Old Court Life in Spain, vol. 2/2
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Title: Old Court Life in Spain, vol. 2/2
Author: Frances Minto Dickinson Elliot
Release date: September 11, 2015 [eBook #49941]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OLD COURT LIFE IN SPAIN, VOL. 2/2 ***
[Illustration: The Darro and Torre de Comares.]
[Illustration: decoration]
OLD COURT
LIFE IN SPAIN
BY
FRANCES ELLIOT
AUTHOR OF “OLD COURT LIFE IN FRANCE,” ETC.
[Illustration: colophon]
_ILLUSTRATED_
VOLUME II.
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
PAGE
I.--FIESTA OF THE CORPUS DOMINI 1
II.--DON PEDRO.--MARIA DE PADILLA.--ALBUQUERQUE 9
III.--BLANCHE DE BOURBON 22
IV.--DON FADIQUE’S DECLARATION OF LOVE 31
V.--MARRIAGE AT VALLADOLID 38
VI.--CLOISTER, VALLADOLID.--CASTLE OF TALAVERA 57
VII.--DON PEDRO AND MARIA DE PADILLA 69
VIII.--DON FADIQUE GOES TO SEVILLE 80
IX.--MURDER OF DON FADIQUE 84
X.--DON PEDRO.--ALCAZAR.--THE QUEEN-MOTHER.--MARIA DE PADILLA 95
XI.--A NEW KING.--ENRIQUE DE TRASTAMARE 108
XII.--DON ENRIQUE AND ALBUQUERQUE IN COUNCIL 116
XIII.--QUEEN BLANCHE IN SANCTUARY 126
XIV.--DON ENRIQUE WELCOMES QUEEN BLANCHE TO TOLEDO 131
XV.--TAKING OF TOLEDO BY DON PEDRO.--DEATH OF QUEEN BLANCHE 137
XVI.--DEATH OF MARIA DE PADILLA.--DON JUAN DE MAÑARA 149
XVII.--DON ENRIQUE AGAIN CROWNED KING.--FLIGHT OF DON PEDRO 168
XVIII.--DON PEDRO APPEALS TO EDWARD THE BLACK PRINCE TO REPLACE HIM ON
THE THRONE 175
XIX.--THE BLACK PRINCE DEFEATS DON ENRIQUE AND REINSTATES DON
PEDRO.--DON ENRIQUE MURDERS DON PEDRO.--DEATH OF DON ENRIQUE 190
XX.--JUAN I.--ENRIQUE EL ENFERMO 203
XXI.--JUAN II. AND DOÑA ISABEL OF PORTUGAL.--EXECUTION OF THE CONDE DE
LUNA 234
XXII.--ENRIQUE IV. EL IMPOTENTE 268
XXIII.--FERDINAND AND ISABEL 288
XXIV.--LOS REYES CATOLICOS 302
XXV.--THE SIEGE OF GRANADA 311
XXVI.--THE END OF THE MOORS 330
XXVII.--DEATH OF ISABEL 339
ILLUSTRATIONS IN PHOTOGRAVURE
PAGE
THE DARRO AND TORRE DE COMARES _Frontispiece_
PUERTA DEL VINO IN THE PLAZA DE LOS ALGIBES, ALHAMBRA 24
PATIO DE LOS LEONES, THE COURT OF THE LIONS, ALHAMBRA 68
THE HALL OF JUSTICE, ALHAMBRA 112
DEATH OF “EL GRAN CAPITAN” From a painting by M. Crespo, National
Exhibition of Fine Arts, Madrid, 1884 156
SURRENDER OF GRANADA From a modern painting by F. Pradilla, in the
Palacio del Senado, Madrid 200
PORTRAIT OF BOABDIL EL CHICO The Generalife, Granada 244
VIEW OF THE ALHAMBRA AND THE SIERRA NEVADA, FROM THE CHURCH OF SAN
NICHOLAS, ON THE ALBAICIN 286
ILLUSTRATIONS OTHER THAN PHOTOGRAVURE
A GATE OF THE COURT OF THE ORANGES, SEVILLE CATHEDRAL 12
A VIEW IN TOLEDO 34
A STREET IN TOLEDO From an etching by Chas. A. Platt 46
A VIEW IN ALCANTARA 56
CHARLES V.--1519 78
A VIEW IN ARANJUEZ 90
ON THE DARRO From an etching by Samuel Colman 100
A VIEW OF GRANADA 122
A WINDOW IN THE ALHAMBRA 134
THE AQUEDUCT NEAR GRANADA 144
THE GARDEN OF THE GENERALIFE, GRANADA 164
THE INTERIOR OF THE MOSQUE, ALHAMBRA 178
A VIEW IN SEGOVIA From the engraving by D. Roberts, after the painting
by J. Cousin 190
A VIEW IN GRANADA Engraving by James B. Allen from a drawing by D.
Roberts 212
CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS 222
THE PORT, QUAY, AND CATHEDRAL, MALAGA 230
THE GATE OF BARCELONA From an etching by Charles A. Platt 254
QUEEN ISABELLA DICTATING HER WILL From the painting by E. Rosales in the
National Museum, Madrid 266
FERNANDO THE CATHOLIC 278
PORTRAIT OF QUEEN ISABEL THE CATHOLIC 300
THE TOWN GATE OF THE CARMEN AT ZARAGOZA (Left as a permanent memorial of
the Siege.) 310
THE HARBOUR OF CADIZ 322
TOWER AND HOTEL OF SIETE SUELOS, THE ALHAMBRA, GRANADA Photo by
Valentine 334
GENERAL VIEW OF RONDA Photo by J. Laurent, Madrid 340
Old Court Life in Spain
CHAPTER I
Fiesta of the Corpus Domini
The time is early summer; the sky an unbroken sphere of blue, as deep
and smooth as a turquoise, canopying the blanched domes and pinnacles of
the cathedral and illuminating with ineffable splendour the elegant
galleries of the Giralda tower. No shade anywhere, on plaza, _patio_, or
river bank; nothing but a blazing sun, making golden motes; the thinly
leaved palms scarcely leaving a reflection on the hot earth.
It is the Fiesta of the Corpus Domini. The whole city of Seville is
astir, the procession is passing, Don Pedro following bareheaded,
attended by Don Juan de Mañara, Ferran de Castro, Don Garcia Padilla,
and many others, under a gorgeous canopy, and so delicately fair and
flaxen-haired does he look, he is more like a young saint than a king.
Behind him walk the archbishop wearing a jewelled mitre, and the chapter
in rich copes and robes, followed by the knights of the military orders
of Santiago and Calatrava, the cross upon their breasts, armed
_cap-à-pie_, with nodding plumes, each knight with his flag and
cognisance borne by page and esquire; a magnificent procession, set off
by the sombre background of monks, penitents, choristers, and chanting
canons intoning the offices of the Church.
Now all who have seen a religious procession in Spain will understand
the splendour of it. The mediæval magnificence of the robes, wrought in
plaques of solid gold and incrusted with priceless jewels, the brilliant
glow of sacred banners, the sheen of the steel caps and armour; and
above all the amazing glitter of the gigantic dolls (or _pasos_), larger
than life, dressed in the most gorgeous robes, representing the Saviour,
the Virgin, and saints and martyrs. To the sound of trumpets, drums, and
cymbals they advance in a blaze of tapers and torches, carried on
platforms of wood, through the narrow streets, over which silken awnings
are drawn from house to house, every soul present, from the king down to
the last of _los pobres_, prostrate on the stones.
The Virgin first, diamond-crowned, of gigantic height, with deep-set
glassy eyes, one big hand ablaze with rings, raised in benediction; San
Fernando, habited in steel, his helmet raised to display his glistening
visage, his royal mantle sewn with the emblem of the _Nodo_ of Castile
and Leon; the local saints, Justina and Rufina, who, refusing to
worship the Phœnician idol Salambo in her temple in Triana, suffered
martyrdom; San Tomas and San Lazarus, and the imaginary Santiago, as a
heavenly knight, Protector of Spain, clad in the white mantle of his
order, a broadsword by his side, and a glory round his casque, carrying
the baton of command.
From the balconies and the _miradores_ float damask draperies, striped
Moorish stuffs, and wreaths of feathers and flowers; fans wave
incessantly in the heavy air, and long black mantillas fall over eyes
lustrous under meshes of coal black hair--to the wild ringing of every
bell in the city, led by the boom of the Giralda, and petards exploding
as of a city taken by assault.
As the procession passes the stone balcony of the Palacio del
Ayuntamiento, Don Pedro’s mistress, Maria de Padilla, flashes forth, a
dark vision of beauty, crowned with a regal circlet as though she were a
queen, by her side her little son Alonso, dark-eyed as she is herself.
Such a sight causes the archbishop to tremble lest a speedy judgment
should follow on himself. Yet, spite of the chanting and the prayer, the
sacred _pasos_ with their hard unearthly eyes reflecting, as it were,
the horror expressed by the archbishop, Don Pedro at once arrests the
procession, and with a gracious gesture signs to Maria to descend and
take her place beside him. And so godless is he in the eyes of all men,
he would insist, but for the confusion which ensues by the sudden
stopping of such a crowd and the screaming and cries of those who were
pressed together,--when, in the confusion, the glove which he carries in
his hand, worked with the arms of Castile, drops on the ground.
Don Juan de Mañara, who is nearest to Don Pedro, rushes to pick it up,
but is forestalled by one of the chapter, a stalwart young priest, by
name Don Jaime de Colminares. As he is in the very act, on bended knee,
of returning the glove, a youth all aflame with passion rushes forth and
stabs him in the breast.
A gleam, a cry, a quiver, and all is over. Not a voice is raised, not a
hand stirs. Even the archbishop is mute in presence of the king, but his
pallid face and the terrified glances of the chapter say more than
words.
Not so Don Pedro, who stamps his foot with wrath as he faces the
assassin, the least moved among them all.
“Who are you?” asks the king, his voice trembling with rage, “who dare
to assume my prerogative of life and death?”
“My name, my lord, is Emanuel Perez,” is the prompt answer as he meets
Don Pedro’s furious glance with honest eyes.
“Why have you killed this man?” demands the king, maddened at his
coolness, his hand on the hilt of a wrought dagger at his waist, while
the archbishop and the chapter draw round to listen.
“My lord,” answers Emanuel, falling on his knees, for the majesty of the
king has subdued him, “I had my reasons. Ask me not to speak evil of
dignitaries,” and he gazes round at the rampart of glaring eyes.
“Speak,” answers the king; “the dead is silent, the living man must tell
the tale. Speak, or tortures shall make you. Were it even myself you had
to accuse, I command you, speak. The crime is public, so shall be the
punishment. I live before my people.”
Cries of “Castila! Castila!” come from the excited crowd. Caps are flung
in the air and loud _vivas!_ come from the beggars and ruffians of the
street.
Behind Don Pedro rises the Moorish arch of the Puerta del Perdon, a
sheet of delicate carving, white as snow, framing his figure as in a
picture. Above rises the cathedral, a gigantic pile of richly carved
cornices and tier above tier of carved parapets and domes, the walls
ornamented with innumerable niched figures, bosses, roses, and stars. On
one side of the street lies the murdered priest in his sacerdotal robes,
the painted dolls on the other, the stately form of the archbishop
between, his hands folded, his eyes cast down in prayer, the affrighted
chapter gathering about him in purple robes, and behind the populace
eagerly pressing round the king.
Then Emanuel speaks: “Sire, my father is a _zapatero_ (shoemaker); I
follow the same trade. We are poor but honest, no one reviles us. My
lord, I had a sister,” as the word passes his lips he quivers all over,
and looking down on the canon’s blood, which has made for itself a
little runnel among the stones, he savagely stamps on it, while at the
word “sister” a cynical smile passes over the king’s lips and the
majesty of his attitude relaxes.
“She was _hermosa_,” continues Emanuel, not noticing the change, “_muy
hermosa_. Every one looked at her. She went to confession in the
cathedral at the altar near the image of Santo Cristoforo, twice, three
times--we could not think why she went so often--then she disappeared.
We sought her everywhere, in the market, the stalls, the exchange, by
the river, in the narrow alleys, and at the gates. No one had seen her.
After some days her body was found in a deep ditch near the river. Then
we knew the truth, and who had dealt with her. Of the foul deed and who
had done it we spoke. Three days after, my father’s body was brought to
us, stabbed to the heart. Then, upon the wounds of Christ, I swore an
oath to kill the beast who wore the robe of God to defile it, and I have
kept my word.”
In the tumult of his soul, Emanuel forgot the presence of the king, the
crowd, the occasion, all but his passion of vengeance.
“And if the crime was so public,” asks the king, whose attention has
deepened as he proceeded, “and your father talked so loud that he was
stabbed for it, what punishment did the archbishop and the chapter
impose on the canon?”
“His punishment!” cries Emanuel. “Ha! that is just it. His punishment!
_Por Dios!_”--and such a volley of words comes he can scarcely
articulate--“The chapter! Yes, the chapter held a court in the sacristy
with closed doors, the villains! and condemned him _not to say Mass for
one year_!!”
“Then,” cries Don Pedro, in his harsh voice and a bitter smile on his
face, for the young man’s courage pleases him, and his honest eyes, “I
condemn you, Emanuel _el zapatero_, to pass one year without making
shoes.”
A loud shout of applause rises from the _pobres_. Those near the steps
of the cathedral repeat it to others farther off, the people in the
streets shout it to those at the windows, and these to the crowds
pressed on the terrace-roofs, so that the king’s justice is known to
all.
“Yes, my lord archbishop,” speaks the king, resuming in a moment all the
dignity of the sovereign, as he turns to where he stood carrying in his
hand the pastoral staff, a wonder of ancient workmanship--“yes, my lord
archbishop, and most venerable chapter, from whose ranks so notable a
light has been extinguished, I have spoken, I am _El Rey Justiciar_.
Rich or poor, prince or beggar are the same to me. As to you, Emanuel,”
turning to the young man, “I believe you are worthy of better things.
From this day I name you a soldier, and attach you among the Alguazils
who guard my person. Be as faithful for my honour as you have been for
your own and you shall soon be promoted to a command.”
CHAPTER II
Don Pedro--Maria de Padilla--Albuquerque
In the upper story of the Alcazar is Don Pedro’s retiring room,
overlooking the central Patio de las Doncellas below, the soft echo of
ever-bubbling fountains and runnels mingling with the songs of birds
hidden among the luxuriant foliage of palms and fragrant plants.
But little in keeping with the harmony without is the carved door by
which the apartment is entered, still hung with the heads of four unjust
judges placed there by the king as a warning to evil-doers. It is a
small and secluded room, cut off from the state apartments of the upper
story, appropriated to the use of Doña Maria del Padilla, panelled with
cedar, broken by coats of arms in red, blue, and gold shields, portraits
of kings of Castile and Moorish caliphs, emblems and badges, gilt
“castles” and rampant “lions”; the ceiling rich in carved rafters,
dividing into deep compartments, ornamented with bosses and lozenges in
the same bright hues, by which the effect of the dark wood is greatly
heightened; sconces for candles and circles for torches also on the
walls, showing that it is the habit of the king to use the room by night
as well as day. Little sun enters, and what does penetrate comes from
lofty casements darkened by panes of painted glass, reflecting in turn
on the deeply tinted _azulejo_ tiles of the floor, always so noticeable
a detail in Moorish chambers.
In a dark corner a secret stair descends to the caliph’s bedroom on the
ground floor, an arrangement suited to the erratic habits of Don Pedro,
who constantly comes and goes at all hours of the day and night and can
thus enter without being observed.
He is seated on a high-backed chair with his back to the light, a mere
youth in appearance--his stormy life ended before he was thirty--in
which one seeks in vain for the murderous epithet of _El Cruel_. But as
his face turns towards the light, the fair locks about his shoulders
darken into a dull red and the blue eyes assume a strangely sinister
expression. Opposite to him stands his great minister, Albuquerque.
During two troubled reigns he has guided the helm of state through
troubled periods of rebellion, Moorish wars, and conspiracies. At the
death of King Alfonso he skilfully maintained Mary of Portugal--his
first protectress--as regent for her son; a difficult task, for as long
as he lived Alfonso treated his mistress, Eleanor de Guzman, as a queen.
Astute and ready-witted Albuquerque has long understood the inherent
cruelty of the young king, as well as his obstinacy. He fostered his
boyish fancy for his kinswoman, Maria de Padilla, the better to rule
him, until it ripened into such an overwhelming passion that his own
influence was undermined. With good cause he curses the day he brought
her to Seville, especially since she has borne the king a son, and her
enmity to him has grown into an open attack upon his authority. Now,
with the knowledge of the queen mother, he has come with a proposition
calculated greatly to curb if not to end her power.
Albuquerque is barely past the prime of life, but his thin, deeply lined
face gives him a look of age. His black Spanish eyes are turned full on
his master. Too cunning to betray the intense anxiety he feels, only a
slight flush on his cheek tells of his emotion. Well he knows the
perverse disposition of the royal youth before him, and that the very
fact of a too great insistency will only rouse him to violent
opposition, especially on a subject touching him so nearly as that which
he has come to discuss. Still he feels that what he has to say is of
such paramount importance to the state that, spite of himself, the tones
of his voice deepen and his manner acquires a solemn earnestness.
“A disputed succession, my lord,” he urges, watching the effect of his
bold words; “Maria de Padilla’s children conspiring in every corner of
the kingdom, as do now the bastards of your father, Enrique de
Trastamare, and his brothers Don Fadique and Don Telmo. Have they not
read us a lesson in rebellion? God alone knows what an arduous task was
mine to prevent his naming his favourite, Don Enrique, to the
succession, and shutting you, my lord, up in a monastery for life. Is
Castile again to endure the same evil from which I have freed it? Invoke
not Nemesis again, my Lord. You have suffered enough from the same cause
to know its bitterness. Think what blood has flowed from that
infatuation of your father’s, and the death of Doña Eleanor still to be
avenged by the great house of Guzman.”
But here Albuquerque is arrested by such a sudden glance of fury from
the king, he wisely desists.
“Maria is my kinswoman,” he continues in another tone, skilfully
changing his line of attack. “_I_ brought her to Seville.”
Don Pedro listens in haughty silence. Dark passions gather on his brow
as the well-chosen words fall from the lips of the great minister. At
the mention of his children by Maria de Padilla he gives an indignant
start and seems about to interrupt his smoothly flowing periods. But
carried, spite of himself, by the weight of his arguments, he withholds
himself; and, with darkly glancing eyes, silently assents, especially as
the name of Enrique passes Albuquerque’s lips.
The concluding sentence as to the disinterestedness of Albuquerque in
regard to Maria de Padilla he treats with evident contempt. It is clear
that
[Illustration: A GATE OF THE COURT OF THE ORANGES, SEVILLE CATHEDRAL.]
sort of pretence does not touch him, for he well knows that it was
Maria’s determination to throw off her kinsman, not consideration of the
good of Castile, which led him to urge any measure which would weaken
her influence.
“Keep to the matter in hand,” he says sternly. “I understand you press
on me a royal marriage for reasons of State; you need not diverge from
that point. It is an act repugnant to me. Why not open war and an
alliance with England and the Black Prince?” he continues, passing his
hands slowly through the meshes of his long fair hair. “I know the
serpent’s trail is over Castile. I have crushed the mother and those
with her, but the rest of the brood I could not reach.”
“But you did well, my lord,” answers Albuquerque with a dark smile. “A
couple of Infantes more or less, ha! ha! Who cares whether they live or
die but their mother, and she was dead? To wring their necks and send
them spotless to paradise was a worthy deed. Would that their brothers
lay as low as they.”
“Do not give me all the credit,” breaks in the king, mollified by this
applause. “If ever minister acted for himself it was you. Who chose the
guards? Who bribed the captain-general? Who? But let it lie. We will not
quarrel over the spoil like low accomplices. The deed was done, and well
done;” and with a discordant laugh he joins in the ghastly jest with a
voice that freezes the blood by its merciless cruelty.
“Yes, my lord,” replies Albuquerque, “it is so. You will do well to rid
Castile of the other traitor too. For if Don Enrique de Trastamare dies
suddenly, or is _killed_” (here the astute minister pauses as if
weighing in his mind by what means the happy consummation of his death
could be accomplished), “there is his brother, the young Grand Master
Fadique, who would at once take his place, backed by the knighthood of
Santiago and Calatrava, and be upheld by all your enemies. It is the
same blood, my lord, the same ambition then as now. ‘The throne! the
throne!’ is the war-cry of the bastards, and France is ever ready to fan
the flame.”
“True,” answers Don Pedro, “I am surrounded by foes. If I am a devil,
they have made me so. From my birth, my life has been endangered by
their machinations, I and my mother also. Fadique is the best. He has a
soft face and winning ways. He says he hates his brother. He may be a
traitor,” he continues, rising from his chair and pacing up and down the
room with the uneasy step of a beast of prey. “What matter? I use him as
a tool; though,” and he suddenly stops and falls into a muse, “there was
a time, when my father was alive--we were boys then, playing in these
gardens together--that he did somewhat win my heart, and I showed it. I
was a fool then. But now, let us fight it out.” Then resuming his
restless pacing up and down: “Can I trust Fadique?” he mutters.
“Tush!” cries Albuquerque, moved out of his calmness by this unusual
sensibility; “he will stab you first and then succeed you. The treachery
of the race, their greed of power, is patent everywhere. The people
speak of it in the wine shops, the beggars make songs and sing them in
the streets, and the soldiers----”
“No, by God! Not my soldiers!” cries Pedro, quickly arresting him. “I
will not believe it. Not my soldiers! They are true! Fadique may or may
not be false, what matter? I tell you” (impatiently) “I use him as a
‘tool.’”
