Gordo was not perturbed by the visit of the heir to the throne, so convinced was he of his own strength, and he believed that, if it came to a battle between them, he would win. His friends, who profited from his unscrupulous ways, would certainly not want a return to strict laws and justice. He had only to call to the rabble and the beggars to come to his aid and he would have a fierce mob to serve him.

Ferdinand said: “There is only one course open to me; I must arrest that man. I must show him and the citizens who is master here. Until he is imprisoned I cannot begin to raise the money my father needs, and there is no time for delay.’

‘Highness,’ he was told by his advisers, ‘if you arrest Gordo, the Palace will be stormed by the mob. Your own life might be in danger. The scum of Saragossa and his rascally friends stand behind him. We are powerless.’

Ferdinand was silent; he dismissed his advisers, but his thoughts were not idle.

Gordo was with his family when the message arrived from the Prince.

He read it and cried: ‘Our haughty little Prince has changed his tune. He implores me to visit him at the Palace. He wishes to talk with me on an urgent matter. He has something to say to me which he wishes to say to no other.’

Gordo threw back his head and laughed aloud.

‘So he has come to heel, our little Ferdinand, eh! And so it should be. This young bantam! A boy! What more? They say that in Castile he is the one who wears the skirt. Well, as Dona Isabella can keep him in order in Castile, so can Ximenes Gordo in Saragossa.’

He waved a gay farewell to his wife and children, called for his horse and rode off to the Palace.

The people in the streets called to him: ‘Good fortune, Don Ximenes Gordo! Long life to you!’

And he answered these greetings with a gracious inclination of the head. After all, he was King of Saragossa in all but name.

Arriving at the Palace he flung his reins to a waiting groom. The groom was one of the Palace servants, but he bowed low to Don Ximenes Gordo.

Gordo was flushed with pride as he entered the building. He should be the one who was living here. And why should he not do so?

Why should he not say to young Ferdinand: ‘I have decided to take up my residence here. You have a home in Castile, my Prince; why do you not go to it? Dona Isabella, Queen of Castile, will be happy to welcome her Consort. Why, my Prince, it may well be that there is a happier welcome awaiting you there in Castile than you find even here in Aragon.’

And what pleasure to see the young bantam flinch, to know that he realised the truth of those words!

The servants bowed to him – he imagined they did so with the utmost obsequiousness. Oh, there was no doubt that Ferdinand was beaten, and realised who was the master.

Ferdinand was waiting for him in the presence chamber. He looked less humble than he had expected, but Gordo reminded himself that the young man was arrogant by nature and found it difficult to assume a humble mien. He must be taught. Gordo relished the thought of watching Ferdinand ride disconsolately out of Saragossa, defeated.

Gordo bowed, and Ferdinand said in a mild and, so it seemed, placating voice: ‘It was good of you to come so promptly at my request.’

‘I came because I have something to say to Your Highness.’

‘First,’ said Ferdinand, still mildly, ‘I shall beg you to listen to me.’

Gordo appeared to consider this, but Ferdinand had taken his arm, in a most familiar manner, as though, thought Gordo, he accepted him as an equal. ‘Come,’ said Ferdinand, ‘it is more private in my ante-chamber, and we shall need privacy.’

Ferdinand had opened a door and gently pushed Gordo before him into a room. The door had closed behind them before Gordo realised that they were not alone.

As he looked round that room Gordo’s face turned pale; in those first seconds he could not believe that his eyes did not deceive him. The room had been converted into a place of execution. He saw the scaffolding, the rope and a masked man whom he knew to be the public hangman. Beside him stood a priest, and several guards were stationed about the room.

Ferdinand’s manner had changed. His eyes glittered as he addressed Gordo in stern tones. ‘Don Ximenes Gordo, you have not long to make your peace, and you have many sins on your conscience.’

Gordo, the bully, had suddenly lost all his swaggering arrogance.

‘This cannot be . . .’ he cried.

‘It is to be,’ Ferdinand told him.

‘That rope is for . . . for . . .’

‘You have guessed right. It is for you.’

‘But to condemn me thus . . . without trial! Is this justice?’

‘It is my justice,’ said Ferdinand coolly. ‘And in my father’s absence I rule Aragon.’

‘I demand a trial.’

‘You would be better advised to concern yourself with the salvation of your soul. Your time is short.’

‘I will not submit . . .’

Ferdinand signed to the guards, two of whom came forward to seize Gordo.

‘I beg of you . . . have mercy,’ he implored.

‘Pleasant as it is to hear you beg,’ said Ferdinand, ‘there will be no mercy for you. You are to die, and that without delay. This is the reward for your crimes.’ Ferdinand signed to the priest. ‘He has urgent need of you and the time is passing.’

‘There have been occasions,’ said Gordo, ‘when I have served your father well.’

‘That was before you became puffed up by your arrogance,’ answered Ferdinand, ‘but it shall not be forgotten. Your wife and children shall receive my protection as reward for the service you once gave my father. Now, say your prayers or you will leave this earth with your manifold sins upon you.’

Gordo had fallen to his knees; the priest knelt with him.

Ferdinand watched them.

And after an interval he signed to the hangman to do his work.

There was silence in the streets of Saragossa. The news was being circulated in the great houses and those haunts frequented by the rabble. There had been arrests, and those who had been seized were the more prominent of Gordo’s supporters.

Then in the market-place the body of a man was hung that all might see what befell those who flouted the authority of the rulers of Aragon.

Gordo! It seemed incredible. There was the man who a few days before had been so sure of his ability to rule Saragossa. And now he was nothing but a rotting corpse.

The young Prince of Aragon rode through the streets of Saragossa; there were some who averted their eyes, but there were many to cheer him. They had been mistaken in him. They had thought him a young boy who could not even take first place in Castile. They had been mistaken. Whatever happened in Castile, he was, in the absence of his father, master of Aragon.

The volume of the cheers began to increase.

‘Don Ferdinand for Aragon!’

Ferdinand began to believe that he would successfully complete the task which he had come to Saragossa to perform. He had been ruthless; he had ignored justice; but, he assured himself, the times were harsh and, when dealing with men such as Gordo, one could only attack with weapons similar to their own.

So far he had succeeded; and success was all that mattered.

The money so desperately needed was coming in, and if it was less than he and his father had hoped for that was due to the poverty of the people, not to their unwillingness to provide it.

Soon he would rejoin his father; and on the way he would call and see his little Alonso.

Messengers from Castile came riding into Saragossa. They had come in great haste, fearing that they might arrive to find Ferdinand had already left.