butterflies.  From its berth of solid black, his heavy gold chain and seal of office blazed forth with a blinding gleam.  Always wearing black made people fear him. . . . 

 

       Nor did the ball toss game command Villena's attention.    It was but a re-enactment of Henry's foolish dream of love and good fellowship, an illusory Christian dream where the lions lay down with the lambs.  But that divine vision was prophesied only for the Second Coming, and the Second Coming was nowhere near Castile. Villena knew full well, as Henry refused to know, that when lions lay down with lambs, it was in order to eat them.  

     The usual herd of aging lions gamboled out on the lawn today, glossing over with laughter their keen desire to devour one another . . . .

 

. . .  Henry forgave everyone and had not one friend he could trust.  Truly, to live by such forgiving Christian principles in a world of greed and ambition was to woo annihilation.    Villena forgave nothing. . . . The duty of the King's Minister was to hold steady the crown and level its enemies without remorse or hesitation. A King's Minister had no choice.   If the crown fell, universal chaos ensued. Men insult me. Fools, they know not that insults borne for Thy sake are honor, sang the poet Judah Halevi. So let the nobles call him what they would!

      

     But let them also fear him. They deserved to live in fear. Particularly that fat little lardball flouncing about the ball toss game in his ridiculous yellow satin, that very special "friend" of Henry's. Miguel Lucas deserved to live in abject fear. But he didn�t. Villena masked a frown as his eyes fell upon Lucas. Lucas might bleat like a lamb, but he nursed a lion's appetite. The mewling little lardball for years had been entrenched in Henry's gut, as tenacious as a tapeworm.

      Villena let his gaze wander away from Lucas to the real reason he had attended the afternoon�s tiresome gathering. His reason at the moment leaned against a poplar tree, pretending to watch the ball toss game. After three years of stubborn absence at the most official occasions at Court, using as excuses his mother's grief, his late father's affairs, his responsibilities to the far-flung family estates, Pedro Manrique, Count of Trevi�o, had at last returned to the Court of Castile!

       The entire, powerful Manrique clan hated Henry.  A dozen years ago during the Moorish wars Pedro Manrique himself, not yet twenty, had taken part in an abortive plot to kill Henry. The Manrique clan led the League of Barons, devising plots to kill Henry and put Henry's little half-brother Alfonso on the throne. Their own little pawn on the throne! What a blinding bright vision of a Barons' Paradise that would be!

       Suddenly Pedro was no longer one of them.  Suddenly Pedro had forsaken his clan and their League. The inexorable wheel of Fate had taken another turn and Pedro Manrique had appeared today at Court with no invitation at all.  Henry would greet him, today or any day, with an ever blind and open heart. Henry would not ask why Pedro Manrique had suddenly materialized in Madrid.  Henry would rejoice to see Pedro again.

       Villena also rejoiced. Villena knew why Pedro Manrique had come to Court.

  

    Andrés Cabrera has also noticed Pedro Manrique among the gathering at Court.

 

     Ah, yes, that would be him, the man in the dark blue velvet tunic who leaned against a poplar tree and watched the ball toss game out on the lawn.

       "He believes real men don't wear pastels. He carries himself like a soldier. He's tall and most handsome," she had added with a sparkle in her eyes. "The kind of man's man that a woman cannot resist." . . . .

 

      Leaning against a poplar tree, Pedro Manrique, Count of Treviño, folded his arms and crossed his long legs at the ankle so that he would at least appear to be a part of this Court, God forbid!   He detested the hypocrisy of the posturing influential favorites, and the once favorites, and the would-be favorites. He pitied the conspicuously budding, coyly smiling young women brought to Court in hopes of a profitable marriage.

    Simpering young boys also came to Henry's Court, just as conspicuously budding and coyly smiling, grateful for any assignment, even emptying the morning chamber pots, as long as there flickered a chance to become somebody's favorite. For them, marriage was not an available goal, but profit was, profit to be made quickly during the high noon of their youth.

     It had not, however, been the morality of Henry�s Court, not the marketing of marriageables, not even the so-called "crimes against nature� that had driven Pedro Manrique from Court three years ago. None of the Manrique clan had ever stood accused of excessive piety and prayer. What offended Pedro was the absence of honor. Titles and estates were bestowed not to reward merit but to placate pique. Turnabout loyalties were a dreary commonplace. The undeserving triumphed, innocence was raped, and virtue died unnoticed. He had felt as covered by human filth as the night, during Henry's long ago crusade against Granada, when a squadron of mounted archers had trapped him alone above the beach and he had plunged into the ocean, only to find himself swimming in the freshly dumped sewage of the entire Moslem camp. Three years ago Pedro Manrique had vowed never to return to Court.