“My Lord,” replies Albuquerque, lifting his deep-set eyes upon his
master, “although young, I perceive you are already skilled in
kingcraft. Nothing answers like diversion. You have dealt wisely in
setting up one brother against the other. In making Fadique Grand Master
of Santiago the jealous spleen of Don Enrique is fed and nourished. He
has no position in Castile. But about that prophecy, my lord,” continues
Albuquerque--seeking to return to the important matter on which his mind
is set, which Don Pedro is obviously seeking to avoid--“of which I spoke
to your Grace. Do you intend to verify it by the lack of rightful heirs?
Pardon me, my lord, I speak in the interest of Castile. As far as your
Highness’s pleasure is concerned, I have shown that I grudge not my own
kinswoman Maria.” At her name the king turns paler than was his wont and
reseats himself. “Were I ambitious, I might scheme for a crown on her
head and on her son’s. But I appeal to your Highness if I have not ever
preferred your honour to my own? But reasons of State and the unsettled
condition of the kingdom demand not only that you espouse a great
princess, but that her hand should bring a strong alliance.”
“And the princess is called?” asks Don Pedro, with a sarcastic smile.
“Doubtless her name is ready.”
“Yes, my lord, the Lady Blanche, daughter of the Duke of Bourbon, and
niece of the most Christian King of France. Repute says she is comely,
and her great youth and motherless condition under a warlike father
promises her submissive. What says your Highness?”
“And in my turn I desire to ask _you_ a question, Albuquerque,” replies
Don Pedro, who sits in deep thought as sentence after sentence falls
from the great minister. “When do you intend afterwards to return to
Seville?”
“I, to Seville, my lord? I do not catch your Grace’s meaning. Whenever
the service of your Highness permits me.”
“I would advise you,” replies the young king, sardonically, “for your
safety, to delay it as long as possible. If you affiance me to the Lady
Blanche, you will find a warm welcome from Maria at your return. What
her revenge may hatch, you best know. I warn you. You are a bold man,
Albuquerque. Better face a lioness robbed of her whelps than an
outraged woman.”
The grave Albuquerque laughs outright. “A woman’s fury is a small
matter, your Highness, and court report says that you yourself hold it
cheap. The welfare of my master is what I regard. If your Highness holds
the obstacles as light as I do, we will have the espousals at the
Alcazar, and Maria shall hold the new queen’s robe.”
“No, no, never!” cries Don Pedro, stung into real feeling by the
remembrance of her he loved and the insult to be put on her. “If this is
done at all, it must be distant and secret. _She_ shall be spared the
knowledge until all is over. I would rather lead a dozen campaigns
against the French and Du Guesclin into the bargain in open field, than
lend my hand to this matter. I a wife--a queen--a consort--what am I to
do with her? Will she replace that other who nestles in my breast?” and
a look of love comes into his eyes which softens them into real beauty.
No one can tell what that hard face can express until that one chord is
struck to which his whole being vibrates.
“The princess will bring France in her hand and peace in your councils.
Your Highness is not bound to separate from----”
“Yes, yes, I understand; but would Maria’s proud heart accept it? ‘Peace
in my councils and strife at my board!’ I cannot undertake it. An older
man might do it, but, Albuquerque, I am young, and though men call me
_El Cruel_, I am also _El Justiciar_. Now that is not justice. She has
borne me children. She is like no other woman--I love her.”
“Leave my kinswoman to me, sire; only consent and I will answer for her.
But, my lord, forgive me if I say that if you thus _half-hearted_ enter
into this scheme, you will bring more calamity on Castile, more war and
misery than we have now to battle with. Women, my liege, are but cheap
in your eyes as yet. But any wrong done to a royal princess such as the
Lady Blanche, any insult, _any dishonour_”--the king looks up
sharply--“would bring on us the whole power of France. Your Highness
knows it,” he adds deprecatingly, watching the king’s grave face. “If
done, it must be _well_ done, or let alone.”
“And who says _no_?” answers the inscrutable young sovereign. “Who says
that I shall not become, under the Lily of France, the most adoring of
husbands; a very Hercules to his Omphale? Methinks the scene rises
before me in the _patio_ below--the daughter of France and I seated
under the palms, Nubian slaves waving feather fans over us, lest any fly
or insect touch her soft cheek, while your kinswoman Maria"--(here the
king gives a discordant laugh)--“watches behind a screen, subdued and
gentle.”
Albuquerque frowned. To this, then, had come all his wise reasonings,
his statecraft, his far-seeing policy; a jest, worse than a jest, a
scoff in the mouth of that sardonic youth whose service he held. Well he
knew him, and that once in that mocking mood no more was to be done with
him.
Raising his eyes to the cynical young face which faced him, a low laugh
still on his lips, somewhat of the contempt he felt looked out, spite of
himself, and Don Pedro marked it and for a moment yielded to the
influence of his powerful mind.
“Albuquerque, I will consider your reasons and give you my decision,” he
says, with a natural majesty of manner he knows well how to assume.
“Until then, let this matter rest. As soon as I can ride I shall order
my further progress towards Burgos. There we will hold a council as to
the threatened rising of Enrique de Trastamare. He has many followers at
Toledo and will endeavour to take the city and garrison. But my friends
the Jews, headed by Samuel Levi, will take care of my interests.”
The haughty bearing of the young king strangely jarred upon the feelings
of Albuquerque.
After all, the discussion of the marriage might be called (seeing his
relationship to Maria de Padilla) almost a _personal_ question, and that
he had been and was acting magnanimously in the matter he felt to his
heart’s core. The ill-concealed contempt of the king wounded and
offended him as it had never done before. He reddened under the mocking
glance of Don Pedro, his eyes half in jest, half in anger, fixed on him
as if reading the embarrassment of his thoughts.
At length, with a silent dignity no ridicule could reach, he slowly
gathered up his papers, and bowing low craved leave to depart. “God
preserve your Highness,” were his words. “You need not to be told I hold
your commands absolute, but, sire, as your servant, I once more crave
you to remember the prophecy of which I spoke--‘_To be stabbed and
succeeded by his brother._’ The Gitano died for these traitorous words
against your Grace, but still dying he persisted in repeating them.”
“An excellent joke, a capital pleasantry! Adieu, good Albuquerque, God
have you in His holy keeping till we next meet and you bring me some new
command,” are the king’s laughing words, to all appearance as
light-hearted as a bird.
And as Albuquerque disappears under the shadow of the Moorish arches
beyond the door, he laughs still louder.
“That parting shaft of his about the prophecy was not so bad,” he
mutters. “All the same, I wonder if it will come true. A man can but die
once, and that his worst enemy should kill him is but natural and just.
Still, most noble bastard, Don Enrique, we will have a tussle for it ere
it comes to that, and if the Lady Blanche strengthens my arm, why then,
_por Dios_, we will marry her!”
How Albuquerque’s project prospered will now appear; the present upshot
being that it was secretly arranged between the king and himself to
despatch his half-brother, the Infante Fadique, “the Grand Master” as he
was called, to Narbonne to ask the hand in marriage of the Lady Blanche,
niece of the King of France.
A mission which prospered marvellously, seeing that within a month Don
Fadique acted as his brother’s proxy at their solemn espousals in the
Gothic Cathedral of St. Just, the darkly painted figures of saints and
angels in the flamboyant windows of the choir casting down mystic
shadows on the form of a pale young girl in the very bud of youth,
kneeling at the altar beside a royal youth with the sweetest and softest
eyes, his elegant figure set off by the magnificent robes of the Grand
Master of Santiago, so stiff with gold embroidery and jewels, on mantle
and _justaucorps_, that they stood up of themselves.
CHAPTER III
Blanche de Bourbon
The Princess Blanche de Bourbon, sister to the Queen of France, wife of
Charles V., lived in the old fortress of Narbonne, beside the sea, in
those romantic days when ladies’ robes were sewn with _fleur-de-lis_ and
heraldic devices, dragons, and coats of arms--wore pointed shoes, long
chains from the waist, and high coifs and head draperies incredible in
our eyes.
She was young, only fifteen, small and delicate in stature, with a
tender, beseeching look, as seeking for fondness and protection from
those around her. By nature she was little fitted to command or to
dazzle, but rather to creep into the heart of manly affection and nestle
there.
The very name of the King of Castile gave her the horrors, and when
called into the presence of her father and told she was to marry him,
she lay three days on her bed without speaking. Imagine her feelings
when she took courage to look at his proxy, of all his brothers the most
like the king!
But Don Fadique was altogether cast in a slighter mould, fitted rather
for a lady’s bower than the stern ranks of the battle-field. His address
was soft and gentle, and no amount of provocation could call up on his
features any resemblance to that tempest-torn expression that so often
disfigured the countenance of Don Pedro. It is true that at the time of
his mother’s death, when certain suspicious circumstances pointed to
foul play, he had joined in the rebellion of his brother, Enrique, but
he had rallied afterwards to the king, and was the only one of his
family who gave him a loyal allegiance. As the nearest relation of Don
Pedro, he was selected by Albuquerque as proxy for the king.
In such haste was the great minister to avail himself of the
half-promise of marriage he had obtained--hastened by the ravages of the
Free companies of France in the north--that he immediately despatched
Don Fadique with a splendid retinue, without ever reflecting upon his
personal fitness for the mission; fitness indeed as a consort, but not
as a proxy, for he was specially created to please a lady’s eye. His
large brown eyes had the sweetest expression, and there was a womanly
softness about him, united to the manly bearing of a knight, that suited
exactly his half-military, half-religious position as Grand Master of
the order of Santiago.
Of all created beings Blanche was the simplest and the best; unselfish,
trusting, relying on the faith of others, utterly inexperienced and
easily impressed by kindness, of which she had not known much.
Her mother died at her birth. Her brothers were always away at the
court, in Touraine, or in the camp. Her women and her friend, Claire de
Coucy, were her only companions, so that when the brilliant cortège of
knights and nobles arrived at Narbonne, and Don Fadique, Grand Master of
Santiago, most becomingly attired in the splendid robes of his order, a
great jewelled cross on his breast, and a heavy chain of gems sparkling
around his neck, advanced to kiss her hand, so happy was she in the
respite from the dreaded Don Pedro, so frankly affectionate in her
sisterly confidence, that the very charm of her innocence became a fatal
snare to him.
Not that Don Fadique nourished any thought of treason towards his
brother’s bride. No plan or project of supplanting him had entered his
brain when selected by Albuquerque as nearest of blood to the king. He
had neither foreseen nor imagined the danger in which he was placed by
reason of the manifold charms of the Lady Blanche, and that he would be
more than man to resist them.
Alas for the fair-haired Grand Master! Hour by hour he yielded. Did she
love him? was the question that rang through his brain day and night. On
the answer his life depended. But how could he ask? Honour, loyalty,
chivalry forbade. Yet the time must come when he would
[Illustration: Puerta del Vino, in the Plaza de los Algibes,
Alhambra.]
have to know. Could he see this innocent creature delivered over a prey
to his licentious brother without one word of warning? Without one
devoted friend to shield her from the deadly intrigues of a court wholly
under the spell of Maria de Padilla?
And that warning. What did it mean? Love to himself? Great Heaven! And
if she did not love him in return? The doubt brought agony. A woman
would have been more easily deciphered, but this royal girl was all
simplicity and guilelessness. When her little hand rested in his as,
attired with all the pomp of the Queen of Castile, and blazing with the
rich jewels sent by Don Pedro, he, with a wildly beating heart, led her
to the nuptial supper, it lay as trustingly in his as though he had been
her brother.
Poor young Grand Master! How was he to know if that young heart
fluttered alone for him, or if those pulses beat to the music of another
voice?
A thousand good resolutions were formed when Blanche was absent. But
they were all scattered to the winds when her soft eyes rested on his,
with that appealing look that was so touching. After all, he meant no
harm, only he _must_ know whether she loved him or not. Life was
intolerable without; and as the putting of this question grew more and
more difficult as time wore on, he left Narbonne without asking it.
* * * * *
Now Blanche is at Valladolid, in the Gothic palace, with its dark
_patio_ and big angular casements, which still jut out over the street
just as they did then.
She is expecting the king, who is to arrive that very night. Need I say
that she is quite beside herself with terror? Resistance is vain; as
well might the helpless lamb resist the butcher’s knife.
The dreadful hour has come when she is to be eaten up by the royal ogre,
and she can only lie and sob in the quaint painted chamber prepared for
her. Claire de Coucy, quite unconscious of what is really breaking
Blanche’s little heart (for she has kept her own counsel in all but
hatred of Don Pedro), is busying herself about her, with many entreaties
not to make herself look a fright. Even if she does hate the king, is
there not Don Fadique, and all those other splendid Sevillianos,
specially Don Juan de Mañara, whose fame has reached Narbonne, as the
boldest lover in Spain?
“Surely it is not so hard to be a queen, and live in sunny Seville, in
the beautiful Alcazar!” says Claire, turning over the marriage ring all
the time, an uncut emerald of priceless value, which Blanche has flung
on the floor and, unlike her gentle self, stamped on.
There lie the marriage gifts. The jewelled diadem and sceptre, as Queen
of Castile; the Oriental combs and bracelets, cut in antique silver, the
collar of sapphire, the solid links of sequins, the rare Tunisian lace
and Algerine embroideries, jewelled fans, and veils of rarest lace of
such delicate texture, no one had ever seen the like before. All sent in
perfumed chests of sandalwood, covered with royal crowns.
To Claire, who is just out of a convent, and has never seen a marriage
or a bride, it does occur that Blanche is strangely still and sad; but
she supposes it is the proper thing, and that Blanche knows best, so she
goes on turning over the marriage gifts with little exclamations of
delight, as each fresh object seems to her more lovely than the last.
But when, all in a moment, as Claire is winding round her waist a light
Moorish scarf, worked in a perfect kaleidoscope of silken thread and
pearls, Blanche (unable any longer to keep silent) staggers up and falls
upon her neck, sobbing as if her heart would break, it is the most
astonishing event her small experience has ever conceived.
Much more, when Blanche, putting her rosy lips to Claire’s shell-like
ear, whispers in a voice choked with tears: “I love him, I love him! I
cannot go to Don Pedro. I know he will kill me. I hate him. I won’t go!
Be kind to me, Claire, and help me, for I love him!”--her astonishment
turns into terror, for she thinks Blanche is gone quite mad.
“Love whom?” she gasps, feeling cold all over, and letting the scarf
drop to support the quivering form of Blanche.
“Who? Why, Don Fadique to be sure,” she answers, blushing all over.
“Why--you must be blind, Claire, not to see it--at Narbonne. Who else
could it be?”
And Blanche’s fair head, covered with small child-like curls, drops upon
Claire’s friendly neck and buries itself there, as she clings to her
tighter and tighter.
“Oh, Blanche!” was all Claire could say, being too utterly staggered to
remonstrate. “Don Fadique! Why, he is your husband’s brother? Oh,
Blanche, do you mean what you say?”
“Yes, I do,” falters out Blanche, in an almost inaudible voice “I love
him, oh, I love him!”
The very uttering of these words gave her courage. The secret had passed
her lips. The spell of silence was broken.
“Don Fadique!” exclaims Claire. “Why, he must be the greatest traitor in
the world.”
“He does not know it!” returns Blanche, reddening to the roots of her
hair. “He does not guess it. He is an angel.” As she speaks, a quick,
warm light comes into her eyes, a soft flame rises on her cheeks,
kindling up her whole face with an inexpressible glow. Even her slender
figure seems to gather strength and height. “No! no! you must say
nothing against him! He is perfect.”
Claire, who was very pious, and just out of a convent, where the nuns
had taught her all men were dangerous and to be avoided, actually
recoiled. That a wife should love her lord and receive presents from him
and letters was admissible, even among the nuns--but another man!
Her pretty hands dropped from Blanche’s waist, and for some moments she
could not speak.
“What!” she exclaims at last. “Holy Mary, what a horror!” at which the
poor little queen takes courage to reply:
“A husband, Claire, why you seem to forget I have never seen him. How
can I love a man I do not know? I have seen Don Fadique. That makes a
great difference. If Don Pedro is what they say, and strangles women, I
do not see how I can ever love him. So I told my father. I did say
_that_, Claire. I suffered very much. You know it, you cruel girl. I was
brought here against my will. I shall die when I see the king, I shall
die,” she repeats shuddering. “Besides, why did he send Don Fadique to
marry me in his name? If I had never seen him, I could not love him.”
A sweet pout came over her childish face as she gazed into Claire’s
eyes, confident that these arguments must convince her.
But Claire only shook her head, and continued to stand aloof. The
teaching of the nuns still held her. Was it not better that Blanche
_should_ die and be buried, sooner than not love her husband? Yet the
gentle little queen had used a mighty weapon in talking of her death.
Death was so awful, so far away from the fresh rosy life of Claire, that
with the charming inconsistency of youth, Claire, impetuous and ardent
in all things, in a moment forgetting all about the nuns, flung her arms
round Blanche’s neck.
“Dear, dear princess,” was all she could utter, “don’t talk of death. I
know it is very wrong, but I love you too well to chide you. Promise me
that you will not speak to Don Fadique any more. Say an _Ave_ when he
comes near you, and make the sign of the Cross when you feel his eyes.
Remember, whether you like it or not, you are Don Pedro’s wife. No! no!
don’t push me away. It is true. Great princesses and queens must learn
to command themselves more than other folk. My father said so, before I
left Navarre, and that I was not to follow what you did, because you
were of royal blood.”
Then Blanche and Claire, fully reconciled, sat down side by side to talk
under the shadow of the Gothic casement, which lit up the room; the
freckled colour of the painted glass falling upon them in patches of
glowing light, as the trees outside swayed to and fro; Claire going on
about her duty to her husband and to her new country. She was quite
eloquent, and repeated all the fine things which had been taught her out
of history. Not only _Aves_ and crossings, but fasting and penance were
suggested by the ingenious Claire, as helps against temptation, until
poor Blanche, quite stupefied, took up a lute which lay upon the seat
and hummed a French love song; and Claire, remembering there was a
string of pearls loose in the wedding robe in which Blanche was to
appear before the king, kissed her and went out.
CHAPTER IV
Don Fadique’s Declaration of Love
While Blanche sat all alone, the arras gently lifted and Don Fadique
stood before her. Not gay and triumphant as she had seen him at
Narbonne, but pale and grave and habited in a grey _justaucorps_ with a
simple hood--more in the guise of a penitent than a gay young knight.
“My princess,” and he kissed her hand, carefully looking round to assure
himself that they were alone, “I am come to ask you a last favour before
the king arrives. Already his presence is signalled on the outskirts of
the city.”
At that dreaded name, Blanche, whose soft face had broken into the
sunniest of smiles as Don Fadique entered, trembled and sank back
against the wall. At that one word, “the king,” the soft glamour her
imagination had conjured up, vanished. She was the bride of the cruel
tyrant all men hated. He was at hand to claim her. She burst into tears.
“Sweet Blanche,” and Don Fadique’s eyes melted at her distress, as
taking her tenderly by the hand, upon which he impressed another
fervent kiss, he knelt on the floor before her, “be comforted, and
listen to me. The time is come when we must part. For a moment, it
seemed to me a dream of heavenly bliss, and that, standing in my
brother’s place, I could claim you for ever. But now I am less than
nothing in your eyes. Tell me, oh, tell me,” and a sigh broke from him,
so deep, his very soul seemed poured out in it, “tell me quickly, for
our time is short. You will not quite hate me?”
Some wild words were on Blanche’s lips, but remembering the
expostulations of Claire she checked them, blushed hotly over brow and
neck, hesitated, and said nothing.
“Your pity is all I dare ask,” he continues, drawing nearer and leaning
over her, as she shrinks away among a pile of embroidered cushions,
anxiously turning her eyes towards the drapery behind which Claire had
disappeared. “Of all men I am the most wretched. There is one whom I
love more than anything on earth, and I am nothing to her. If it were
not so----”
He broke off abruptly, but there is something so bitter and hopeless in
his tone that, spite of an involuntary pang of jealousy, Blanche’s eyes
turned on him full of sympathy.
“I am so sorry,” she replies, simply. “I think all the world should care
to please you. But"--the jealous feeling is growing spite of
herself--“if any one----”
At this moment Don Fadique stooped and grasped her arm with such a wild
look that she stopped. “If,” lowering his voice, “if this lady,” and he
paused to touch her hand, “loved me--could love me at all; if I could
hold her for an instant as mine own--though the whole kingdom of Spain
were between us----”
Blanche’s gaze has grown dreamy. This was love then. Simple as she was
she understood it. Oh! Claire, Claire. If he felt so, what would she
think of her, and her face paled and her lips quivered.
“Do I know the lady?” she asks, then pauses to steady her voice, while
Fadique gazes down at her with a swift searching glance, terrified by
one word to shatter the rapturous conviction which her trouble gave him.
“Yes, you know her well,” is all he says, and he seizes her hand and
covers it with kisses. “Do you love me?”
No word comes to her blanched lips, but she bows her head and softly
answers to the pressure of his fingers. On the imprisoned hand is the
diamond ring of her espousal. It _would_ gleam out, though she tries not
to see it. Oh! where was Claire? What would she say to her? Alone with
Don Fadique, she feels all her good resolves melting.
For nearly a minute Blanche let Fadique hold her hand. There was no
sound below in the _patio_ to distract them, only the chiming of the
great bells of San Pablo close by across the square, the beautiful
flamboyant portal reared against the sky.
Blanche lay quite still while Fadique covered her little hand with
kisses, even the lace ruffles she wore at her wrist he kissed.
A moment before no words could express how she dreaded the king, but
with her hand in his, listening to his muttered words of love, the earth
seemed to melt away, and she was suddenly transported to some unknown
paradise, full of infinite felicity.
She knew she was doing wrong and that Claire would bitterly reproach
her--perhaps go away in disgust and leave her.
But for all that she could not help it; and after all, what was a crown,
or Claire, or Castile, or France, or the most Christian king, her
kinsman, or her father, compared to the lover with angelic eyes kneeling
before her?
It might be that they never should be alone again, and that she might
not be allowed to speak to him, for Don Pedro was, they told her, a
devil of jealousy--_that_ she could readily believe--and that he
possessed every vice human nature can compass. If this was indeed the
last time, would it not be too cruel to be cold to Fadique in this _one
hour_ when his heart spoke to hers?
Blanche was but a child, cause and effect were unknown to her; but love,
first love, that blessed light direct from heaven, had transformed her
[Illustration: A VIEW IN TOLEDO.]
whole being, and from a simple, tranquil-hearted girl, content to pass
her days joyously as the birds do, without thought, she had become a
sensitive, anxious woman, trembling beneath that terrible prescience
that comes with the first lesson of life; and when Fadique, after a long
silence, asked her again: “Are you sure you love me? Say it once more,
Blanche, and that you will never love another man,” in a low voice she
answered earnestly: “Yes, I love you. I did not know what love was,
until you came to Narbonne,” and then, unable to bear the strain upon
her, she hid her pale face on his shoulder. “What will Don Pedro do to
me?” she cried, trembling all over with a sudden revulsion. “What will
he say to me? I feel so treacherous and wicked, and yet it is not my
fault.”
“No,” answers Fadique, pressing her slight form to his and still holding
her imprisoned hand. “It is the fault of those who forced you into such
a marriage. That is the sin; but remember, my own Blanche, though
silent, I am ever near you at the Court. One heart at least bleeds for
you.”
“I am sure I hear footsteps!” cries Blanche, starting back and standing
upright listening--“What will Claire say? Am I indeed such a sinner?”
“Claire? By Santiago! what has she to do with us? Claire? Ah! do not
look at me so, Blanche, or you will break my heart.”
“Oh, that mine was broken too, and I were dead!” she sobs.
“Then let us die together,” replies Don Fadique.
They are standing hand in hand, backed by the high Gothic casement. The
fretted frame, filled with devices, crowns, and coats of arms, casts a
pale reflex on them. The sun is setting behind the castellated towers of
San Pablo, opposite, and soft fragrant shadows gather in the chamber.
Both in their hearts are longing that this moment may last for ever.
Deeper and deeper the shadows fell, engulfing the two young figures in
its gloom, save where a shaft of vivid light fell upon them like a
sword, the point turned towards them.
“My love,” murmurs Don Fadique, passionately, “do you hear me?”
As Blanche moved in response, a sudden light was in her eyes that had
never been there before--a Moorish scarf Claire had placed around her
fell from her waist.
“This shall be my talisman,” cries Don Fadique, stooping to pick it up,
“the token of your love, and my safeguard in battle. You will not refuse
me?”
“Oh! hide it, hide it,” whispers Blanche under her breath. “Claire may
come in and miss it.”
Then there was a dead silence which neither of them broke.
Suddenly, with a crash like thunder, the clatter of horses’ feet rises
up from the _patio_; the clang of armed men is in the air, the roll of
cumbrous equipages, and the shrill voice of drums and clarions. Now a
single horseman rides in and challenges the guard. Then there is the
sound of marching of many feet and the far-off blare of trumpets.
Blanche rose to her feet, speechless with terror. Was the king already
there? Where could Claire be?
Then comes the echo of many steps in the antechamber, and Claire rushes
in through the arras as Don Fadique disappears by a door on the other
side.
Following Claire appears a tall and stately _jefe_, holding a white wand
of office, with many crosses and decorations on his breast, and a high
plumed hat in his hand, which he doffs, bowing low.
“Madam, the Queen,” says he, in a sonorous voice, again inclining
himself to the ground, “it is my duty to apprise your Majesty that the
king is now passing the drawbridge outside the city. A royal page bears
his greeting to your Grace.”
“Claire, oh, Claire!” sighs Blanche, casting herself into her arms. “Oh!
_why did you leave me?_”
CHAPTER V
Marriage at Valladolid
The ancient city of Valladolid lies on low ground and is watered by the
Pisuerga, a broad river for this waterless land.
Although so far in the north, Valladolid was at this time considered the
official capital of Castile, and therefore it was there that Blanche had
come to meet her much dreaded bridegroom.
A more uninviting city does not exist in Spain, as we see it now, and
although it suffered cruelly from the invasion of the French in the
Peninsular War, uninteresting it must always have been. No charm leads
one’s thoughts lovingly to Valladolid. The cathedral is hideous. Only
the front of San Pablo and the Collegiata de San Gregorio, a magnificent
gift of Cardinal Ximenes, dwell in the mind.
Of course, with the exception of San Pablo, these buildings were erected
centuries after Don Pedro’s reign, and one asks oneself what Valladolid
could have been then?
There are no environs. The river flows through flat banks with no
timber except long lines of thin poplars, the poorest of all trees, and
beyond, the eye wanders over endless plains towards Burgos and Salamanca
to the borders of Portugal.
But now, forgetting the present aspect of the city, we must go back to
the 3d of June, 1375, the day on which Don Pedro was to arrive to meet
the new queen, espoused in his name by his brother, the Grand Master of
Santiago, to be kept as a great festival, for which thousands had
assembled from all parts of the kingdom. For indeed, in those days of
perpetual warfare, a _fiesta_ was well esteemed, as they were very rare,
especially in the north, inhabited by a more serious and impassioned
race of hardy men than the lighthearted southerners of Andalusia.
Now this occasion had been seized as a gift from heaven, especially as
it was to take the form of a tournament, in which the Infante Don
Fadique was to take part, as well as the Infante of Aragon, and Don Juan
de Mañara, known in all ages as “Don Juan,” the favourite of the king,
gambler, reveller, and seducer, and that graceful but treacherous
knight, Don Garcia de Padilla, brother of Maria, both being in
attendance on the king. The queen-mother, Doña Maria of Portugal, had
also journeyed from Seville to welcome the young queen, and Albuquerque
followed her, full of alarm for the result of the alliance he had
brought about.
Much had been heard of the strange qualities of the young king, about
whom men’s minds were divided. Such mysterious crimes were attributed to
him, such unheard-of brutalities, that it was generally supposed he
acted under the influence of magic spells, wrought on him by his
mistress, Maria de Padilla, held by the populace as a witch accursed by
God and man.
Those who had not seen him, and they were many, and the women
especially, who had heard harrowing tales of his misdeeds, crowded into
Valladolid, where, accommodation not being easily obtained except for
the rich, the season being summer, had built themselves huts of branches
along the river, and camped out there, as near as possible to the green
_vega_ where the tournament was to be held.
And a wonderful sight it is, and almost beautiful to behold, under a
heaven one sheet of unbroken blue, golden lights resting on the gaudy
colours within the enclosed space, carpeted with grass; lofty gateways,
making the four entrances, adorned with coloured tiles in blue and gold;
tents of variegated rich stuffs, luxuriously fitted up for the
convenience of each knight about to take part in the tilt; galleries
hung with brocade and cloth of gold; turreted towers in silk striped
black and yellow, from which hang banners; fountains furnished with
bowls of silver to refresh the knights, over which court pages keep
guard; stands for the musicians, covered balconies for the ladies, where
the sparkle of dark eyes and rounded arms peep out of delicate
draperies; and in the centre, the gaudiest of all, the royal pavilion,
“as high as three lances,” blazing with cloth of gold, trimmed with
feathers and flowers, the flag of Castile and Leon floating overhead,
beside the emblazoned Nodo of Castile, and the French lilies impanelled
on the same shield--the interior protected from the sun by tinted
awnings, under which rise three crimson thrones, for the king, queen,
and queen-mother, “Matrique” to the bride, and all around the soft
whispering of leaves, the cooing of doves and pigeons, brought, Moorish
fashion, in cages, and the splash of abundant waters.
* * * * *
The time fixed for the tournament was at the setting of the sun, but
from the earliest dawn the populace had crowded into every available
space, and been entertained with _seguidillas_ and _zambras_ danced by
bronzed _gitanas_ to the clink of castanets, and there were races of
tame elephants with silken howdahs, jumpers and tossers of ball, and
Moorish jugglers whose tricks were wonderful and set all the peasants
agape with joy.
It was known that the king’s brother, the Grand Master, would break a
lance, and it was thought that the young king himself would run at the
ring in honour of his bride. But this was said only by those who did not
know, for in the first place Don Pedro, a young warrior full of conceit
and constantly risking his life in battles, disdained all these courtly
pageants; and in the second place, he had arrived at Valladolid in so
bad a temper that his attendants feared to approach him.
Never was a royal bridegroom so ill-disposed for mirth as Don Pedro
when, habited in a royal mantle draped over a crimson surcoat trimmed
with fur, and wearing a helmet encircled by a crown, _panached_ with
snowy feathers, he took his seat on his throne in the centre of the
pavilion, Albuquerque, his _padrino_ or god-father, behind him, to the
cry of “Castilla! Santiago! Santiago! _Viva el Rey Justiciar!_”
Beside him, on a less elevated seat, sat his mother, Queen Maria.
As the bride-queen, white as her name, and trembling in every limb,
advances to place herself on a chair of state on his right hand, the
king--who now sees her for the first time, having purposely delayed his
entrance into Valladolid until the last possible moment--rises to salute
her; when, at the aspect of terror depicted on her face, in evident
wrath he suddenly turns to address Albuquerque, pointing contemptuously
to the poor princess who sinks back into the arms of Claire.
“_Sangre de Dio!_ Signor Conte,” mutters the king, loud enough to be
heard, “a pretty consort you have chosen. I am not wont to be considered
an ogre in ladies’ eyes, but doubtless the Lady Blanche, spite of her
baby-face, has met some _damoisel_ at her father’s court whose
remembrance turns me to a monster in her eyes. By my Patron Saint (if I
have one), before the day is over I will assure myself who is the cuckoo
who has soiled my nest.”
“My lord, these are most unworthy suspicions,” returns Albuquerque, with
that calm dignity of manner before which the king’s petulant humour so
often yields. But not so now. Surrounded by those who have fostered his
evil passions, he knows that his every look and movement will be duly
reported by her brother, Don Garcia, to Maria de Padilla.
From this moment to the end of the pageant he hardly addresses himself
to Blanche or turns towards her, but with an angry scowl, his steely
eyes wander unceasingly over the crowd of brilliant knights who, singly
or together, gallop past the royal _estrado_ to salute him and the
queen.
Spite of herself, Blanche, revived by the strong essences Claire used to
restore her, begins to be attracted by the brilliant show. She is the
chief figure in this mimic war; the noblest dames of Castile are there
to do her homage; the queen-mother comforting her with gentle words, and
when Claire, who stands behind her chair, whispers into her ear, “Do you
see him, there under the flag-staff in the centre? He wears a long white
mantle over his armour, and your scarf upon his arm. Oh! is he not
charming?” a mist passes before her eyes, the tell-tale colour mounts to
her cheeks, and forgetting Don Pedro and all her fears past, present,
and to come, she leans forward, a wild look in her eyes, towards the
spot where Don Fadique has reined up his charger, to head the knights of
Santiago preparing to salute the king and the new queen. This passed in
an instant, but not before Don Pedro had noted it, and his naturally
pallid face grows white with rage.
“Madam,” says he, addressing Blanche for the first time, who, at the
sound of his harsh voice, starts back aghast, “it seems that the favour
you deny me, you accord to my brother. Happy youth! Doubtless he will
know how to profit by it.”
Utterly unable to reply, Blanche shrank back, as if about to faint, but
terror so far gave her strength that she found voice to reply that at
Narbonne it was her duty towards his Grace to receive his brother well.
“I doubt it not, madam,” answers Don Pedro with a bitter sneer. “Yes, at
Narbonne you made good use of your time, doubtless. I was a cursed fool
to send him there,” he mutters. Then, turning his back upon her, he
addresses himself to Don Juan, the big tears streaming slowly down poor
Blanche’s cheeks.
Alas! alas! This insult seems the last drop in her cup of misery. Poor
little queen! her heart is bursting, and nothing but her horror of the
king, whose cold eyes follow her wherever she turns, prevents her sobs
from being heard by all the court.
At this moment, amid the blare of trumpets, the roll of drums and clash
of cymbals, the chimes of all the bells of the city clashing, and the
frantic shouts of the mob, pressing forward at every point where they
can find standing room along the barriers, a gallant company of knights,
attended by their esquires, galloped into the centre of the field in a
general _mêlée_; the Knight of the Dragon, Don Juan de Cerda--who, could
he have foreseen the future, would then and there have forfeited his
fealty to a recreant king; the Knight of the White Rose, Don Diego de
Guzman; the unknown knight, his turban protected by chains of finest
steel interwoven with the folds of dazzling white, and white his tunic
and mantle, on his left arm a shield, in his right hand a slender lance,
mounted on a raven-black charger, and attended by two slaves in Moorish
dress, black from casque to toe, his visor down--said to be the Moorish
king of Granada, Ben Hade, come in disguise, to break a lance with the
Christians; the two Medinas, Celi and Sidonia, a tribe of Aguilars,
every man of the name a hero in the track of war, the de Cuevas,
Cipuntes, Cabras, Perez del Pulgar, and the great southern noble, Ponce
de Leon, arrived from the plains of Xeres, where he ruled more powerful
than the king; the judges of the lists, stranger knights, marshals,
swordsmen, bowmen; pages, gorgeous in silk and samite, heralds in gold
and embroidered tabards; and last, and chiefest, in splendid armour,
the Lord of the Tournament, the Grand Master de Santiago, attended by
the knights of his order in the absence of the king.
Small of stature, but light and elegant, his heavy accoutrements can not
conceal the grace of every movement, or the mastery with which he
manages his horse, a fiery chestnut, curveting and prancing, as he takes
his place in the centre of the lists amid cries of “_Plaza! Plaza por
los Infante! Santiago! Santiago!_”
Conscious that Blanche’s eyes are upon him, and knowing nothing of what
has just passed between her and Don Pedro, and that her poor little
heart is melting in fear, he takes advantage of every opportunity to
place himself before the royal pavilion, thirsting for one look of her
sweet eyes, a gesture, a sign, to feel the assurance of her love; but he
looks in vain.
Many tilts are run. The stranger knight unhorses several riders. When
called on by the herald to raise his visor he courteously declines,
rides three times round the field, displaying his colours, the Moorish
cognisance of yellow on a black ground, then vanishes through the open
gates, his black slaves after him. Many sharp blows are then exchanged
and wounds inflicted in this mimic warfare, to the delight of the king,
who rises to his feet loudly laughing and clapping his hands as the
vanquished knights are carried from the field.
[Illustration: A STREET IN TOLEDO.
From an etching by Charles A. Platt.]
Then, to the cries of _Dios y España_, four cavaliers ride forth, with
violet surcoats over their coats of mail, and run a Moorish tilt with
reeds instead of lances, an elegant pastime of Granada worthy of the
courtly Moslems with whom Don Pedro is so much in league, while stringed
instruments strike up a joyful measure, and castanets are played by the
_gitanos_ who dance a _seguidilla_ before the king.
Many of the great nobles, offended at the insolent bearing of Don Pedro,
have not, as yet, taken their lances out of rest, but have only ridden
round at the opening of the lists, at which great wonder is expressed
among the spectators, and much discontent amid their followers.
Now, all are in honour bound to break a lance, in the _Grande Mêlée_,
with Don Fadique, who takes his place in the centre of the field.
Whether it is out of courtesy to his youth and royal rank, or that, by a
kind of miracle, his lady-love being present, his arm is strengthened to
do wonders in her eyes, many a famous noble has the worst of it, at
which wild cries are again heard of “_Santiago!_ _Viva el Gran Maestro!_
_Viva el Infante!_”
A grand procession ends the tournament, around the golden pole set up in
the centre, from which depends a laurel crown woven with pearls, which,
according to the rules, ought to be presented to the victor by the young
queen. But Don Pedro, in savage mood (for the success of his brother has
deeply angered him), has willed it otherwise.
With his large eyes fixed in a disdainful stare he gives no heed to the
tilting, and scarcely responds to the salutations of the noble knights
who gather under the pavilion.
When Don Fadique stations himself in front to salute him and the two
queens, Don Pedro--who at that moment is talking eagerly with the Lord
of Monteney, from time to time turning towards Albuquerque, as if to
inform him of some important fact--turns and fixes his eyes upon him
with such a glare of rage that Don Fadique never advances at all to
claim the guerdon he was to receive, and retreats to his tent, the king
at the same time suddenly rising, and signalling to the gaudy herald,
displaying his particoloured costume in the last rays of the sunset
which light up the west, to the delight of the townsfolk, to approach.
Like all the world the herald dreads the king, and comes riding as fast
as his horse can carry him.
“Vain knave!” says Don Pedro surveying his brilliant garb, “can you find
nothing better with which to fill your time, than serving as a popinjay
to the people? Break up the lists. I have had enough of it; and see you
do it quickly.”
* * * * *
And now, slowly, as the day falls, along the river bank under the shade
of the poplar avenues, passes the procession, winding into the deep and
narrow streets of Burgos.
Before the cathedral, public tables are spread with highly flavoured
viands such as Spaniards love, to be washed down by strong Xeres wine
served out of great earthen jars, so big it seems as if thousands could
be satisfied.
Don Pedro would have ridden alone into the city, but for the
remonstrances of Albuquerque and of his mother, who, with tears implored
him not to rouse the suspicions of his subjects by such a disregard of
royal custom as to allow his bride to return alone.
Thus while all the citizens wait beside the tables (none caring to fall
to until the king’s return) a flourish of clarions and trumpets suddenly
announces his presence, preceded by a troop of men-at-arms in the low
cap and close-setting jerkin of that warlike time. Don Pedro himself
mounted on a coal-black war-horse, the jewelled reins held by two great
nobles, the Lord of Bertrayo and the Sevillian Don Enrique de la Cerda,
husband of Doña Maria de Coronel.
Beside him, but somewhat in the rear, rides the queen, her bridal veil
enveloping her like a shroud, and it is well so, for her ashen cheeks
and sunken eyes would tell a tale of suffering no words could express.
Following after her comes the queen-mother, mounted on a white mule shod
with gold, her eyes cast down, and with a visage full of sorrow.
As the young queen passes, the word goes round that she is an unwilling
bride. “And no wonder, poor soul,” answers a richer burgher, who has
pushed himself forward and looks into her white face, “if she knows the
sort of husband she is espousing. He kills all who come to him.”
“An ill-omened couple,” whispers a fat countrywoman into his ear. “Look
at the king, he never turns his eyes on the poor young thing, but rides
straight on, and so fast her horse cannot keep pace with him. Why does
he marry her? It is plain to see he hates her. I wonder how the young
queen will like his _harem_? They say he lives like a Moor, and keeps a
whole bevy of slaves shut up in the castle of Carmona.”
“Poor soul, I would not be in her shoes, and have to face his mistress,
Maria de Padilla,” says another woman; “and after all, why should the
king flout her if he likes a pretty face?”
“Belike some one has cast a spell on him,” observes a little man in a
black _capa_ and mantle, the city _medico_.
“Aye,” is the reply, “a jealous woman has overlooked her.”
And so it came to be understood among the crowd that the king had been
bewitched and never would care for his girl queen.
“God grant he may not murder her,” are the last words of the fat
countrywoman as they all move on to where the tables are spread.
The king meanwhile is hurrying in the most unseemly fashion, indifferent
to the discomfort he causes to those behind, especially to the Lady
Blanche, who with her two royal rein-holders, the Grand Master Don
Fadique and the Infante of Aragon, not daring to look up, is now
separated from him, which greatly mars the effect of the pageant.
The knights, having changed their armour while Queen Blanche was in her
retiring room, reappear in fanciful suits of many-coloured silk and
brocade, their helmets replaced by graceful caps, ornamented with gems
and pearls, in readiness for the nuptial banquet.
Don Juan de Mañara is most conspicuously attired in the excess of the
mode, of no great beauty, but with so bold an eye, it is said of him he
fears neither the living nor the dead. In all his wildest excesses Don
Juan is the king’s companion, but never for murder, injustice, or spoil.
No wantonness is too great for him where women are concerned, and woe to
the wife or maid who takes his fancy.
No one can rival Don Juan in the jewels he wears except the southern
lord, Ponce de Leon, whose robe of pale silver tissue is covered with
uncut stones, and his head encircled by a wreath of orient pearls taken
from a Moorish emir whom he has slain.
Don Enrique de la Cerda, the king’s favourite before Don Juan, but so
much better than he that the people of Seville call him jeeringly _El
Santo_, is attired in a dark velvet suit quite at variance with his
usual magnificence. It is rumoured that he is out of favour on account
of his beautiful wife, Doña Maria de Coronel, upon whom the king has
cast eyes of love, a distinction which, contrary to fealty and
allegiance as understood in those times, Cerda has not appreciated, and
has not only shut her up in his castle of Cerda, but is inclined to
listen to the overtures of Enrique of Trastamare and forsake the king
altogether.
* * * * *
The board blazes with flowers, Moresque porcelain, and glittering plate;
precious candelabras of sculptured silver shed a soft light, and
jewelled vases and golden cups give it back in intensest colours, as the
king and queen enter to the sound of trumpets and take their place in
the centre, beside them the royal princes and the Infante of Aragon, the
ministers of state, and such ambassadors and envoys as have been invited
to the tournament.
Wonderful to relate, Blanche is wreathed in smiles. This is Claire’s
doing. She has contrived to convey to her a message from the Grand
Master, promising an interview for the morrow, when the king rides to
Segovia. As the brother of the king, Don Fadique sits at her side. For
an instant their hands meet, and such a thrill of pleasure shoots
through her little heart as gives her courage to face every mishap.
Child as she is, she clings to happiness. The future is an unveiled
mystery. Why despair?
From Don Fadique her eyes wander to Don Pedro, placed on her other side.
He has the same smooth face as his brother, but sterner and loftier,
and a majesty of expression all his own. He is not frowning now, and the
change is marvellous. No one could compare the two brothers.