       But three years ago Pedro Manrique had not been in love.

 

 

      Except for the startling presence of a Manrique at Court, the afternoon promised to be routinely indolent.   But then, the ball game suddenly commanded everyone's attention.   Among the players, besides Lucas, was a new favorite, Cáceres, the son of a village laundress who had leaped into a bullring and caught Henry's attention and who is widely referred to by chroniclers as "foul-mouthed."   Also in the circle is the blustering warrior, the Archbishop of Toledo, also a Christian Jew, and his good friend, the elderly and widely connected Old Christian Admiral Enríquez whose daughter is Queen of Aragon.  The two of them are tiring, as is Villena's unsavory brother and also the tinker's son, Valenzuela, a long ago favorite and now best known, as chroniclers all agree, for wearing his extensive wardrobe of women's fashions.   Henry realizes they are tiring and yet wants to toss the small golden ball to someone.

 

     Cáceres smiled at Henry and, flexing a well-muscled arm, brushed back his thick black hair. He canted his hips so that the white satin tunic nestled more closely against his ever prominent private parts.  He rubbed one hand slowly down his strong, masterful thigh.

         "To me! I'm your man!"

        Indeed you are, thought Henry.  But he could not choose Cáceres again.  He had already thrown too often to Cáceres. If this became a game between the two of them, feelings would be hurt.

       Lucas, then.  Yes, dear Lucas, convinced he looked stylish in his doublet of yellow satin. Henry refused to discuss fashions with anyone or take any royal note of them. But in the silence of his heart he admitted Lucas needed new tailors. Lucas looked ridiculous, like a ripe pear maneuvering about on two quivering, well gilded thighs, no longer firm, never masterful. It pained Henry to see any friend look foolish, especially Lucas, as softly smooth as the golden ball, as pure in his own way as gold itself. Dear, loyal Lucas, proven friend for so many years. In all the Court, there was no one like Lucas.

       "To you!" Henry called out to him.

       Lucas' face shone with joy. He raised his bright banana arms. "To me!" he called back.

       Henry balanced the ball, shifted it to his right hand, and drew back his arm. With a spurt of energy, he lofted it into the air.   Once again the small, heavy golden ball glided along its wayward arc. In happy anticipation Lucas spread his pale hands before him, raised to block the sun, half cupped to catch the ball.  

       Suddenly, as the ball wavered towards Lucas, like a falcon taking flight, Cáceres leaped into the air. What a magnificent leap!  Cáceres seemed to soar upwards and, for the blink of an eye, float there as his strong right hand reached up and plucked the golden ball from the sky.   He held the captured golden ball aloft with both hands. The spectators cheered and applauded. Cáceres acknowledged the applause with a cocky, sweeping bow.

         "To me!" he trumpeted.

         "It wasn't his turn, Henry!" cried Lucas. "It wasn't his turn!"

         Ivory fans of lace and silk began to unfold and flutter. Fanned whispers rippled through the throng.

          They're going to quarrel again!

       Sooner or later one of them has to win. They can't go on like this forever.

       I say Lucas will win out.   He's been Henry's special friend for years.

       I say behold Cáceres!  

       Indeed, we all behold him! The man is so virile!

       Loyalty versus virility! Which would you choose?

       The question is, which will Henry choose!

  

    . . . Henry hesitated. Lucas was almost to the great, iron-hinged doors where turbaned Moorish sentries stood guard. How small Lucas looked beside them, how defenseless.  Then Lucas slowed even more as he crossed into the portal's shade. He's waiting for me to beg, realized Henry. With the realization, anger won the upper hand. Henry seldom got angry, and the force of his own anger always stunned him.

        He couldn't forever run after Lucas to appease him. Nothing was ever enough for Lucas. In spite of all the honors and titles he had given Lucas, in spite of dubbing him in one single day with the titles of Count, Baron and Constable to prove how much Henry valued their friendship, still Lucas threw a public tantrum over an afternoon game of ball toss. It wasn't fair!

       Henry glanced over towards the red silk canopy.  Villena naturally had seen it all and understood it all.  Shrewd, wise Villena who so uncannily unlocked the secret chambers of the human heart. Villena had argued last March against giving Lucas new titles.