“Who knows,” Blanche begins to ask herself, peeping at him from under
her long eyelashes, “if he really is such a monster as report gives out?
Can anything be more perfect? His long wavy hair hanging in heavy
curls.” At this moment he is leaning over her in conversation with Don
Fadique. No shade of displeasure is on his face, as he casts on her such
a glance as brings blushes to her cheek. Alas! alas! could she but read
the treachery of his heart as he plays with the lace tissue of her robe,
and lowers his voice to a soft whisper as he addresses her, she would
flee from the hall, the city, and the land.
Little did the light-hearted daughter of Navarre understand the
passions, deep down and fierce, of the Spaniards. Not voluble and
capricious like the French, but sullen, silent, sinister, hiding all
emotion under a mask. This she did not understand, nor that she had
mortally offended Don Pedro, who but dissembled his revenge, storing up
each word and look she thoughtlessly addressed to Don Fadique.
Poor Blanche!--her bright little head, encircled with the regal
diadem--let her enjoy her brief moment of triumph. Little by little her
heart is yielding to the fascinations of Don Pedro, the most brilliant
cavalier she could have conjured up even in her dreams, and she feels
that if he would but take her to his arms, she would tell him all her
tale; how every one has frightened her, and that now she is ready to
love him for ever and aye. It is all right now, and she feels so happy,
she talks incessantly to Don Fadique in the pauses, telling him all she
feels, which makes him inexpressibly wretched, and he casts on her the
most longing glances, as a precious treasure he has lost, and heaves
great sighs as he raises his eyes to her laughing face--at which she is
really grieved, trying by all possible means to console him.
Don Pedro looks on with a strange, fixed smile. Now and then he even
joins in the conversation with a loud harsh laugh, which, to say the
truth, frightens Blanche, but, delighted at the change in his bearing
towards herself, she interprets it all as “men’s ways,” and hopes in
time to grow accustomed to him. Every one could not be so gentle as the
Grand Master, who, after all, was half a priest, so Claire said; and of
the two, ignorant Blanche said in her heart, how much more she admired
the rough blunt ways of the king.
Once indeed, when talking with Don Fadique, she turned round quickly to
address Don Pedro, and met his eyes riveted on her with such a cruel
stare, she grew cold all over. And it was strange that when he gave the
signal for the company to separate, instead of leading her to the bridal
chamber, as she had been told he would, he made her a low bow and
retired attended by Don Juan de Mañara and Don Garcia de Padilla.
“I wonder if I have offended him,” she whispers to Claire, who is in
waiting behind her chair. “I am afraid something must be wrong. Surely
he ought not to have left me on our wedding night? What have I done? In
the morning he was wroth without a cause, to-night he is gracious with
still less reason.”
“You might have spoken less with the Grand Master,” is Claire’s reply.
“I cannot abide Don Pedro,” Claire says, when they have reached the
solitude of the queen’s apartment. “I am sure he has some secret chamber
where he hangs up those who do not please him, like Blue Beard in his
castle. For the sake of your life be on your guard, my queen. You may
depend on the Grand Master, but the king is _not_ to be trusted.”
“Oh, dear Claire, I am sure you are mistaken! Now I am as unhappy as
ever, just when I thought all was coming right! Why did not the
queen-mother come to the banquet? She is kind and gracious. I could have
taken courage to consult her. I have no friend but Fadique, and now I am
afraid even of him.”
And once again the tell-tale tears gather in her eyes, as she buries
herself in Claire’s arms.
“Mind, Claire, we must not meet Fadique to-morrow. It might anger the
king. And oh! he is so charming, I would do anything to please him.”
“Who?” asks Claire, leaning down to where the queen’s curly head rests
on her arm.
“Why, Don Pedro, of course,” is the answer. “No one can compare to him!
Terrible but beautiful! Oh! if he would but love me! Alas! why did he
go?” So, murmuring to each other, the queen calls in her tiring women,
and prepares for rest.
[Illustration: ALCANTARA.]
CHAPTER VI
Cloister, Valladolid.--Castle of Talavera
All sleep, save that within a most lovely cloister of Gothic arches,
over which the clustering branches of many vines tremble in the night
air, comes the sound of voices, now near, now far, as the speakers pass
and repass from opposite sides along the marble floor, and the echo of a
harsh, discordant laugh breaks the silence.
“_Por Cristo!_ I will go!” cries a loud voice, desecrating the fair
night by its rough accent, as three muffled figures emerge for a moment
into the light, where a lofty portal opens into the centre of the
cloister, filled with the graves of monks, who even in death cling to
the sacred precincts.
“I will go, and no man shall hinder me! With me shall come my trusty Don
Juan and our brother Garcia. Ha! ha! Mañara,” addressing the tallest of
the three figures, “you are always ready. How many ladies expect you in
Seville at the Calle near the Lonja? See how sober a man is your
sovereign. One lady love is all I claim. One, ineffable, divine! Now, I
ask in all fairness, and I appeal to you, Mañara, can Albuquerque here
(who has limed me like a falcon) reproach me if I fly back to the nest
of love, after I have seen the baby-faced traitress he has chosen?
_Sangre de Dio!_ The thought of Maria makes me mad.”
His speech was succeeded by a dead silence. Don Juan did not answer.
There was a brutal coarseness of expression in the king which, as a
knight and a caballero, he disapproved. Not so the third figure, Don
Garcia de Padilla, standing a little aloof, as waiting to be addressed,
who bowed to the ground, then further retreated into the gloom cast by
the shadow of the clustered columns.
Then the grave voice of Albuquerque responds: “My lord, you have no just
cause of suspicion against the queen. She is very young, and could be
moulded like wax in your hand.”
“That is my affair!” answers the king, whose choleric temper is rising.
“As facile as a dancing-girl. Nay, more so, for aught I know--for those
devils of _gitañas_ have a code of honour of their own. I have proved
her. Even in my presence she could not conceal her love for the cursed
bastard. I never wanted a wife; you forced her on me. But such a one as
this is not worthy to mate with our jester. We will duly dispose of her,
were she a thousand times cousin to the King of France.”
“Beware, my lord, what you do,” interposes Albuquerque, with the
unhesitating frankness he alone dared use.
But Don Pedro continues without heeding him: “There is a prophecy about
me, you say, of which you think much, ‘_I must kill or be killed._’
Excellent reasoning! We will see to it by-and-by. For the present, the
Lady Blanche shall spend her honeymoon in the strong castle of Talavera,
and the Grand Master may find the air of exile favourable to his
health.”
To all this, spoken in a hard, grating voice, with the incessant and
uneasy movement which always marked Don Pedro’s bursts of fury,
Albuquerque, his arms folded under his mantle, listened in silence.
Whether Don Pedro had expected some violent reproaches and was angered
that they did not come, or whether, knowing the madness of what he was
about to do, he had laid himself out to combat argument and reason, the
effect of enraging him was all the same. He trembled with passion, and
struck upon the pavement with his heel.
At length, unfolding his arms, Albuquerque speaks: “My liege, I have
guided the councils of your kingdom in the time of your father, called
‘the Wise,’ and in the regency of your mother, called ‘the Good’; I have
been your own pilot in many a stormy sea. Now I resign these gracious
powers with which you have invested me into your hands, much worthier
than mine. But before taking my leave, allow me to remind your Highness
that the truce with Aragon is expired; that by divers hostile acts you
have angered your old ally, the King of Granada, and that Enrique de
Trastamare, with his army, is marching on Toledo, where he has many and
powerful partisans. His alliance with His Most Christian Majesty was
known to me, and therefore I wrought on your Grace to espouse the Lady
Blanche, which would have traversed this scheme, and brought France to
your aid; but as----”
“Have you done?” thunders the king, so loud as to send a flight of night
birds scudding across the sky.
“No, my lord, I have not done. Behind all this is His Holiness the
Pope--long angered by the favour you show Mussulmen and Jews--seeking a
cause to place you and Castile under an interdict; the Lady Blanche of
Bourbon will serve him well for this. And as to your Castilian subjects,
I warn your Highness to proffer no offers of advancement to Cerda,
husband of Doña Maria Coronel. To my certain knowledge he is engaged in
treasonable practices with Don Enrique; and the lady, my lord--here a
cold smile for an instant lit up Albuquerque’s face--_will never
yield_!”
“To hell with them and you,” roars Don Pedro, beside himself with rage.
“You too, as report says, hold your papers in the hands of my brother,
and will meet other traitors at his camp. Cursed hypocrite and
treacherous counsellor, begone from my presence! Tread not Castilian
soil again, I warn you.”
“Except as a conqueror,” is the calm reply. “May your Highness raise the
glory of Castile as high as my desire, and you will win the world.” And
the great minister passed down the dark aisle as tranquil as on a gala
day, the shadow of the light vine-trellis clinging to the groined arches
striking upon his mantle--the sound of his footsteps growing fainter and
fainter, until finally they were lost in the murmurs of the night
breeze.
Spite of his passion a spell of silence sat upon the king. The voice of
his guardian angel rose within him, and on his lips was the cry,
“Return, return, Albuquerque;” but the good impulse promptly vanished,
and with a mocking laugh he turned to Don Juan. “Have the horses saddled
and the escort ready, I ride at break of day.” Then, striding down the
aisle, he disappeared.
* * * * *
Poor Blanche! Her dream is over. She awoke to find Don Pedro gone--Don
Fadique fled--and a bench of bishops appointed to consult upon her
supposed misdeeds. Proof there was none against her--not even of
witchcraft, which was the popular accusation at times when all others
failed. But, for all that, the bishops were much too terrified at the
king not to pronounce her guilty.
The Duke of Bourbon, her father, and the most Christian king, her
brother-in-law, by the mouth of a herald sent to Seville, storm and
threaten--but what could be said against the judgment of these holy men?
Both justice and knowledge in those days lay in the Church, and Don
Pedro had managed so cunningly, and Maria de Padilla had so carefully
spread abroad diabolical accusations, that Blanche was held to be guilty
of incest.
If the marriage by proxy common among kings and great princes were not
respected as a point of chivalrous honour, by the person selected by the
husband to represent him in the sacred rite, no crowned head would be
safe. It was usual for a man of mature years to be chosen on such
occasions, not a gay young _infante_ like Don Fadique; but, on the other
hand, his near relationship to the king was deemed sufficient guarantee
for his honour, and knightly honour in those days was much more
considered than either virtue or religion.
Thus this accusation against Blanche appealed to the most violent
prejudices of the time. She was supposed to have offended against that
unwritten code which is the safeguard of kings.
No one cared for details. Degraded into a criminal, laden with contempt,
she was sent under a strong escort to the castle of Talavera de la Reina
on the Tagus, not far distant from Toledo; and Don Fadique saved his
life by flight into Portugal.
Vainly did the queen-mother warn her son of the risk he ran in thus
offending a French princess, and endeavour to procure for Blanche some
gentler treatment. Don Pedro mocked at her as he had mocked at
Albuquerque. He told her plainly that if she importuned him she should
follow Blanche into a prison. “There were plenty of castles,” he said,
“in Castile for troublesome queens, as there were cords and daggers for
traitors!”
Had Claire not been left her, Blanche would have died. Her horror of the
king returned greater than ever. “He will kill me! He will kill me!” she
kept repeating, “with a Moorish bowstring. His cruel blue eyes pierce me
like a knife. Oh! Claire, I wish it were over!”
Then she raved of Navarre and Narbonne. Called on Don Fadique for help,
and implored Claire to carry her to the convent, and bury her out of
sight.
* * * * *
For two days they rode over the plains, avoiding the steep defiles of
the Guadarrama Mountains, expecting death at every halting-place. The
faint hope of a rescue haunted the mind of Claire, but she did not speak
of it to Blanche. Where were the Grand Master and all the noble knights
of Santiago? Surely they would not allow such a crime? But no
white-mantled horsemen came galloping over the plain; no flag of knight
or esquire fluttered in the grey atmosphere. The same dull lines seemed
endless.
At length they descended into the gorges of a deep treeless valley,
through which the broad Tagus flows by rocky boundaries, very different
from the laughing river which runs by the leafy groves of Aranjuez, and
reflects that bright and elegant palace of the Bourbons in its crystal
flood.
On a height, to the right, rose the castle of Talavera de la Reina,
built of small bricks faced with stone, an irregular fortress of Gothic
times.
As the portcullis was raised to admit Queen Blanche, Claire, whose eyes
were everywhere, was delighted to observe that it was in a ruinous
condition, having lately sustained a siege, and that it appeared
slenderly garrisoned for a royal fortress. A wild hope of escape
possessed her, especially when the governor, who advanced to hold the
queen’s bridle on bended knee, appeared in the person of a gracious
young cavalier, wearing on his breast the cross of Santiago.
Even Blanche roused herself to bestow on him a sweet smile, and
graciously replied to his words of welcome.
Conducted by him, and followed by serving-men and seneschals, Blanche
casting uneasy looks around, mounted the narrow turning stair, which led
to the dreary suite of rooms known as “the royal chambers.” At every
door stood a man-at-arms, halberd in hand, immovable as a statue.
“It seems I am considered a dangerous prisoner,” she said, turning with
a winning smile towards the governor, who walked at her left hand. “What
care two poor women require to keep fast locked up! A good watch-dog,
such as we have in Narvarre to guard the sheep, would be sufficient.”
“Madam, I grieve in aught to displease your Highness,” is the reply;
“but I act under strict command, as the king’s officer. The presence of
armed troops near Toledo gives some alarm----”
“Armed troops!” interrupts Claire, arresting Blanche’s progress with her
hand; “and who commands them?”
The governor hesitated. Claire’s eyes, a pair of brilliant orbs with
glancing Gallic fire, were turned full upon him.
“Oh, tell me, is it the Grand Master of Santiago?” cries Blanche,
thinking that Don Fadique might be near. “You are not bidden to imprison
our souls.”
“Madam,” answers the young governor, bowing to the ground, “I dare not
refuse the command of the Queen of Castile. The armed bands I speak of
are the skirmishers of Don Enrique de Trastamare, who is advancing from
the north on the city of Toledo. It is said that some French mercenaries
are with him.”
“Oh! thank the blessed Virgin for that,” ejaculates poor Blanche,
clasping her hands and uttering a silent prayer. “They have thought of
me at last. Oh, the dear French; it seems to me I could embrace the
roughest of the soldiers! Oh, that I were with them, and had never left
that pleasant land! Are they far off? Can I see them pass? Is there no
tower or battlement from which I could wave a greeting to them? Oh,
say----?”
“Madam,” answers the governor, gravely--Claire finds him extremely
sympathetic, with his dark moustache and pointed beard, small
aristocratic head, and dark black eyes, capable of saying so many
things--“I have already overstepped my duty. Your Grace must be
merciful, and press me no further. Believe me, madam, did it depend on
me, not only this wish of yours, but all others, would be met even
before expressed. I, too, come of French blood. My mother was from
Bayonne.”
“Your name?” asks Blanche. “The king is happy in possessing so loyal an
officer.”
“Alvarez de Varga,” is the reply. “As a boy, I was reared at Seville, as
one of the pages of the queen.”
“What queen?” asks Claire, hastily. “Not----”
“No, madam; my gracious mistress was Mary of Portugal. I was chosen
among many as the companion of Don Pedro.”
“Oh! the Saints protect me! then you love him?” exclaims Blanche,
shrinking back against the wall.
“Not more than is set down in my duty, madam,” is his quick reply. “In
my hands you are as safe as in the palace of Narbonne. Rather would I
sever limb from limb, than that harm should come to your Highness under
my charge.”
“Thank heaven!” was all that Blanche could murmur, for her lips had
turned bloodless from terror.
“Tell me, Don Alvarez,” asks Claire, who never let a propitious occasion
slip, “did you know Don Fadique, the Grand Master, at the Court?”
“Right well; he is my master. We were playmates together, until the
death of his mother scattered the Infantes far and wide. Don Fadique,”
he adds, reading the breathless interest expressed in both the fair
ladies’ eyes, now riveted upon him, “is of a temper to attach all who
approach him. Even the queen, with so many causes of displeasure against
the children of Doña Eleanor de Guzman, who led away the fancy of her
consort, always cherished him.”
“Tell me,” says Claire, in her eagerness placing her hand upon his arm,
“does Don Fadique ride with his brother, Don Enrique, against the king?
Will he join in the siege of Toledo?”
“Noble _demoiselle_, whom I account French from her accent,” answers Don
Alvarez, again bowing low, a great admiration breaking into his face as
his eyes wander over Claire’s tall and supple form, “your zeal for your
royal mistress touches me to the soul. But, by my faith, I do not know
where the Grand Master is; but if I did, it is not my place to tell.”
“Oh, say not so, Sir Governor,” answers Claire, “you are our only
friend. We are of all ladies the most dejected. Do not treat us
prisoners who as have done ill, but as innocent sufferers consigned to
your care.”
“Such is my conviction, fair lady,” is Don Alvarez’s answer, “but
prisoners you are. In all that I can, count on me as your slave. Will it
please your Grace"--addressing Blanche--“to pass up to the second
storey, and view the apartments which have been prepared for you?”
With a deep sigh, Blanche followed him. Her arms fell to her side. To be
so near rescue, yet bound within these walls!
As to Claire, the affairs of state did not affect her at all. She was
fully occupied in considering what advantage she could take of the
evident admiration of the governor.
Discreet as he meant to be, he could not control his eyes; one look had
betrayed him to the astute pupil of the nuns, whose zeal for Blanche
wanted no stimulating.
“I will make the governor love me, and free the queen,” was her thought,
and as, step by step, she followed Blanche up the stairs, passing by
narrow lancet windows that let in the light, the whole project
simplified itself so marvellously in her brain that already they were
careering forth upon the plains on two fleet Spanish barbs, accompanied
by Don Alvarez, to the outposts of Don Enrique de Trastamare.
[Illustration: Patio de los Leones, the Court of the Lions,
Alhambra.]
CHAPTER VII
Don Pedro and Maria de Padilla
The inner _patio_, on the left hand, as you enter the Alcazar, where
trees of magnolia and pomegranate wave together among hedges of red
roses, has always been called the _Patio de Maria Padilla_.
It is known that her royal lover raised rooms on the flat, Moorish roof,
and decorated them magnificently for her use.
Charles V. took his chapel from them, and his comfortable bed-rooms
where he could at least, with convenient surroundings, encounter his
formidable attacks of gout.
Maria’s tiring-room, with its long range of _miradores_ (windows),
immediately over Don Pedro’s gorgeous portal, is not only a capital post
of observation, but a wonder to behold. The walls, a snowy mass of
lace-work cut in stone, are relieved by encrusted tiles of a deep and
ruddy colour. Beneath the golden cupola of fretted stalactites, a
perfumed fountain sheds clouds of spray, and banks of flowers and myrtle
scent the air.
On each of the four sides are recesses for divans, on which lie piled up
cushions wrought in the looms of Granada, the walls covered with Eastern
stuffs, stiff with gold and tissue, Gothic characters wrought into
borders and tessellated edgings, each recess supported by pillars, round
which twist serpents of gold and enamel, with eyes of enormous emeralds
giving a life-like glare. Behind screens of golden trellis, woven with
the brilliant blossoms of fresh flowers, are the heavy draperies which
shroud the doorways, bearing the royal monogram and _nodo_, and in one
corner a hidden entrance leading into the apartments of Don Pedro. But
one step of her light feet, and Maria is in the presence of the king!
So lived for years this terrible beauty--a fan her sceptre, and love’s
seat her throne!
Some are born queens; others achieve greatness. There are peasant
princesses and baseborn empresses; sultanas of the buskin, and _kadines_
of the lute; modest violets, born in the purple, and imperial beauties
like the rose, unapproachable and supreme; but if ever a woman was
created to reign, it was this haughty and cynical tyrant who, under the
most enticing form, concealed a will of steel, remorseless, fearless,
merciless, and cold.
Maria has been called a witch, and her power over Don Pedro attributed
to magic, but she dealt in no charms save those that nature had bestowed
on her, and an intelligence far above her age.
Now she sits desolate, the pillared _miradores_ are closed, the heavy
curtains drawn. Not that it is night, for the summer sun blazes over the
city, and such as are abroad in the streets seek the narrow Moorish
alleys and the shadow of deep _patio_ gates to breathe.
But the lady of love is sorrowful. A heavy presentiment of evil is in
her soul. She has long known through her spies, that Albuquerque is
engaged in a conspiracy against her. What it exactly is she has been
long in finding out. Like Damocles’ sword it hung over her head, and now
she knows it! And a mad fury possesses her which she no longer cares to
control.
Not only has she overwhelmed Albuquerque with accusations, but she has
branded him as a traitor and renegade against the king.
Up to this time outward observances of courtesy have been observed
between them, especially in the presence of Don Pedro, but now words of
direct menace have passed, received on the part of Albuquerque in
dignified silence, as the paltry onslaught of an enemy he disdains.
It is war to the knife between the cool-headed minister and a passionate
woman, blinded by a sense of wrong to herself and the children she has
borne the king. Many weeks have passed since she has seen Don Pedro, who
left her in displeasure anent the burning question of his marriage. He
was going to hunt, he told her, in the mountains of Segovia, in obvious
subterfuge, for he had not been there at all, nor can she learn for
certain whether he is at Burgos or Valladolid, nor when he will return.
And this treatment from a lover, whom she has hitherto swayed with
absolute power!
As the name of Pedro rises to her lips, she raises herself and sits
upright.
“He dared to talk to me of marriage,” she cries, clenching her hands
until the henna-tipped fingers mark the palm. “Alliance with France!
Before, it was I who was to wear the crown; I, whose beauty he said was
to work miracles upon the people; I, whose craft was to sway his
councils; I, Maria de Padilla, to crush out rebellion, and now he would
bring in a stranger to put me to open shame--me and the son I have borne
him! Oh, Pedro! Pedro! Was it for this you lured me to you? No, no! This
wrong does not come from you, but from that crafty knave, Albuquerque,
who has been bribed to ruin me!”
As she spoke, all her tears seemed in an instant to dry up. Her face
grew dark, as she put back the long black hair that veiled her cheeks,
and gathered herself together where she lay.
“If it is a duel between us two, I accept it. One must fall. It shall
not be Maria de Padilla. To dare to bring a wife to Pedro. A wife! ha!
ha! Blanche of Bourbon! She shall never reign in Castile! I will prevent
it! Alliance, indeed, and marriage! I will light up such a war that they
shall curse the day they named her. What? Come into Spain to rob me of
my Pedro? Never! No, not if I call Beelzebub himself to help me!”
As she sits there, her widely opened eyes fixed on the shadowed
splendour of the walls, the gold, and the panels, the waving filagree
work, and the arches, she looks like a beautiful demon.
Then a flood of tender recollections comes to her. She thinks of the
first days when she came a young girl to her kinsman’s house in Seville,
how Albuquerque threw her in the king’s path as a humble flower he was
invited to pick up. The glory of his love, the triumph of her power,
almost a queen--more than a sultana--the crown within her grasp--and
now, fallen so low that he has left her without a word. Yes! He has
sacrificed her to his ambition; what more has she to hope? By this act
Albuquerque’s ascendancy is proclaimed. This royal marriage is a proof
of it. Pedro has many enemies--Aragon, Navarre, France, brothers and
ambitious nobles. Slowly the truth comes to her, and again she flings
herself back in an agony of despair. Again the fountain of her tears is
poured out. “Pedro! oh, Pedro!” is all she can utter.
As the king’s name passes her lips, a mailed hand puts back the arras
which hangs before the door, and he himself stands before her, the dark
steel helmet on his head, and the loose auburn locks worn long making
his naturally pallid face look whiter. Save for his breastplate, he is
in complete armour, travel-stained and mud-besplashed as one who had
ridden long and furiously. Nor does his countenance denote a mind at
ease. Every feature in his face betrays an anxiety and care seldom seen
there. Instead of that upright, masterful bearing which strikes fear
into his enemies, his manner of entering is hurried and agitated.
“You called me, Maria,” he says tenderly, gathering her prostrate form
into his arms, “and I am here.”
But ere the words have passed his lips, Maria has sprung to her feet.
“What, my lord!” she cries, with a mocking laugh, “so soon from
Valladolid? Where is the Lady Blanche? Have you tired of her already? Is
Albuquerque with you, listening behind the arras? If _he_ is a traitor
to me, _you_ are a greater.”
Then her mood changes, and tearing herself away from his outstretched
arms she flings herself back upon the divan. “Oh, you are cruel, cruel!”
she sobs. “For years you have enjoyed the treasure of my love--all I
could give you. Who swore to make me his queen before the Church? to
name my child his successor? And now you have wedded, stealthily,
secretly, treacherously, and Albuquerque has helped you! Oh, Pedro, you
have broken my heart! Go to your white-faced princess. She will deceive
you, as you have me. Let me go!” she shrieks, as the king endeavours to
draw her closer to him, and the sound of her voice echoes in the painted
vestibules as she struggles to free herself. “Touch me not. Not with a
finger. You shall not stay me; I will die as proudly as I have lived in
this palace where I have triumphed. Here, on this pavement our feet have
pressed so long together; within these halls where you have so often
dallied with me!”
Then, by a sudden movement flinging back the curtains, she rushes
forward into the open gallery of the _mirador_, but in an instant the
strong arms of Pedro are round her.
All that tenderness could devise he essays to calm her. Slowly and sadly
she yields to his touch, and listens to his entreaties for forgiveness.
No one could have recognised the cruel Pedro in this impassioned youth.
Truly it might be said she had bewitched him!
“Maria,” he whispers, covering her with kisses, as she lies faint and
exhausted in his arms, “believe me, if I am married, it is for your
good.”
“‘_My good_,’ false one? What good can come to me by losing you?”
“By making you greater than the queen!” answers, Pedro, looking down
with glowing eyes upon the lines of her exquisite figure, and that royal
contour of neck and brow that marks her supreme among women.
“But I _am_ queen,” she answers, looking up at him, as the colour
returns slowly to her cheeks. “YOUR queen. There is no other. Why did
you listen to Albuquerque and put that woman between us?”
“Ah! sweet love, why?” sighs the love-sick Pedro, his whole soul melting
as he gazes at the enchantress.
Who is like her? Who? By heaven, this black-browed Andalusian would put
the pale daughters of the north to shame, were she but a beggar!
“Yes, Maria, I hate Blanche of Bourbon as much as you! She shrank from
me with loathing. Not a smile, not a word--all were for Fadique, the
treacherous boy. _Por Dios!_ he shall be stripped of his honours, and
your brother Garcia shall take his place as Grand Master of Santiago. By
this time Fadique is on his way to Portugal. I have rooted out the
viper, and scorned the royal _demoiselle_. Mark that, Maria, _scorned
her_, and left her. Your voice called me and I am here. And I am glad of
it. Come what may. Let Du Guesclin and the French avenge her. Kings,
queens, and powers--though the whole world stands before me, I will have
none of her, I have sworn it on the Gospel.” And in a passion of newly
awakened love, he strains Maria to him in a wild embrace.
“But how can I trust you,” she whispers, her eyes meeting his. “You have
deceived me once, you may again.”
“But you are not the only one, Maria. I am also deceived, cajoled. _Por
Dios!_ my vengeance shall fall on more than her. Don Fadique--” He
paused.
“Away with these half-words,” cries Maria, the feeling of power coming
to her again as, eagerly seizing the king’s hands, she draws him to her
and brings her glowing face close to his. “What of Fadique? How could
you trust him?”
“Yes,” answers Pedro slowly. “The Judas! It was Albuquerque who insisted
on sending him as my proxy, ‘devoted to _me_,’ he said. Ha! ha!” and he
burst into a harsh laugh. “He met her at Narbonne, and passed the
nuptial ring on her finger. Let God judge the hand that smites her, for
smitten she shall be for her treason, and that speedily.”
“What?” cried Maria, her dark eyes kindling with light. “Do you really
mean----?”
“I mean what I say,” answers the king, sullenly. “The Queen of Castile
and Leon is not as a trump in a hand of cards to be passed from brother
to brother. It is a foul crime on my throne and person. At Valladolid I
saw it at a glance. So I took horse, and I am here. At least one woman
is true to me, and that is you, Maria.” And again he clasps her to his
breast. “Lie there, sweetheart, it is your home.”
“And Don Fadique?” asks Maria, her face hardening as she remembers how
the handsome Grand Master has always treated her with scant courtesy.
“Is he long to taste the bliss provided for him? Methinks that the sons
of Eleanor de Guzman live but to play tricks upon your Grace.”
“Would that they had but one neck,” roars Don Pedro, “that I could
finish them at a blow! Maria, I know you have a grudge against Fadique;
console yourself. A choice revenge awaits him and the Lady Blanche shall
pay for _all_!”
A gleam of hate passed into his eyes, and was reflected in those of
Maria, who, breathlessly listening, drank in every word.
“Some day, who knows? Life is short. A draught of Xeres wine--a silken
thread--even the too heavy pressure of a scarf. All these kill well
(accidentally of course) and may send the soul of Blanche to heaven! God
rest her soul! Do you say _Amen_, Maria? Ha! ha!”--how hollow and
mocking is his laugh!--“Are you happy now?” he asks, twisting her long
fingers in his own, and gazing at her with his full merciless eyes. “All
your enemies have fallen Maria; I wait but to strike sure.”
“And shall Blanche really die?” again whispers Maria, her eyes
glittering like a snake. “Die by some swift death? Swear it to me,
Pedro.”
He did not speak, but smiling down on her as he held her in one arm,
with his right hand, he unsheathed the jewelled dagger he wore beneath
his girdle, until the steel, catching a ray of sunlight imprisoned in
the dark room, flashes with a dangerous reflex.
“This shall settle all, love,” he answers. “Now let me go to the bath to
refresh me. See how the dust lies on me for I rode hard. I have done
sixty miles without drawing rein, with relays of
[Illustration: CHARLES V.--1519.]
horses, to come to you. Let me go,” as she clings to him as though
terrified to lose him. “We will meet anon in the gardens, and the
Moorish slaves from Granada shall dance to us.”
One more embrace, and he had picked up his plumed helmet and placed it
on his head, and down the narrow steps of the private stair his mailed
feet clanked.
Maria stood erect before the fountain which seemed to sing in the marble
basin to a wild rhythm as the spray fell, and such a murderous look came
upon her face as would have turned to stone all who were in her power.
Then, sounding a golden whistle, her slaves came running in, and with a
gesture she commanded that the curtains before the _mirador_ should be
withdrawn.
Like a conqueror, the setting sun comes blazing in, engulfing all the
gorgeous tints of wall, dome, draperies, and pavement in its rays, while
cythers, flutes, and viols make harmony without--she, moving to her
toilette, as one whose thoughts are far away, while the long locks of
her ebon hair are delicately smoothed with golden combs before a silver
mirror, ere she descends to the garden to join the king.
CHAPTER VIII
Don Fadique Goes to Seville
The Grand Master Don Fadique was not with his brother Enrique. In the
first moment of his flight from Valladolid he had crossed the frontier
into Portugal.
There, among goatherds and shepherds, for awhile he lay concealed, and
when reflection came to him in this solitude, his conscience sorely
pricked him for his disloyalty to the king. Whatever punishment his
brother and sovereign inflicted on him he felt would be his due. It was
not that he mistook Don Pedro’s mind in his treatment of the Lady
Blanche, nor did his love and pity for her suffer any diminution, but he
could not rid himself of the conviction that he had been a traitor.
Blanche’s innocence alone had preserved him from a crime.
His upright and loyal nature revolted against the thought, and in his
flight, as he struck the rowels into the glossy sides of the sorrel
jennet on which he was mounted, causing it to rear and prance, he felt
he could not put distance enough between himself and the dear object of
his love.
Poor Blanche! Sweet Blanche! Where was she now? How fared it with her?
Did she love him still? And then he checked himself for these guilty
thoughts, and drawing from his doublet his jewelled rosary, he vainly
tried to drown his thoughts in prayer.
Arrived within the strong fortress of Coimbra, on the coast of Portugal,
he heard that his brother Enrique was advancing, at the head of an army,
on Toledo, while Don Pedro lingered inactive at Seville. This seemed
most strange!
There were rumours that he was waiting for the advance of the English to
support him against the French king, furious at the imprisonment of
Blanche in the castle of Talavera on the Tagus.
At length a royal messenger arrived at Coimbra direct from the king, an
honourable messenger, wearing the _noda_ and _banda_, the bearer of a
letter from Don Pedro.
“Come to Seville,” he wrote, “dear brother, and let us live at peace. I
am about to hold a tourney and tilt of reeds on the plains of the
Guadalquivir, near the city, and I can ill lack the absence of the Grand
Master of Santiago among my knights. A friendly greeting to you, and a
safe conduct on the road. Your quarters are at the Alcazar at Seville,
from whence I write.--PEDRO.”
“And I will go!” cried Don Fadique. “It may perhaps give me the occasion
to help the queen. Perhaps Pedro has come to a better mind; he changes
suddenly. Or it may be that at this time of risings and rebellions, he
may desire the support of the knights of Santiago and the presence of
their Grand Master.”
Those of his friends and attendants at Coimbra strove vainly to dissuade
him from putting faith in the friendship of the king. It was, at best,
they represented, a rash resolve, especially to go to Seville and the
Alcazar. If he would join him, let them meet in the open camp, not put
himself into danger within a palace inhabited by Maria de Padilla.
At this Don Fadique grew wroth. “What!” he answered, “do you take me for
a craven that cannot defend himself? Maybe, surrounded by enemies, he
may think of me more kindly. Read the gracious words. Look at the royal
messenger, whom we all know as a man who would not lend himself to fraud
or treachery. My brother generously sets me free, and I can use that
freedom as well at Seville as at any other place. Let Maria de Padilla
do her worst. Rather than consume my life in this fortress, I would face
the devil himself. Enrique may join with the enemies of Castile and
bring Du Guesclin’s free lances to spoil the land, but my place is by my
brother in tournament or battle--I will go!”
Buckling on his richest suit of armour, over which he wore the short
crimson mantle of his order, with the cross of Santiago embroidered on
his breast, he set forth, accompanied by a goodly band of followers
hastily armed; also with him he took a little page, his foster-brother,
who had never left him, and loved him with the affection of a child.
On the eighth day from his departure he reached the banks of the Tagus,
at an old town called Castel Bianco, where he rested.
Now the tale runs, and I will neither deny nor assert it, that the Grand
Master received here a message from Queen Blanche, informing him how
near she was, and that at night he went out disguised, and, taking a
boat, dropped down the river to Talavera, and there saw the Lady
Blanche, thanks to the complaisance of the gallant governor--who was so
wildly in love with Claire, he could refuse her nothing. This is _said_,
and that a plan of escape was formed by which Blanche could reach
Toledo, on which the French were advancing to reinforce the army of Don
Enrique el Cavalier, and that Don Fadique at Seville should apprise her
of Don Pedro’s movements by means of the little page.
Speaking personally, I do not believe that the Grand Master ever went to
the castle or saw Blanche at all, after the remorse he had felt and the
confessions he had made, to say nothing of the danger to the queen if
Don Pedro found it out. And Don Pedro did find out everything in the
most extraordinary way, as people said, by black magic, and that Maria
de Padilla looked upon a crystal and saw all she desired to tell the
king.
CHAPTER IX
Murder of Don Fadique
On the fifteenth day from his departure from Coimbra, Don Fadique beheld
the domes and pinnacles of Seville--proud Seville as it is called--the
Empress of the Plains.
The weather is dark and stormy. Even in the sunny South such changes
occur, especially towards the equinox, to which the time approaches. As
far as the eye can reach black clouds drive angrily before a northern
blast, rushing as it were to bank themselves together towards the sea,
and the wind rattles among the windows of the few pleasure-houses which
stand outside the walls, swaying the fronds of the palms and the bamboos
as if to tear them from the ground.
By the time Don Fadique, riding faster and faster, has reached the fork
in the road beside the Hospital del Sangre, the heavens look like a
second Deluge.
“Cover yourself well, my boy,” said he to the little page, as he drew
his own dark _manto_ over his armour. “The hurricane will be soon upon
us. We shall be fortunate if we reach the Alcazar in time.”
As they passed what are now the boulevards, such trees as there were
swayed and bowed to the fierce blast, and quickly succeeding thunder was
heard among the hills. Not a sound reached them as they struck through
the streets to where the beautiful cathedral stands, consecrated as a
Christian church by Fernando el Santo, and as yet but little altered
from the mosque it was before.
It was part of Don Pedro’s policy in all things to favour the Moors.
Indeed, there were times in his strange moods when he swore he was a
Mohammedan himself.
As the herald sounds his trumpet-call before the gate of the Alcazar,
waiting for the portcullis to be raised, an aged pilgrim in tattered
raiment rises up suddenly before Fadique.
“Turn back, my son. Turn while you may,” and he lays his hand on his
horse’s bridle. “Take warning by the heavens! The elements are at war.
So is man. For the sake of your dead mother I speak. Enter not the
Alcazar. Warned by a vision, I girded up my loins, and have walked from
the Sierra Morena here. As the blood of Eleanor de Guzman was shed on
the stones of Seville, so shall be yours.”
“I heed you not, old man,” answered Don Fadique, shaking him off
impatiently, provoked at his insistence in barring his progress. “Hie
you back whither you came. My brother has bid me to Seville, and I am
come,” and with that he spurred his horse forward; but the noble
animal, as though scenting some evil influence in the air, pranced and
plunged, and with the utmost difficulty was prevented from turning back.
Again the trumpet sounds a shrill blast. In vain! The Alcazar seems
turned into a castle of the dead. No guards are upon the walls, no
soldiers on the lookout in the Moorish towers which flank the
portcullis. To the summons of the men-at-arms no response is given; the
royal standard is not lowered as to an Infante Grand Master of Santiago,
nor is there any answer to the reiterated knocking of the little page
with the hilt of his sword upon the thickly barred panels of the door.
Dismally does the blue-eyed boy look up at his master, a whole soul of
love in his eyes, as if gazing at him for the last time, and loudly do
his followers murmur to each other at the strange lack of welcome.
Nor can Don Fadique account for it. Growing impatient as the rain begins
to fall, he looks about him on all sides. There is no preparation for
the tournament of which the letter of Don Pedro spoke. No line of tents
along the river bank with rich devices, or pinnacles of silken pavilions
dressed with colours and flags breaking the long lines of the Huerta.
The streets are silent and empty as the rain now pours down; the vast
mosque stands isolated and solitary, veiled by rising mists. No eager
crowd gathers round the Puerta del Sol or in the court of the Naranjos,
as when festivals and ceremonies draw strangers to Seville. The howling
of a dog alone breaks the silence.
At length, with no outward sign, the portcullis is slowly raised, and
Don Fadique, spurring his horse, gallops in, but rapidly the great
panels sink again, shutting out all his train. As the clink of the iron
bolt is heard falling into the staples, a shrill cry of agony rises in
the air. The hand of the little page who followed him on foot has been
severed from the wrist as he hung onto Don Fadique’s bridle, and lies
upon the stones before him.
Don Fadique is alone; no return is possible; his heart sinks within him
at the sight, but he can neither help the poor page shut outside, nor
liberate himself. It is too late.
Within the Patio de la Monteria the shadows of the Moorish arches rise
black in the darkness of the storm, all save the portal of Don Pedro,
which blazes out tier upon tier up to the gilded dome.
More and more astonished, Don Fadique dismounts and fastens his horse’s
bridle to an iron hook in one of the pillars, and looks round, the
glossy-skinned animal giving a whinny of delight as he passes his hand
mechanically over its sleek neck. It is the last token of affection he
is destined to receive!
Suddenly a burst of shrill laughter from the long row of _miradores_
over the portal arouses him to a full sense of his danger. That he has
been betrayed by his brother is certain.
As a drowning man is said in an instant to review all his former life,
so Don Fadique recalled the many warnings of evil which had come to him,
renewed even at the gate of the Alcazar.
Still his gallant heart did not fail, but when he saw above at the
_mirador_ a dark-haired lady leaning out with lustrous eyes, a chill
shot through his veins. He felt that his end was near.
Then in the midst of the rattle of the storm, the roll of the thunder,
and the quickly succeeding flashes of lightning, there arises a sudden
uproar, the clash of weapons, and the heavy tread of mailed feet. Nor
has Don Fadique long to wait to assure himself of the welcome Don Pedro
has prepared for him.
From under the glowing shadows of the golden portal, a band of armed men
rush forth, who drag him forward through tapestried doorways to dimly
gorgeous ante-chambers with deeply sunk cedar ceilings overhead, into
suites of halls lined with painted panels and _azulejo_ tiles darkly
resplendent in escutcheons of castle, lion, bar, tower, and that
mysterious _nodo_ which clasps Aragon with Spain,--into the precincts of
the great Patio de las Doncellas, so purely beautiful in the whiteness
of its lacy arcades.
There, upon the Caliph’s burnished throne, sits Don Pedro, a canopy of
gold over his head and damascened draperies behind. A terrible frown
knits his brow and his eyes are dilated with rage, but Don Fadique does
not heed. Forcing back the guards, he flings himself upon his knees
before him.
“Brother! brother!” he cries, “what means this hostile array? I have
come upon your word. Tell me that you have not deceived me!”
“Stand off, bold traitor!” answers the king savagely, casting him from
him. “Have you forgotten your perfidy at Narbonne? Do you think I did
not know that, and all else? Were you fool enough to imagine that I
loved you?” and as he speaks he breaks into one of those fiendish peals
of laughter, ever so terrible a climax to his wrath. “Surely, if the
Lady Blanche is your leman, you are ready to shed your blood for her
sake?”
Before this burst of passion the Grand Master stands as if turned to
stone.
“What!” continues Don Pedro, ascribing his silence to fear. “Does your
heart fail you in my presence? If so it is well,” and he arises as if
about to rush upon him.
“Do with me as you list, brother!” answers the Grand Master, “but I
swear to you, by this symbol of the living Christ"--and he raises the
jewelled cross of his sword high in the air--“for me, the queen is as
pure as when she left her mother. Let him who says other stand forth.”
With that, tearing his mailed glove from his hand, he flings it upon the
floor, the scales of the metal ringing on the marble. “Don Pedro of
Castile, will you cross swords with me?” he asks, advancing to the foot
of the throne where Don Pedro has seated himself, his eyes gleaming with
fury. “By my faith!” and scorn is in Don Fadique’s voice, “you do well
not to defend so vile a charge. Blood enough has flowed--my mother’s, my
little brother’s, and now my own, whom you have lured here treacherously
to slay. Oh! shame and disgrace of knighthood!”
“Miscreant!” roars Don Pedro, wounded to the quick at this reproach.
“Prepare to die! On earth your time is short, and, _por Dios!_ you
deserve your fate, you smooth-faced hypocrite! Better to be an open foe
like Enrique, than a caitiff conspirator! Out on you, you bastard! I
will not cross swords with you!”
Stung by his insolence, Don Fadique is rushing upon him, when Don Garcia
de Padilla interposes from behind and holds him back.
“Señor Infante, Grand Master of Santiago, you are my prisoner,” he says,
laying his hand on his shoulder, and the men-at-arms move forward from
the entrance to where he stands.
“I am no man’s prisoner!” cries Don Fadique, putting his hand on his
sword. “If all were as faithful to the king, he would have truer
followers than he has. Nor shall you take me, vile instrument of a
strumpet’s vengeance,” turning to draw his weapon upon Don Garcia, but
the hilt of the sword had become so entangled in the embroidered scarf
he wears, taken from the queen at Valladolid, nothing will move it.
[Illustration: A VIEW IN ARANJUEZ.]