       "Nothing will be enough for Lucas," Villena had warned Henry yet again. Villena had smiled that familiar, sad smile born of omniscience.  "It will always be so," Villena had warned. "Lucas must forever be the birthday boy with all the gifts for himself."  

       Once again, Villena had been right.  Once again, Henry had been wrong. Deliberately Henry turned his back to Lucas. He clasped the ball firmly and turned to Cáceres.

           "To you, Cáceres!" he called and hoped that Lucas would hear.

         From under his canopy, the Marquis of Villena masked an approving smile. Cáceres was a foul-mouthed brute, a peasant who should be out in the hills tending flocks instead of playing ball toss on the castle lawn. But he had just performed a worthwhile service. For the first time since Lucas had weaseled himself into Henry's heart so long ago, embedding himself there like a fossil in granite, he had been publicly driven from the field. By Cáceres, a jumped-up peasant!  Perfect! Cáceres had no friends at Court, no power base of relatives in the kingdom. Once the new plan to rid the Court of Lucas had succeeded, Villena could easily rid the Court of Cáceres and Cáceres' gaggle of penniless relatives.

      To be sure, Cáceres was at the moment also well entrenched in Henry's affections. To be sure, Cáceres would never simply leave because he was asked. Words like sacrifice, loyalty, and a greater good were words from an empty sack of grain to Cáceres.   Cáceres had that peasant pig-headedness that would cling to the Court like a blood-sucking tick to a fat cow. But like a tick, he could be removed. He would have to be removed.  Cáceres had neither the wit nor the talent to replace Lucas for long.  

       For that task someone else had to be chosen, someone more suitable to the task, someone who could satisfy Henry's quest for a meeting of mind and soul, someone fresh and new who could not only match Cáceres' physical prowess but outshine Lucas in music and mummeries. Villena had found that someone. He only needed to make sure that his choice would agree.

 

      [Far from Court, in a barren castle on a lonely plateau, are three other individuals who have roles to play in the events set off this day. Two are young girls, --Beatriz de Bobadilla, the daughter of the castle warden, and Isabel, Princess of Castile, half sister to Henry IV, and Isabel's little brother, Alfonso, who was an infant when he was brought to the castle.

 

       When the royal prisoners had first arrived to be guarded by her father, they had frightened Beatriz. She knew only the castle, its small village, and people who were always kind to her. She did not even remember her mother's death, only her father's sadness as the years went by.

       Beatriz had no experience to prepare her for the beautiful Queen who screamed and kicked as the King's soldiers pulled her up forty-five winding stairs to the top tower room.  Beatriz had little experience with other children and none at all with children too frightened to cry, locked in a room with their mother.   It was as if ghosts had been enclosed in that tower room, and the rest of the castle lived beneath their shadows.

       Beatriz's father had ordered his men to remove the boy Alfonso from that room first, for he was barely toddling and needed care that his mother could no longer provide. Then, as the woman who had been Queen grew worse, Beatriz's father brought Isabel down to stay in the room with Beatriz. The two girls had sat staring at each other in silence, hands folded, feet primly together. Beatriz had finally spoken first.

       "Are you really a princess?"

       There had been some defiance in the question.  Beatriz was irritated that someone would be sharing her room, and her little desk, and her lute and perhaps even her clothes, since the visitor seemed to have brought nothing of her own.

       Isabel had looked steadily at Beatriz to answer.  "I used to be," she said, "before Mother got sick." Her lip trembled, but her chin set firm. She gave her head a little shake to keep tears from flooding her eyes.

       Beatriz understood. "My mother died," she said. Then she had held out her hand. "If you come with me to the kitchen, our cook Serafina will give us hot cider and sugar cakes. Maybe she'll tell us a story."

       Isabel had smiled. It had been a small smile, fighting its way through grief too bewildering for a child.

       "I love stories."

 

. . . . .      Without knocking, Alfonso came into the room as Isabel was holding her new dress against her to view it in the mirror.

       "You're beautiful, Isabel!" cried Alfonso. "What do you think of my new doublet? They sent me a sword to wear with it."

       "You look grand," said Isabel. "But you're too young to wear a sword." Seeing his crestfallen face, she added generously, "Except at Christmastide."

       "Good!" Alfonso gave her a hug.

     Alfonso unsheathed his sword and dashed across the room, slashing right and left.

         "Have a care!" cried his sister.

       Alfonso obediently put the sword back in the scabbard. "I'm going to be King, you know. So I should know about swords."

       "Not any time soon," said Beatriz.