“Officers,” commands the king, rising from the throne and passing on
through the gilded arches into the Hall of the Ambassadors beyond, with
that majesty he knows so well how to assume--“do your duty.”
But the guards held back, spite of the order of the king. Don Fadique
was an Infante, a great caballero, almost equal to Don Pedro, the Grand
Master of Santiago, and moreover, though unarmed, boldly facing them.
“Traitors!” exclaims Don Garcia, drawing his rapier, “do you hesitate?”
Then they all fell on Don Fadique, and a struggle for life ensued.
“God and Santiago to my aid!” cries Fadique, rushing from side to side
of the open _patio_ pursued by the men-at-arms, Don Garcia all the while
standing in his place, and Don Pedro from behind the arches suddenly
appearing, and shouting out: “At him! At him! Traitor and bastard! Kill
him!”
At last, one of the officers--Hermanes by name, excited by the anger of
the king, and seeing that the others were but half-hearted in their
attack, touched by the desperate defence of an unarmed man--struck Don
Fadique such a blow on the shoulder as felled him to the ground, with
his face downwards, the rest falling on him until he died, his long
auburn hair, clotted with blood, making a glory round him where he lay.
From the depths of the _patio_ Maria de Padilla appeared, her taper
fingers clasping the pearl embroideries of her long robe with such
force, that as she moved she strewed them on the floor. She had seen
all, hidden by the panels of a Moorish door.
Not for an instant had Don Fadique escaped her, from the moment he
entered the Court of the Monteria until his mutilated body lay before
her. He was her prey. Now she could assure herself that life was gone.
In the calm of death he was beautiful, the last agony only marked in the
widely open eyes, full of defiance, and the bloodless lips parted as
with a groan.
So like was the dead face to Don Pedro, that for an instant Maria’s
heart melted, and she turned away.
“What, Maria,” exclaimed Don Pedro, sneeringly, “fear you to look on the
face of a dead enemy? Rather tremble before a living one! The boy is
dead; all traitors deserve to die”; and advancing from where he stood in
the archway, he spurned the body with his foot, laying bare the pool of
blood in which it lay.
And strange to say, after the lapse of five centuries, the stain is
there on the marble pavement _still_, close under three clustered
pillars of green porphyry, supporting a richly worked Moorish arch.
But before Maria can reply, a shrill cry rises from the white pillars
that makes the _patio_ ring, and an ancient dame hurries forward, and
with her stick puts back the guards who stand around.
With a horrified glance at the upturned face of the dead Grand Master,
she turns upon the king:
“What bloody work is this, Don Pedro? I have a right to ask, for I
reared you both at my breast. Oh! my child, my child!” sinking down
beside him on the ground, and tenderly gathering the dead form in her
arms. “Oh, my Fadique, my little one. So much you were alike, the
queen-mother only knew you from the crown embroidered on Pedro’s robe.
Even the queen loved the boy.” Then with a piercing shriek she raises
herself from the ground, and her sunken eyes travel round upon the
group, first on the king, then on Maria de Padilla. “Let the hand that
struck him be accursed!”
“He was my enemy, and I killed him,” answers Don Pedro, but he did not
chide her, nor question her right to speak.
“It is that accursed woman!” and the nurse raises her bony fingers and
points towards Maria as her tall figure disappears in the deep shadow of
the arches. “May Satan take her! And that soon! She has falsely accused
him. Oh, Pedro! I loved you as much as him. Now I curse you, you cruel
king! By the same bloody death shall you also die. The witch!” shaking
her fist towards the spot where Maria has vanished; “a thousand such as
_she_ may be found in Spain, but who will replace the true brother that
you have lost?” As she speaks, a strange fire shines in her dim eyes,
and her wrinkled face is transfigured with a sudden light. The voice in
which she speaks seems not her own, but strong and vigorous, as though a
wave of youth had passed over her.
“I have spoken,” and she fell prostrate on the body of Don Fadique as
the captain of the guard drew his sword, as if to smite her, and his men
made a circle round.
“Ask the king if I shall die,” turning to Don Pedro, who has covered his
face with his hands. “I care not, but let me lay him on my breast. Oh!
child of my love, the youngest and the best!”
“Harm her not, Ruy Gomez,” orders the king, “and let her go.” And in
deep thought he turns away.
In his general contempt for all mankind, the king held his nurse in
great esteem. When he was sick or wounded she tended him, and in his
darkest moods she could approach him when others fled.
But for his promise to Maria de Padilla, he would never have slain a
brother who came in peace, under his roof, and now another is to die
likewise; he had given her his word. Thinking of all this his brow grew
dark as he mounted the secret stair which led into his retiring-room,
with the skeleton heads of the four unjust judges hung over the door.
No one dared enter, and for three days and nights he lay there in
darkness.
CHAPTER X
Don Pedro--Alcazar--The Queen-Mother--Maria de Padilla
The Hall of the Ambassadors, literally a blaze of iris hues and gold, is
crowned by a lofty dome, and sheeted with a Moorish mosaic of
mother-of-pearl and crystal.
Around range the medallions of the ancient Gothic kings, over four
golden-barred balconies breaking the richness of the wall, dividing
triply-grouped arches, light as dreams, resting on pillars of green and
red porphyry, so tall and slender it seems as if a breath would shatter
them.
From an open portal is disclosed a palace garden flushed with roses, and
bordered by blossoming orange-trees, set in large porcelain pots.
Butterflies flutter round delicate fountains banked up with tropical
plants exquisite in perfume, and long vistas of bowery walks exclude the
sun.
A warm and genial air beats in from without, and permeates around. Nor
is the fairness of the earth less than the brightness of the
sky--intensely blue, not a cloud visible; and although the Alcazar
stands in the midst of a noisy city, the silence and solitude are
complete.
Everything in this apartment is disposed for the king. He is greatly
changed. A mortal illness has seized him, and he has barely escaped with
his life. As he moves feebly along the marble floor, he is supported on
either side by Don Juan de Mañara and Garcia de Padilla, then sinks
exhausted upon a pile of eastern cushions prepared for him on an
_estrado_. Naturally the two favourites, who tend him with anxious care,
hate each other with the deadly bitterness of rivals, ever on the watch
to turn every word and action against each other; especially Garcia de
Padilla, a coarse likeness of his beautiful sister, always on the
lookout for his own interests, and ready to pander to the basest vices
of the king.
It would really seem as if the prayers and litanies offered up for Don
Pedro’s life (especially by his Jewish subjects, whom he greatly
favours) have been efficacious in saving his life.
Pale and feeble as he now appears, the steely hardness of his blue eyes
is even more remarkable than in health, and the harsh intonation of his
voice comes with a strange vigour from one so weak.
As he sinks exhausted on a divan, a waft of music comes from the _patio_
without, a twanging of guitars deftly handled, and the silver tone of
viols, with the clapping of hands of the Nubian slaves who swarm in the
palace; the music ever and anon broken by the soft tones of a lute,
played with infinite skill by a Moorish captive, whose nimble fingers
mark and accentuate the rhythm.
“What do the fools mean?” demands Don Pedro, as burst after burst of
music penetrates into the hall.
“Rejoicing, my lord,” answers Garcia, “at your Highness’s happy
recovery.”
“Recovery--_por Dios!_ and it was time, unless I was to chant the rest
of my life in purgatory. Is it true that, counting on the report of my
death, the bastard Enrique has had himself crowned at Toledo, and struts
at the Alcazar like any peacock? Can it be possible my brain is weak? or
was it a dream in my delirium?”
A silence follows, which neither the supple Garcia nor the politic Don
Juan cares to break. Absolute quiet has been enjoined. Yet it is as much
as their heads are worth not to reply.
“If you do not find your tongues quickly, my friends, the axe shall
silence them for ever. Ho! slave,” and with a loud sound, he strikes
with a handle of iron on a plate of steel.
In an instant the music ceases, and a gigantic Nubian, perfectly
unclothed, appears armed with a marble-hilted javelin.
Something in the sudden apparition of this grotesque figure, as if the
earth had opened to cast him forth, so strikes the fancy of the king
that he laughs aloud.
“Begone, Hassan,” he says, “I did but jest; the necks of my loving
companions are precious. But, _amigos mios_, I counsel you, trifle not
with me. I am patient at no time, and now that my reason is scarcely
settled from the disturbance it has had, I am dangerous to play with.”
“Play with!” replies Don Juan, who cares little for threats of any kind.
“God forbid! Your Grace knows I fear nought. You shall judge of my
faithfulness, for I am here ready to answer all you please to ask.”
“How _here_?” asks Don Pedro, reddening with a sudden flush. “Where else
should you be?”
“Why, with the new king at Toledo,” promptly answers Mañara, nettled at
the mention of the axe. “The new king, who is crowned by right and
authority of the Holy Father, Urban V.; Don Pedro of Castile being
legally and civilly defunct, by reason of the ban of excommunication
pronounced against him, it is the fashion now to cry, ‘Long live _El Rey
Enrique el Caballero_.’ Perhaps your Grace did not know that you were
already dead?”
As he speaks an ashy pallor spreads over the king’s face, and out of his
bloodless lips the words come thickly:
“So, so, at Toledo!” he gasps, clenching his hands in the cushions at
his head. “Crowned? My brain turns. It was not a dream?”
“By my faith, no, an army is encamped outside on the Tagus, a garrison
within. The troops a little mixed in nationality it is true, but the
promise of the support of the great companies under Du Guesclin, to be
sent to restore the Lady Blanche----”
“Restore the Lady Blanche? Why, she is locked up in the castle of
Talavera, out of which no woman ever came alive. It is you, Don Juan,
who play the fool!” exclaims Pedro, raising himself up, and seizing him
savagely by the shoulder. “By the living Christ! your life is in my
hand.”
“I care not,” is the retort, shaking off the king’s hand, who, weaker
than he deems himself, falls back muttering curses. “Your Grace has
questioned me, I tell the truth. Don Enrique holds Toledo, the Lady
Blanche is with him. Here is Don Garcia, ask him, if you doubt me. The
queen, your mother, had no power to march troops against the Conde de
Trastamare while you lay between life and death.”
As he speaks, a sullen fury falls on the king. He sits perfectly
motionless, his head pressed between his hands.
“Call hither the Lady Padilla,” he says, in a voice so veiled it is
scarcely audible.
So quickly did her presence answer the summons it would seem as though
she had been hiding near at hand. Her dark face shone out against the
glitter of the many-hued hall. A long white robe falls to her feet, and
she waits until the king addresses her.
“In my sickness, Maria,” says Don Pedro, in a voice that still sounds
unfamiliar to those around (Maria starts with an alarmed glance and
looks at him), “you tended me night and day. Why were you silent on what
touches me so nearly as the advance of Enrique upon Toledo and the
escape of the queen?”
“Because,” answers Maria, her eyes softening into a glance of ineffable
love, “your life was dearer to me than all else. What did it matter if
the Bastard reigned from the Pyrenees to the Pillars of Hercules if my
Pedro died?”
“There spoke the true woman!” exclaims the king. “Now, by my faith, you
have conquered me, Maria, quite.” Then taking her hand, he draws her
down upon the seat beside him.
“Listen to me, Juan and Garcia,” turning to them, “you know me, I am _El
Rey Justiciar_. In evidence of the love I bear this lady, and to put to
rest once for all any questions which might arise by reason of the many
traitors around me, at my death, I declare as successor to the throne of
Castile, the Infante Alonso, Maria de Padilla’s son. At the earliest
moment our ministers shall ratify the act, and call on my nobles to do
homage to him as my heir. Are you satisfied now, sweet one? This will
seal the bond,” and he draws her face, glowing with triumph, towards his
own, and impresses a kiss on her warm lips.
“And Blanche?” whispers Maria in an undertone, but not so low but that
both Don Juan and her brother hear.
[Illustration: ON THE DARRO.
From an etching by Samuel Colman.]
“Ah, Maria, will you still keep me to my bargain?” answers Don Pedro,
with a sigh.
“Yes,” quickly responds Maria, “I do, especially now that she is at
large.”
“At large? I cannot believe it. But, Maria--Blanche, divorced and
dishonoured, cannot harm you. I shall never set eyes on her again.”
“Yes, sire, but as long as she lives, she will raise up France against
you.”
“And if she dies, do you think they will let me bide?”
“My sister,” puts in Don Garcia, “leave the matter to the judgment of
the king. Urge him no more, I pray you, at a moment he has, by such a
signal act of favour, named your child successor to the throne.”
“Truly, I love not Blanche,” says Don Pedro, “I will speedily take
Toledo, and imprison her where she shall not escape. But _her life_----”
“Yes, _her life_!” cries Maria, rising from the _estrado_. “It is mine,
you promised me. I claim it.”
“Now, _por Dios_, Maria, but you press me sore. Is it that you seek to
be queen yourself?”
“Perhaps,” she answers, carelessly. “What if I do? Have you not told me
a thousand times I was born to wear a crown?”
“This is no time for trifling,” answers Don Pedro, sternly. “I have made
your son a future king. Let that suffice. The blood of Fadique clings to
me still. I saw him in my fever, there, outside, in the _patio_, where
he fell bathed in blood. And now another ghost will haunt me in that
pale-faced _demoiselle_. So nearly had I passed into the silent land
beyond the grave that to my weakened brain shadows came to me as real. I
fain would add no more to that dim company which rise up in the silent
night to curse me.”
As the words pass his lips, a page, fancifully attired as an Eastern
slave, appears between the golden pillars of the hall, and, after
prostrating himself on the ground, raises his arms aloft in Moorish
fashion, and announces: “The queen-mother.”
Hastily advancing, Mary of Portugal stands before her son. On her face
are the signs of deep emotion, almost of terror, as she hastily observes
the impression her presence has produced.
“My son,” she says, in a low voice, “my son,” and as she speaks the
words she stretches out her arms to embrace him. Then raising her head,
her eyes fall upon the figure of Maria de Padilla, erect in the shadow
behind, and in a moment the words she was about to utter die on her
lips, and a tremor passes over her.
“You here!” her face flushing crimson, “you--Jezebel--that come between
my son and me. I might have guessed it. I came to speak of mercy, before
you who live by blood. Of honour--to one who never knew the word. Well
do I know you and the current of your thoughts, and that you would
prompt my son to an act of cruelty that will shake his very throne, and
place him in the certainty of an alliance of vengeance.”
Silent, inscrutable, stands Maria, but Don Pedro interposes: “To what
action do you allude, my mother?” he asks.
“What!” answers the queen, exasperated by his manner. “The intended
murder of Blanche, in order that she may reign.”
“And if so,” comes from Maria, in a deep-toned voice, “Doña Maria, the
Queen, what is that to you?”
“I speak not to you,” is Mary’s answer, her passion waxing hot. “I am
here to address my son. Think you, sire, the Queen of France will hear
unmoved that her sister’s life has been sacrificed to _her_? That the
alliance on which you count, of Aragon and Navarre, will stand when the
hosts of France, led by Du Guesclin, shall scour Castile? Already a new
king has risen in Toledo who rests his title on this royal lady’s name
whom this false woman would lead you to sacrifice. Restore to Blanche
her rights, and the league against you will fall asunder.”
“Madam,” answered Don Pedro, “I am the guardian of the crown I wear.
Meanwhile, I warn you,” and he broke off to give one of those strange
discordant laughs, “that, like my sainted father, your husband, beauty
with me is paramount. She whom nature crowns is queen. Behold her here,”
taking Maria by the hand. “I command you, therefore, Doña Maria, my
mother, in my presence to treat the Lady Padilla with the respect her
many charms command. To me she is the brightest jewel in my crown, and I
will prove it, too, shortly to you and all the world.”
As he paused, the queen’s countenance fell, and her whole attitude
changed. Exposed to the full battery of Maria’s insolent eyes, it was
_she_ who appeared the suppliant, and _Maria_ the queen.
“My son,” she says, speaking in a very different tone to that she used
on entering, “will you not grant me the same power of speech you accord
to the least of your subjects?”
“Have you any more to say, madam?” he asks, turning wearily from her.
“If not, the audience is ended. When I stood in need of help in my fever
and lay between life and death, you feared to enter.”
“Oh, Pedro,” cries the unhappy mother, the tears streaming down her
face, “believe it not. On my knees I entreated that fiend who rules you
to let me pass, and she barred my access by the guards, whom she had the
insolence to command to arrest the mother of their king! It was I, as
self-appointed regent, that have kept the realm together when it was
believed that you were dead! That you find any troops or treasure is due
to _me_.
“Ah! Pedro,” she continues, advancing to where he lay, and seizing one
of his unwilling hands, “let us speak together alone. I would convince
you that in sparing the life of Blanche you insure your own;” and she
turns such an imploring glance at him, that it touches even his hard
heart.
“Will it please you, fair lady, to give place for a short space to the
queen-mother?” says Don Pedro, addressing Maria, whose attitude has
never changed.
“Whatever your Grace commands shall be my duty to obey,” is her answer,
the submission of her words contrasting strangely with the dark scowl
which knits her brow.
“Be it so, sweetheart. I have that to say touching yourself, which will
surprise her. It were best said in your absence.” And rising feebly
upright, he leads her by the hand into the inner _patio_, and lover-like
kisses her hand.
At this moment, Garcia de Padilla, who has remained an unobserved
witness of the interview, rushes forward, and, with effusive courtesy,
offers his arm to the king to assist him to his seat, bows to the
ground, and is lost to view among the pillars.
Then, resuming the conversation with the queen: “You forget, my mother,”
says Don Pedro, as he places her beside him (it is said, he never was
more dangerous than when he assumed a gracious air), “that this
_demoiselle_ of France, who bears my name, has been convicted of incest
with my brother Fadique by a council of bishops appointed for that
purpose, and that, far from being a prisoner, she is at this moment
free, in the city of Toledo, under the chivalric custody of my rival
and successor, Enrique el Caballero. You forget I am superseded,
dishonoured. Ha! ha! Yes! dishonoured by these bastards, whom you had
not the sense to wring the necks of, when they were young.”
“Yes, Pedro, but I am confident all this will be set right. I have
received such assurance during your illness, from Toledo, that I know
you will overcome your brother whenever you take the field. As to
Blanche----”
“Yes, madam,” interrupting her, “but as yet I am too weak to wield a
weapon. I think you can have little to say to me,” he adds coldly, “that
the Lady Padilla could not hear. It is her son I have named my
successor, and the lady declares she is my lawful wife. What if I
proclaim her such to the assembled Cortes?”
“Mother of God!” cries the queen, clasping her hands, a look of absolute
horror on her face, “give me patience! To be so mocked at by my son!
Such madness is impossible!”
“Not a whit! Not a whit!” he exclaims, facing the infuriated queen.
“Now, by the heavens above, Blanche of Bourbon shall die! And speedily
too! My mind is made up.”
Alas! The strain upon the unhappy mother is too great. As the king
utters these words, she staggers backwards, a deadly pallor overspreads
her face, and with a wild cry of “My son! My son!” holding out her arms
in the vain hope of his support, she falls fainting on the floor, and is
borne away by her ladies waiting without in the _Patio de las
Doncellas_.
CHAPTER XI
A New King--Enrique de Trastamare
Again we are at Toledo, on the banks of the dark Tagus, a river full and
strong, flowing for three hundred and seventy-three miles from the
lonely mountains of Biscay to the port of Lisbon.
The wild and melancholy Tagus! A very river of fate, now darkly rushing
beside blackening rocks, now meandering sweetly by the meadows of the
Huerta del Rey, whispering by the Baths of Florinda under King Wamba’s
old palace, or turning the Moorish mills which still supply the city
with corn.
Many and many a tale could old Tagus tell of races come and gone since
the Jews fled to Tarshish when Jerusalem was taken by Nebuchadnezzar,
but black and silent it goes its way under the walls of the stuccoed
palace of the Taller del Moro, where all the guests bidden to a festival
were slain; the Gothic-towered church of San Juan de los Reyes, with its
masses of votive chains hung outside, and the ancient synagogues of La
Blanca and El Transido, trellised with honeycombed carvings on the
walls, the Holy of Holies shrouded by eastern veils. An arch-ancient
river, as one may say, looking into streets so narrow that Roman consuls
and Gothic kings had to pass on foot or in litters.
Hebrews, Romans, Goths, and Moors have possessed Toledo, but of all it
is the Moor who has most left his mark. Moorish is the Puerta del Sol by
which you enter, a magnificent Arab arch blazing in the sun, and Moorish
is the Alcazar which crowns the hill with its long façade of _miradores_
and towers.
Here the new king, Enrique de Trastamare--by his own election--holds his
court, accompanied by that great minister, Albuquerque, who has turned
against his late master, Don Pedro, and the powerful northern noble, Don
Rodrique Alvarez, who devotes his riches and his weapons to his cause.
From the first, Enrique wisely threw in his chance with the northern
powers, and now the repudiation and imprisonment of Queen Blanche has
given a new strength to his alliance.
The ire of the French king is greatly roused by the ill-usage of his
sister-in-law; Navarre is with him to a man, and Aragon friendly.
To many, Enrique has come as a saviour to a much-tormented land. No one
was safe from the attacks of Don Pedro, and his own discontented
subjects appealed to the Pope, who has placed Castile under an
interdict.
If Don Pedro dies, his brother will undoubtedly succeed him. If he
lives, he is strong enough to fight him. As yet but a few of his allies
have joined him, but report says he is speedily to be reinforced by _Les
Grandes Compagnies_ under the Constable Bertrand du Guesclin, so that
the bold step of marching on Toledo was not so foolhardy an enterprise
as it appears.
The adjacent hills are white with his tents, and squadrons of horse are
posted low down on the banks of the Tagus to guard the bridge and the
Moorish mills which supply the city with bread.
His flag--a tower on a red ground--proudly floats over the city, and
men-at-arms, bowmen, soldiers, knights, and that promiscuous rabble
which follows a camp, pass and repass through the narrow streets, where,
side by side with the rich fruits and products of the land are
locksmiths and workers in steel blades as thin and fine as a needle, yet
more fatal than an axe, the heavier scimitars and broadswords in common
use, and hamps and chains and locks; painters who expose gaudy
likenesses of saints and madonnas; moulders of Moorish _azulejo_ tiles,
the deep rich colour lighting up the dark holes which serve for shops;
skilled wood-carvers of roofs and spandrels, crests and medallions;
workers in brass with forge and file; and carpenters with planks of wood
and heaps of shavings--all these different trades piled pell-mell on
each other.
In hot weather an awning is stretched across the _calle_, where a big
tree leans out, serving as a lounge for Asturian porters, ready to bear
any weight, close to a blank wall, with an elaborate doorway sunk into
the soil, and green with mildew, leading to a synagogue up a narrow
alley.
In front a _paseo_, or plaza, is planted with rows of trees, overhanging
the gorge of the Tagus, and rough benches are set, on which two Jews are
seated engaged in earnest talk.
Although under the rule of Don Pedro the Jews are in such favour that it
is said by his enemies he has adopted their faith, they still, from
habit, wear their national dress, a long, loosely-fitting gabardine with
a girdle, long yellow boots lined with fur, and a high, square cap of a
peculiar cut.
Such is the costume of the two men; the elder, Father Isaac, with the
aquiline nose and piercing black eyes of his nation, his thin features
ending in a long beard; the younger, Cornelius, of the same type, but
ruddier and stouter, and with far less distinction in his coarse
physiognomy.
“By the God of Abraham, El Caballero Don Enrique shall rue it!” speaks
this one in a louder tone, seeing that the plaza is utterly deserted for
the street, the hum of which reaches them dimly, broken by the continual
chiming of the bells from the cathedral close by. “His entrance into the
city was a surprise. Without that renegade Ben Hassan’s help, he could
not have kept his unruly troops together--already the Aragonese had
threatened to go back. And now he is safe in the Alcazar, and refuses
to meet the bond. ‘_He will pay when he is at Seville_,’ he says,--very
fine!”
“At Seville he will never be,” answers the elder Jew in a lower tone, a
gleam of hatred lighting up his deep-set eyes, “at least, while Don
Pedro lives. At no better interest can we place our gold than to
maintain him who is the rightful king and the friend of Israel. Ben
Hassan is a traitor, and deserves to die as a scapegoat for his people.”
“You speak well, Father Isaac,” is the rejoinder. “Think you that Don
Pedro will ever forgive our tribe? His spies are everywhere; and he is
sure to know, though _he_ now lies sick at Seville.”
From long habits of caution, to this direct question the old Jew for
awhile did not answer; then, with a cautious glance round to see that no
one lurked among the trees, replied:
“A trusty Hebrew is on the way to Seville, to offer the king the
supplies he may require; also charged with rich presents of jewels, and
a crown of fine gold to Maria de Padilla. Were _she_ queen, Israel would
return to its ancient glory in the land.”
“They say Blanche of Navarre has escaped, and is in sanctuary in the
cathedral. Is this true, Father Isaac?”
“I know not, for certain; but if she expects help from France, by the
body of Moses, son Cornelius, before it comes Enrique will not be here.”
“I understand the will of our nation is to expel him, Father Isaac; but
have they the _power_?”
[Illustration: The Hall of Justice, Alhambra.]
“Gold, my son, gold is the axle on which turns the world. By this the
humble Israelite is often stronger than kings. Our only danger is lest
the destroying angel strike Don Pedro dead. While he lives, the
protector of the Hebrews shall be richly furnished for his enterprise,
and we of the tribe of Levi within this city will spread ducats
broadcast to pave the way. Had it not been for that renegade Hassan
(whom the Almighty consume in Gehenna), our conspiracy were already
ripe.”
“And do you think this great outlay of our hard-won substance needed?”
asks the younger Jew, a hungry look in his eyes, like a dog robbed of
his bone. “Father Isaac, Don Pedro is not sure. May not Samuel Levi have
misreckoned? A man who turns against his own blood and dabbles with
Moorish superstitions is little to be counted on.”
“Impossible,” answers the elder man, his black eye lighting up with the
fire of youth. “By the great Jehovah! let no such miscalculation mar our
action. The oppression of ages on our nation has made us cowards. A
craven race we are. We will--and we will not--if it costs us gold. Now
our very existence in this land of Castile hangs on Don Pedro; Don
Enrique hates us. The French will torture us and spoil us, as do the
hunters for the soft fur that wraps the bosom of the hapless hare. Once
let us have news from Samuel Levi that the king is recovered, and has
marched from Seville upon Toledo, these hands of mine,” and he holds up
his pointed, delicate fingers, “shall open to him a postern.”
“There will be much bloodshed,” answers Cornelius, thoughtfully, “and
our dwellings may be sacked.”
“Bury our treasure, then, son Cornelius, we must bear that. The Hebrews
in Toledo, once masters before the Moors, are still numerous. Our foes
are divided. All is prepared. The bribes are ready. He can raise no
gold. Already the ground is mined under his feet, and then"--and he
stretches forth his hand and points to the vast expanse of river,
mountain, rocky gorge, and undulating plain, the white tents of the
pretender visible through the foliage--“this alien camp shall give place
to the royal standard, and the Hebrew name again be raised high among
the nations. Then, son Cornelius, we shall receive what interest we
choose to ask for our gold.”
“But blood will flow in rivers, my father, before that comes; who knows
if not ours?”
“Speak not of it, my son,” answers the older man, veiling his face with
his hands, “I love neither danger nor poison. If Blanche dies"--but what
he was about to say is drowned in a tumult of voices rising from the
street, and soon a rabble of boys and men fill the _paseo_, while below,
the music of trumpets and fifes thunders through the close alley, as a
gallant body of knights, attended by their esquires, march towards the
old square of the Zocodover (restricted as to size, as is all else in
Toledo), where the lists have been prepared for a passage of arms
between the chief officers of Aragon and Navarre.
CHAPTER XII
Don Enrique and Albuquerque in Council
The scene changes to the Arab court of the Alcazar, where, under lines
of granite columns, knights and courtiers, heralds and pages, pass in
and out. Nothing speaks of a city entered by surprise, and held on
chance.
To look at the radiant scene, on which a fierce sun shoots down, no one
would imagine that, but a few weeks since, Don Enrique was wandering
over Spain, an outcast and a rebel.
Presently a burly, thick-set noble appears, wearing a dark velvet
_manto_, high fur-edged cap, and Cordoba boots, provided with spurs
which clank as he moves. His presence instantly impresses silence on
those around; for Don Jaime Alvarez is as rough in his manners as are
his native Asturian mountains; not a man to be trifled with at home or
abroad. He at least clearly estimates the dangers of the present
position, and casts a grim scowl on the frivolous idlers loitering
about.
As he leans over the balustrade, halfway up the sculptured marble stair,
his eye wanders round as if in search of some one, and again he frowns
as he notes the careless bearing of the sentinels who guard the
entrance, and the peals of laughter which break from time to time from
the undercurrent of talk below.
But he has not long to wait. His satisfied glance shows it as a dark
figure emerges from the crowd and he is joined by Albuquerque, much
changed since his last interview with Don Pedro in the cloisters of the
church of San Juan at Valladolid. The great minister, disgusted by the
ingratitude of his master and the insults of Maria de Padilla, has
changed sides, and is now attached to the varying fortunes of Don
Enrique. He is thinner, and slightly bent, and his once commanding eyes
are dimmer and sadder.
As he approaches Don Jaime, an audible sigh passes his lips. Now,
instead of at once settling the affairs of state with the unruly Don
Pedro, who bears more respect to him than to any one else, he must
consult with a colleague who naturally regards him with suspicion as a
renegade, who from a bitter enemy has become a doubtful friend.
“Shall we sit apart in the gallery?” Albuquerque asks, after ceremonious
greetings have been exchanged between the rival counsellors, as they
mount the steps together to the upper gallery, supported by slender
pillars rising from a carved balustrade of singular richness in scroll
work, stars, and arabesques; “or shall we enter the apartments?”
“The heat is great,” is the reply, “let us remain here.”
“Have you informed Don Enrique of the news?” anxiously asks Albuquerque,
eyeing doubtfully the set face of the man before him. “I myself have not
seen him this morning.”
“If you mean his Grace the king, I have not either,” answers Don Jaime
drily, his naturally ill-favoured countenance darkening into a most
unpleasant expression.
“But he must instantly know what has happened,” returns Albuquerque.
“His Grace, as I understand,” replies Don Jaime, “is somewhat
indisposed, and has not yet risen.”
“Nevertheless, let us go to him instantly,” urges Albuquerque, “the
greatest results depend on what has occurred.”
“I scarcely view the matter in that light,” answers the other coldly.
“We conquer or we fall by the fortune of war. It is not a struggle in
which a woman more or less----”
“A woman!” breaks in Albuquerque; “but this is a queen, who carries in
her hand France and Navarre. She is here, in sanctuary within the
cathedral. The importance of her presence cannot be underrated.”
“It is natural that _you_ should think so,” retorts Don Jaime, with a
sneer. “You brought her into Spain to establish alliances for Don Pedro.
Now these have failed, you would use her on the other side.”
“But, my lord, while we are here bandying unseemly words,” replies
Albuquerque, unmoved by the covert insult implied, “time flies. Let us
at once crave an audience of Don Enrique, and expose to him our views.”
“His Highness King Enrique, you mean, I presume,” replies Don Jaime,
greatly nettled. “This is the second time I have corrected you, my lord
minister. _You_, at least, should not question the title which your
abandonment of his brother’s cause so greatly facilitated. This, and the
excommunication of the Pope of Rome which legalised it.”
But Albuquerque was not to be drawn into further discussion on so
dangerous a subject. He simply bowed and made way for the Asturian noble
to pass first under the carved portal which led into the royal rooms.
* * * * *
In a small but lofty chamber, wainscotted with wrought walnut wood and
lighted by one of those high casements which run along the front of the
Alcazar and give so much dignity to the noble façade, sits Enrique el
Caballero.
Quite young, but older than Don Pedro, this son of the unhappy Eleonora
de Guzman has already braved death again and again with dauntless
valour. In person he is tall and fair like his brothers. The same
well-cut features, and chestnut hair lying in crisp, close curls under a
velvet cap, thrown back on a broad, clear brow, and a skin so delicate
that the choice lace collar worn at his neck is not more white.
It is not for nothing that Enrique is named El Caballero. A suave
gentleness, almost feminine, is the characteristic of his face. Frank,
firm, and courteous, he charms all who approach him; but when offended,
like a true Spaniard, he can be both unforgiving and vindictive. A
certain mobile expression about his mouth tells of strong passions
ill-repressed, but the gracious smile so readily called up is as a mask
to his feelings. Altogether, a man capable of the tenderest benevolence
and of the bitterest hate.
Of all the children of Eleonora de Guzman, Enrique is the cleverest and
the best. Often wandering alone in the mountains, and only saved from
starvation by the shepherds of the grassy Biscayan valleys--fighting
with the freebooters who lurk on the frontiers, escaping into Navarre,
where he vainly pleads for help, or despatching unavailing offers to the
French king of firm alliance and support if he places him on the
throne--Enrique has ever maintained himself orthodox to the Church, and
as such is openly favoured by the Pope.
Thus, little by little, he has collected a band of followers about him;
and now, confident of help from France, and strengthened in his claims
by the report of Don Pedro’s death, he has entered Toledo.
As he sits at a table covered with papers, a sheet of
heavily-embroidered drapery at his back, a more gallant young prince
would be hard to find, as, doffing for a moment his jewelled cap, he
signs to Albuquerque and Don Jaime to be seated.
“To what good fortune,” he asks, “am I indebted for this early visit?”
“My lord,” replies Albuquerque, as he places himself beside the table,
“I am already late in imparting the important intelligence. The Lady
Blanche of Bourbon has escaped, and is now within the cathedral. Your
brother, Don Pedro, is restored to health, and is advancing on this
city.”
In a moment the smiling face of the young prince changes to an
expression of gravest thought.
“By the bones of Santiago, this is a wondrous change!” he exclaims. “My
brother, though still civilly deceased, rises from a bed of death to
fight me, and the lady comes to aid me. Is she alone?”
“As far as we know,” is the reply, “one female attendant only is with
her. The Lady Blanche is invaluable as a hostage.”
“In what sense?”
“Your Highness may at once dictate peace to Don Pedro by giving her up.”
“Never!” cries Don Enrique. “Even to speak of it is a crime. My lord,”
rising and turning sharply on Albuquerque, “you forget whom you now
serve. The perfidious policy of my brother never shall be mine.”
“I do not advocate perfidy,” is the dignified reply of the unmoved
statesman, “but it is my duty to point out your Grace’s present
advantage.”
“Away with such proposals!” exclaims Enrique, his cheeks reddening under
the waves of chestnut hair. “By the Queen of Heaven! I hold you a poor
counsellor to advocate such crooked means. As a sister I greet her and
will protect her. Her youth and hapless fate touch me deeply. Poor
Fadique! how well he loved her! It cost him his life.”
After this brief passage of arms between the new king and his former
enemy, Enrique reseats himself, his face still aglow with emotion, and
signs to Albuquerque, who has also risen, to do the same. It is the
minister who speaks first, with the imperturbable composure of a man who
cares no more for the chances of life than for the throw of dice upon a
board.
“Your Grace is sure of the support of the Great Companies, if you can
hold Toledo until they arrive.”
“_If_,” quickly rejoins Don Enrique. “_If_, where is the doubt? Look out
beyond,” and he points to the opposite hills over the dark gorge through
which the Tagus flows; “are not those our tents glistening in the light?
Are not those our standards flying in the wind? The lances of our
gallant squadrons of horse catching the sun? Below our body of archers,
whose special charge it is to guard our person? Does all Spain show a
company of men more gallant? Every one of them would die
[Illustration: A VIEW OF GRANADA.]
rather than harm come to me! Listen to the trumpet-call ringing on the
heights! Hark! it is answered from the garrison within the city. Are
these not more than enough to keep possession of what we have?”
A long silence follows.
“God forbid, your Grace,” Albuquerque replies, while the triumphant
glances of Don Jaime seem to shame the coldness of his manner, “that I
say aught to arrest the natural ardour of so chivalrous a prince. But
there are many dangers which make me venture to suggest a peace. Your
Highness entered Toledo by surprise; a strong party, especially among
the Jews within the city, favours your brother. Your army is made up of
many ill-assorted elements. The Castilian hates the Aragonese; the men
of Portugal are jeered at for their coarseness by such French
mercenaries as have joined your standard. Toledo is a large and
straggling city, ill-calculated to resist a siege without a much larger
garrison than you possess. And as to his Grace, my late master, who
knows but that his sickness is but a feint to put you off your guard?
True that the Lady Blanche is here, and that both France and Navarre may
send reinforcements, as soon as time allows, but they are not here.
Besides, our funds run low. The devil take the Hebrews in this city! The
interest they demand is so exorbitant I know not where to find money to
pay the troops, who are already clamouring for pay.”
“The chance of war, the chance of war!” cries Don Enrique, chafing under
these prudent considerations. “Fortune favours the bold. Had I reasoned
thus on the rugged slopes of the Asturias, I should not be sitting now
within these walls. What say you, Don Jaime, ever so faithful to me in
all changes?”
“I say that your Grace is born to reign.”
“Yes,” is the reply, “there is something within me that tells me so. No
matter what happens, my star will prevail. The throne, the throne,
nothing but the throne!” As he speaks an almost glorified look shines on
his face, in which all the charm of the expression is brought out by a
radiant smile, as he gazes over the expanse of city and plain to the
snow-tipped range of Guadarrama, dim in the distance.
“Does he see visions, this boy?” thought Albuquerque, gravely observing
him and but little impressed by this outburst of youthful confidence.
“Pardon me, my lord, if I recall you to the present time. You will
surely at once visit the Lady Blanche, and free her from the discomforts
of the cathedral; the worthy chapter will be at a loss how to entertain
so delicate a princess.”
“Yes, yes, I will at once proceed to the cathedral to offer her such
hospitality as a soldier can command. Call the _jefe_ of my household,
and cause the state apartments to be prepared as are fitting for her,
and such attendants as have escaped with her.”
“And what is far more important,” adds Albuquerque, “I will send off
instant despatches to the most Christian king, informing him of the
presence of his kinswoman, and urge on him the need of quick support.”
“May the Christian king not chance to remember that it was _you_,
Albuquerque, who brought her into Spain? The sight of your name may
raise suspicion. But no matter,” observing the frown which rises on his
face at the ill-timed jest. “By my faith! I would not be in the shoes of
the Governor of Talavera, who has favoured the queen’s escape; for
favour her he must, else she never would have passed the gates of that
invincible fortress. Pedro will invent new tortures to punish him; what
say you, Albuquerque?” and more than a touch of irony betrays itself in
Don Enrique’s voice as he recalls the sufferings the policy of
Albuquerque have entailed on him. “Your kinswoman, Maria, too, will have
a new grudge against me, and work some diabolical charm. Methinks I see
myself in effigy, burning upon a blazing pile, my life-blood ebbing as,
drop by drop, the wax falls into the flame! Ha! ha! If it were only with
witches and warlocks I had to do! But God is with the just! and the Holy
Father’s blessing is potent.”
No answering look of mirth responded to his words; a sad expression was
on the fallen minister’s brow as he gravely saluted and quitted the
chamber, leaving Enrique and Don Jaime to arrange the preparations for
his immediate visit to the cathedral.
CHAPTER XIII
Queen Blanche in Sanctuary
The bright morning which broke so auspiciously at the Alcazar has
darkened. The deep shadows of gathering clouds press up from the horizon
and veil the city in a soft mist. The many towers and domes of the
Cathedral rise up like landmarks on a shadowy sea; the delicate tracery
of the gilded spire, capped by a crown of thorns, catching some latent
sunbeam hidden in the lining of a cloud, alone stands out apparent in
the gloom.
Like the Cathedral of Seville, the original Gothic church, in which the
Wambas and the Witicas had worshipped according to the Gothic creed from
the earliest ages, had become a mosque under the Moors, to be again
consecrated by San Fernando, who, smelling blasphemy in the very walls,
pulled them down and laid the foundations of the present church,
finished two centuries later, in the florid style of that _barocco_
union of the east and west so common in Spain.
Nothing can be worse than the situation. It stands absolutely in a hole.
But it is within that this shrine of marble is wonderful. The clustered
pillars of five vast naves, a marble space in the centre as wide and
long as a hippodrome, the solid bulk of the _retablo_ a blaze of gold,
separating the high altar from the nave; the sculptured semi-circle of
the absis broken by chapels, niches, shrines, and tombs sunk in the
deepness of shadow, where kings and archbishops repose; the superb
pavement in marble, lapis lazuli, porphyry, and agate lighting up the
floor, rare pictures on the walls, statues, carvings, and huge bronze
doors leading into the choir, the double pulpits coated with gold, the
glorious screen in _alto relievo_, and the superbly painted windows
casting down warm shadows as of ruby, emerald, and sapphire on the
floor.
Deeper and deeper fall the shadows, and more and more solemn gathers the
half-light, save for a glimmer far in the distance where a dim lamp
burns before an altar of most delicate tracery flanked by two lofty
windows, the front shut in by a brazen rail, while a lacelike shroud of
exquisite stonework rises behind, reaching as with giant leaps to the
heavily groined roof.
In the farthest corner, crouching beside the altar, sits Blanche, her
feet resting on an embroidered cope, brought by the pitying priests,
Claire close beside her. Both are so still in the waves of gloom
outside, that they might pass for statues on a tomb, pressed close
together, habited in hood and cape as Carmelites.
“I shall die,” whispers Blanche, “if no one comes before night,” and a
cold shudder passes over her.
“Dear Blanche, keep a good heart, after all we have gone through. Here
at least we are safe. I wish to heaven,” adds Claire, “_he_ were, who
has staked his life to bring us here.”
“Ah, Claire, you are in love, and that comforts you. I have no one to
care for me since I parted with Fadique, God grant that he is saved.
But, Claire, are you quite sure that the priest understood he was to
inform the Conde de Trastamare that I am here?”
“Yes,” is the answer; “what a miracle it was that he is in possession of
Toledo. Had it been Don Pedro, he would have broken the sanctuary as
sure as fate.”
“I should like to see this Enrique de Trastamare,” whispers Blanche, her
white face lighting up for an instant at the thought of a possible
protector. “I am sure he is good, because he fights against that
horrible monster Pedro. After all, I am a queen; the King of France will
rescue me. You remember the Governor of Talavera said the French were
marching on Toledo, and that was why we were to come here. For my part I
would have rather gone in quite another direction, towards Navarre. Ah!
how I tremble when I think of it all, and that mule that kicked me off,
just as we were leaving the castle by the narrow path! I wonder I was
not killed; I am sure I am bruised!”
“And our danger,” adds Claire, glad to see Blanche’s mind disengaged
from the continual terror she endures, “when we passed the outer tents
of the encampment, in our Carmelite disguise (how clever of the governor
to think of it), and those soldiers asked us so rudely if we would
absolve them! Oh, how I shake when I think of it. All seemed over with
us; and so it would have been, if that handsome Aragonese knight had not
come up, and perceived from our accent that we were French, and
conducted us across the lines,” here Claire breaks off with a heavy
sigh, and Blanche kisses her tenderly and inquires what ails her.
“Can you ask? When you know I cannot tell if he is safe across the
frontier, my valiant Raoul! Alas! alas! if he falls into Don Pedro’s
hands! Oh, the noble heart!” and she puts her hands before her eyes to
shut out the horrid image her fancy has called up. “When he gave his
love to me, I told him he must save my queen, else I would never look at
him!”
“But this is a fearful place!” cries Blanche in a louder voice, peeping
out into the nave, the desolation of her position coming over her. “Do
you hear that noise!” as a sudden echo rebounds from aisle to aisle. “I
am sure there are spirits here,” and trembling all over, she clings to
Claire.
“Be comforted, my queen. Some one will come. The priest who serves us is
very kind, and he assured me of the favour of the chapter. Believe me,
we shall not be forgotten. Collect yourself, dear princess. You know
what Raoul said of Don Enrique?”
“Oh, I am dead of cold and fright!” answers Blanche, bursting into
tears. “I care not if I die--one stab and all is over! I dream every
night of Don Pedro, a dagger in his hand, and just as I am about to
escape, the point falls here,” and she lays her hand upon her neck. “I
know it will end so. All die who offend Don Pedro.”
“See!” cries Claire, as the darkness enveloping the lengthening lines of
the gigantic pillars lifts, and a glint of light strikes like living
fire on the famous statue of the Virgin, recovered from the Moors by San
Fernando, seated upon an altar on a silver throne, and glittering with
jewels, an exquisite canopy of fretted pinnacles of saints shrouding it,
“See! the Holy Mother herself has come to comfort us.”
CHAPTER XIV
Don Enrique Welcomes Queen Blanche to Toledo
Hours pass, struck out from the Giralda tower in many-toned bells, each
bell with its own name and recognised by its tone. Figures had glided in
and out, dwarfed to pigmies by the vast size. Groups had formed at
distant shrines, to vanish as they came. Veiled women had knelt on the
marble pavement, and a crowd had gathered round a preacher in a far-off
aisle.
At length, when hope seemed dead, the shrill blast of trumpets and the
clatter of horses’ feet came to the ears of the ever-watchful Claire,
from the direction of the Puerta de los Leones, dull at first, and low,
but marvellously distinct.
Then steadily advancing footsteps are heard approaching, the heavy tread
as of a company of armed men whose mailed feet fall heavy on the marble
pavement.
With beating hearts Blanche and Claire start to their feet to await
their doom.
The glare of many torches is thrown forward, calling up fantastic
shapes; an armed figure emerges, clearly defined against the light, a
long Castilian sword at his side, and a mailed hand is stretched
forward.
“Welcome to Toledo, madam,” says the voice of Enrique de Trastamare.
“Never could we have esteemed ourselves more happy in the fortune of war
than by your presence.”
As he speaks Blanche throws herself at his feet; her veil falls back.
She weeps, but her tears do not mar the fresh beauty of her face.
“Save me, my lord!” she cries. “Save me, for the love of God.”
She clasps her hands, as if addressing a deity. Her sobs drown her
voice, which still murmurs, “Save me! Save me!”
Enrique’s eyes fill with tears. He stoops and raises her, imprinting on
her cheek a royal kiss of welcome.
“You will not betray me to Don Pedro?” she whispers, seizing his mailed
hand.
“Betray you!” he answers, greatly moved. “Rather die! If I am a crowned
king, I am no less a belted knight. There is no right of chivalry more
precious than the succour of distress, especially that of a royal lady
allied to us by marriage. Our entrance into the city of Toledo was by
surprise; there are here no noble ladies to form your court at the
Alcazar; but such rough welcome as a soldier can afford is yours, fair
queen. I pray you to honour our quarters with your presence, where I
have already ordered such preparations to be made as are possible.”
Something in the voice and aspect of Enrique so powerfully reminded
Blanche of Fadique, that she remained utterly speechless, to the great
distress of Claire, who whispered into her ear, “For the sake of the
Virgin, who has sent him, thank him as he deserves.”
Enrique, quickly penetrating the sense of the words, saluting her
graciously, replied:
“I desire no thanks from the queen. If I did, I much mistake me if the
noble _demoiselle_ with whom I speak could not as fittingly reply as her
mistress.”
At this compliment, spoken with all the charm of Spanish gallantry,
Claire blushes deeply, and holds down her head.
“Pardon me, my lord,” and Blanche stops suddenly as Enrique draws her
gently forward in the direction of the portal, “if I ask of the welfare
of your brother, the Grand Master?”
Her voice trembled as she named him, and her face grew ashy white.
Instead of answering her, Enrique paused abruptly and laid his
disengaged hand on her shoulder, as if to support her. His silence, and
the care with which he bore her up alarmed her. Slowly she turned her
eyes upon his face, clouded by grief, and a faint cry escaped her.
“Is he dead?” she asked, in a voice almost inaudible.
“He is,” was the answer.
“By whose hand did he fall?”
“By that of my brother, Don Pedro. He called him to the Alcazar, and
smote him in the Hall of the Ambassadors at Seville.”
Exhausted by the long ride from Talavera, the vigil in the cathedral,
and the agitation of meeting with Don Enrique, this cruel blow was too
much. Ere he had spoken Blanche fell into a swoon so death-like that as
Claire knelt before her under the glare of the torches, she asked
herself if life would ever return?
Great was the compassion of Don Enrique as he looked down on her fair
young face.
“Let the nearest leech be summoned instantly,” he commands, turning to
an attendant. “Meanwhile, ask the good fathers if they have no strong
waters to sprinkle on the queen, or no relics at hand which, by their
virtue, will bring the dead to life. Even I, a soldier, have heard in
camp of the virtue of Santa Leocadia, whose bones lie in the Sacristy.
Let every means be tried. Madam,” turning to Claire, vainly trying by
every art to revive her mistress, “my royal sister is happy indeed to
possess such a friend; I will myself remain and assist you.”
The strong waters brought by the priests effected no immediate cure. No
relics were forthcoming. It was not deemed meet that Santa Leocadia
should be removed from her consecrated shrine at the command of a
newly-made king, not sure of
[Illustration: A WINDOW IN THE ALHAMBRA.]
his title. For, be it noted, the appearance of the Pretender, Enrique de
Trastamare, in the cathedral, and his determination to carry away the
Lady Blanche was most unwelcome to the chapter, who were thus deprived
of their sanctuary dues, the actually reigning sovereign alone having
the privilege of recompensing them.
At length a leech arrives in the person of an aged Jew well-known in her
city at the beginning and end of life. Quickly he opens a vein, and as,
drop by drop, the blood flows over the delicate skin, her eyes open, and
again she breathes.
No sooner has consciousness returned to the queen than it is Claire’s
turn to give way. Tottering backwards she seems about to fall. But the
brave girl, ever faithful to her charge, forces herself to overcome the
passing weakness and tend her mistress, on whose pale cheeks a faint
tinge of colour has stolen.
“Dear Blanche, hear me!” cries Claire, passionately seizing her hand and
carrying the cold fingers to her lips. “On my knees I conjure you to
live, for yourself, for me! For France, our pleasant land, where we
shall return. Rouse yourself, Blanche. Sit up,” and she essays to raise
her in her arms, while Enrique, with looks of the tenderest pity,
assists her.
At length, more dead than alive, she is placed on a litter bearing the
device of “the Castle” (the same as was used by the pious Queen
Berengaria when she came to Mass), and is carried from the cathedral up
the hill to the square of the Zocodover, on her way to the Alcazar.
CHAPTER XV
Taking of Toledo by Don Pedro--Death of Queen Blanche
Within an incredibly short time Don Pedro marched from Seville with a
well-disciplined army and gained possession of Toledo, principally by
the connivance of the Jews, Father Isaac himself with his own hands
opening the postern of the Gate of San Martino. Many of the citizens who
had believed the king to be dead or dying, at the news of his approach
joined themselves with the Jews in a close conspiracy in his favour,
greatly strengthening his cause.
The siege was short and rapid. Don Enrique had only time to escape by
night from the Alcazar in disguise, with his most faithful adherents;
his showy but inefficient army, comprised, as Albuquerque had reminded
him, of so many heterogeneous elements, ill-paid and ill-fed, melted
away before the disciplined troops of his brother, and Blanche, poor
Blanche, was seized in the Alcazar and sent far away from all hope of
succour into Andalusia to the castle of Xeres.
But this is not enough for Don Pedro. After the most solemn promises of
pardon to those citizens of Toledo who had acknowledged his brother, no
sooner had he manned the walls and floated the “Castle and the Lion” at
the four towers of the Alcazar, than every one of his brother’s
adherents was denounced.
In this, Father Isaac did cruel service, gratifying the private
vengeance of his nation under the pretext of treachery to the king. A
terrible massacre followed; head after head was struck off in the
presence of Don Pedro, until the executioners rested from sheer fatigue.
“I am _El Rey Justiciar_,” are his cruel words, “let my enemies feel
there is no mercy for traitors.” One of the accused, an old _caballero_,
who had refused to pay an exorbitant interest to a Jew, a friend of
Father Isaac’s, was a venerable citizen of good repute, who had taken no
part in the insurrection. His son rushed forward and implored the king
to spare him. “Take my life, my lord!” cried he, “not his!” and he flung
himself upon his knees before him in an agony of supplication.
“Not a whit, not a whit!” answered Don Pedro commanding his guards to
drive him back. “If you so love death, share it together,” and the
father and son both fell under the axe.
The barbarous death of Doña Urraca de Osorrio at this time has become
historical. When Don Pedro learned that her husband, Alvarez de Guzman
(the son of Guzman el Bueno, who saved Spain from the Moors at the
siege of Tarifa), had gone over to his brother in the siege of Toledo,
he caused her to be seized and burnt alive in the public square of
Seville before the Ayuntamiento. Her maid, Leonora Davilo, was with her.
As the wind was high at the time, Doña Urraca’s clothes were displaced,
and her body exposed to the jeers of the brutal Sevillianos, when the
faithful Leonora leaped into the flames, and casting herself as a veil
on her mistress was burned with her. Thus they are both represented on
Doña Urraca’s monument in the church of San Isidoro at Santa Ponce, a
short distance from Seville, built by Guzman el Bueno, with little idea
that his own daughter-in-law would be interred there under circumstances
of such horror.
And now the great name of Albuquerque is heard for the last time.
Faithful to the cause of Don Enrique as he had been to that of Don
Pedro, he met his former master, at his particular request, at the
ancient town of Toro, lying in the open expanse of plains between
Salamanca and Zamora, in order to endeavour to negotiate better terms
for his new master.
Of what passed between Don Pedro and his great minister there is no
record, but the sudden death of Albuquerque immediately after the
interview is not without suspicion of foul play.
* * * * *
The southern district of Spain, within the bounds of Andalusia,
extending from Seville to Cadiz, is still a mystery as in days of yore.
Great open alluvial plains, utterly treeless, stretch into boundless
perspectives, the home of the wild bull in its pristine ferocity. The
Guadalquivir flows onwards in a torpid tide among canals and open
trenches down to the sea, a most unpoetic river in all but the name. All
is grey, misty, and desolate, a “no man’s land,” to which even the waves
of the Mediterranean bring no delight, for the shallow beach sends back
the water so far it barely covers the sandy shore.
On these shores the old Continent of Europe seems to die out, to make
place for the youthful splendour of Africa opposite, visible in the line
of the picturesque Atlas range rising across the straits; old Europe
worn out, and melting into the sea before the defiance of its stalwart
rival.
Xeres de la Frontiera is the only town on this low marshy coast. The
Xeres of that day--not famed for wine and commerce as in our time--was a
small fortified place taken from the Moors, enclosed by walls; and
precisely because the Xeres of that day was desolate and lonely, it was
selected for the place of the queen’s imprisonment.
Blanche--oh! so changed! her young face drawn, her delicate cheeks
marked with fine lines, her childlike eyes dim, her slight figure bowed
as if by age, her flaxen curls streaked with grey, although she has
scarcely reached the years of womanhood--is indeed an object of
compassion! All hope gone, knowing that she must die. And so living day
by day as the months roll on and she measures the dull routine of
sunrise and sunset across those cruel plains, which cut her off from all
humanity.
One image haunts her, the gallant young Infante who dared to love her.
And from him her thoughts wander to his brother, El Caballero, who was
about to send her to Navarre with an escort when he was surprised at
Toledo, and is now almost as helpless as herself; in her enfeebled brain
the lineaments of the two brothers become mingled, and the gentle
Fadique seems to live again in the gracious Enrique, whom all men love.
What matter? She is doomed. Incapable of hate or love; no passion is
left within her. Even the craving for liberty is gone. She feels she
could not use it, were it hers; and thus she sits, day after day, on the
summit of a castellated tower, under a low wall, hand in hand with
Claire.
That she has loved or been loved seems so impossible, a feeble smile
rises on her lips as she thinks of it. That she has been born to pomp
and greatness is equally incredible in her abject condition. To hold a
flower in her hand, to scent the perfume of herbs borne by the breeze,
to watch the flight of sea-gulls which skim across the plain, to note
the accidents of the seasons, golden autumn breaking into grey winter,
then passing to the glad garments of the spring, on the shadowy outlines
of the mountains of La Mancha, is to her mind as a never-ending wonder
that the world should thus go on. It is _she_ alone who is dead, while
all nature lives triumphant!
The entrance of the old crone who performs such menial offices as she
requires is a boon as something human, yet even she scowls at her with
envy because she is a queen.
“What devil’s deed have you in your mind?” she mutters, as she sweeps
the floor, casting malignant glances at Blanche, seated beside Claire.
“Are you expecting a saviour, mistress? Ha! ha! None will come to Xeres.
You do not answer? You can weep, therefore you can speak.”
“We are French,” answers Claire, speaking for Blanche. “We mean you no
offence by our silence. But, for the sake of mercy, tell us, good
mother, is there really no means of escape from this prison?”
“None,” answers the woman, pursing up her thin lips as if it gave her a
certain satisfaction. “Think not of it. From hence you go to the gates
of death. I can tell you that. Misfortune is the road to a better world.
It comforts me to think you are as wretched as I am myself. Fare you
well, ladies, till to-morrow. There is not a chamber in the castle nor a
step on the stairs that is not slippery with human blood. They die,
every soul of them, who come here.”
As she speaks she turns her back to go, when Blanche rushes after her.
Roused from her torpor by these horrible words, she seizes the old hag
by the shoulders and looks wildly into her eyes.
“Richly, richly would my father requite you, did you save me.”
“Your father?” retorts the woman. “Where is he? Meanwhile they would
wring my old neck, and you be no better. No! no!”
“Stay! stay!” cries Blanche, keeping hold on her. “It consoles me to
hear another voice and not always to listen to the owls hooting outside,
or the ticking of the death-watch in the walls.”
“Let go,” answers the old woman, extricating herself rudely from her
weak grasp, “or you shall serve yourselves, mistresses. I cannot help
you. When I was young I could not protect myself. Here, not the Holy
Virgin herself can save you.” As she speaks she bars the door and
disappears, a sneering smile upon her face, furrowed with wrinkles.
Except this woman, no one but the governor enters. He is a stern, morose
Castilian, eliminating all expression from his face as he looks at
Blanche, yet with a certain kindliness of expression and gesture he
cannot altogether disguise, which pains her, for she would gladly think
that the world is as dead and buried as she is herself. Not even Claire
can comfort her now--Claire, her whole soul in her eyes, watching her
every movement, while her own thoughts turn to the fate of the lover
who, at her command, risked his life to liberate the queen.
One evening, sitting together at sunset on the tower, the sound of
horses’ feet galloping rapidly on the grass rouses them. A white terror
is in Blanche’s eyes as she fixes them on Claire, who, leaning over, can
perceive a little company of men-at-arms rapidly approaching, bearing a
flag with the king’s badge.
_No word is said_, but when the governor enters, as is his custom, to
serve their evening meal, Claire, standing behind her chair, observes
his eyes, at moments when he thinks Blanche’s attention is distracted,
fixed on Blanche with a glance full of pity.
_No word is said_, but below, in the courtyard, comes the sound of a
loud harsh voice; the step of sentinels louder and quicker, and around
an unwonted stir.
Blanche, sitting listless, pays no heed, but Claire goes and comes in
the narrow tower, peering through the small arched slits which serve for
light, listening to every sound. Then all dies away as night closes.
“For to-night we are safe,” is her thought; but suddenly in the
darkness, to her sharp ears comes that same harsh voice with which she
seems familiar. She has heard it at Valladolid. Can it be the king? One
purpose only could bring him here, the death of Blanche. Ah! how can she
save her? If to give her life, how gladly she would be the sacrifice! A
thousand wild schemes whirl in her brain; but she says nothing, and
Blanche,
[Illustration: THE AQUEDUCT NEAR GRANADA.]
save that she has turned deadly pale, has not spoken.
But when the moonlight comes, and Claire is unbinding the long tresses
of her hair and combing out those childish curls, now half grey, which
lent so sweet an expression to her innocent young face when she came to
Valladolid, a knock is heard at the door, and lo! a priest enters.
Now as, from time to time, Blanche has been allowed to confess, this
does not startle Claire as much as it might seem; but when the priest
says, entering the vaulted chamber and addressing Blanche, “My daughter,
have you prayed?” she knows that her hour has come.
A piercing scream escapes from Claire as she falls on her knees beside
her mistress, but Blanche rises up with the aspect of a queen.
“My father,” she answers, “I pray always, for I have died out of the
world.”
“It is well, my daughter,” and the priest raises his hand over her in
benediction as she kneels before him; but there is a tremor in his voice
he cannot suppress, and old as he is and practised in the ways of death,
tears stand in his eyes as he looks at her young face.
A solemn silence follows neither cares to break.
It is the priest, who speaks first in a voice which trembles spite of
himself.
“It is not without reason, my daughter, that we are enjoined to pray. We
know not when God may see fit to call our souls to him.”
“I understand,” answers Blanche in a voice so low it can only be heard
by reason of the great silence, “you mean I am to die.”
“My daughter,” and now, unable to command his grief, sobs shake his
words, and poor Claire, clinging wildly to her mistress, as if by her
loving arms she could keep her in life, utters the most piercing cries.
“My sister,” and Blanche turns to her, “for such you are in love,
disturb not my last hour with your grief, but rather rejoice with me
that I am leaving a world in which I have suffered so much. I wonder I
have been allowed to live so long. But, my father,” addressing the
priest, “listen to me before I die: I am innocent of the crime imputed
to me. I was condemned unheard. But there is a tribunal above, before
the living God, to absolve me. There I summon my husband, the King of
Castile, to appear. We shall meet shortly. By the sword he has lived;
and by the sword he shall die. It has been revealed to me.”
“My daughter,” replies the priest, taking her hand in his, “such
invocations are wicked. Leave vengeance to God.”
Blanche bows her head in obedience. But the prophecy is uttered, and the
dark spirits which keep watch over human life have heard and noted it.
Then calling for paper, which Claire, gathering herself up from the
floor, gave her with trembling hands, hanging over her the while as if
each breath she drew was precious beyond life, Blanche wrote some words
addressed to Don Pedro, and bound the paper with a black ribbon from her
neck.
“I pray you, my father, to hold what is here written as sacred. Deliver
it in person to the king. Tell him you saw me die.”
So calm is Blanche and her voice so clear, as she fixes her large eyes
steadfastly on the priest, as if looking beyond him into another world,
that neither he nor Claire dare trouble her with words.
Then she confesses, kneeling on the stones, and at the conclusion,
taking the priest’s hand in hers, she meekly kisses it, and begs to be
interred at Xeres.
“For else,” she says, “they may dispute the possession of my body in
death as they have done in life, and the king’s mistress, Maria de
Padilla, might do some dishonour to it, which is not meet, seeing that I
am of royal blood, and the rightful Queen of Castile.”
And even in the agony of her grief Claire wondered to hear Blanche speak
with such dignity and judgment, for, up to that time since they had left
Toledo, her senses had seemed dulled, and she had said nothing of all
that was in her mind.
Anon the low door creaks on its hinges and a figure appears, completely
shrouded in black. The head is covered by a cowl with slits for eyes; in
one hand is a torch, which throws a glare in the chamber like blood;
the other lies concealed in the mantle.
At this horrible sight Blanche loses all her composure. She shrieks
aloud, and burying herself in the arms of Claire clings closely to the
stone walls.
But the priest exhorting her with holy words, she speedily regains her
courage, and turning to the executioner speaks with a gentle voice.
“Friend, I pardon you. You must obey the king, who sends you, as I do in
dying here.” And rising to her feet, a kind of glory gathers on her
face; all her young beauty comes back to her again, such as she was
when, as a happy girl, she left Narbonne a bride.
“I am but eighteen years old, and I am about to die, a virgin, as I have
lived. The crown which was put on my head was one of sorrow; I hope to
find a better in another world. My father,” turning to the priest, who
is bowed down with grief, “if it be possible, commend me to my sister,
the Queen of France, and to my father, and tell them I have not
disgraced them by any act.”
And with these words upon her lips, she kneels down, the executioner
seizes her, and passes the fatal bowstring round her throat.
* * * * *
According to a legend of the time, Blanche of Bourbon was interred in
the old cathedral at Xeres, but as an entirely new building was erected
in 1695, no record of her burying-place remains.
CHAPTER XVI
Death of Maria de Padilla--Don Juan de Mañara
Foremost in the fighting at Toledo, when Don Pedro drove out Don Enrique
de Trastamare and took Queen Blanche prisoner, was his favourite, Don
Juan de Mañara, an historical profligate of no small fame in poetry and
music, and dreaded by husbands and fathers.
Vainly did they lock the gates of their _patios_ and put iron bars over
the windows; he penetrated everywhere. The _Commendatore_ whom Don Juan
killed in a duel about his daughter Doña Anna, was but one of the many
whom he had injured, only the _Commendatore_ cursed him, and the curse
cleaved to him, although it is not true that as a _statue_, he invited
him to supper, as he does in Mozart’s opera, and was dragged down to
hell.
The stage Don Giovanni is a very elegant señor, with fine feathers,
bright clothes, golden chains, velvets, and lace; but the real man
clothed himself as plainly as his master, Don Pedro, in a dark doublet,
with a leather _capa_, or head-piece, quite innocent of gew-gaws, and
as heavy a mantle as a Castilian can wear.
Living in warlike t
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