The Constant Prince

“Now we must sell our lives hard. There is no choice remaining. We march on the town with the first dawn of light. And now to prayer. May God have mercy on us! we are in evil case. Where is Father Martin?”

“My lord, my lord!” cried young Alvarez, rushing up, “here is a sentinel who declares that in the dusk he beheld Father Martin pass him by, and afterwards a figure steal to the enemy’s lines.”

“Where is the holy father!” said Enrique, calmly disregarding this assertion.

But Father Martin was nowhere to be found, and instead of the proposed solemn services, the whole camp was engaged in a passionate discussion as to whether he had been the traitor or not. Young Hartsed hotly defended him, and he and Alvarez disputed till words almost came to blows.

With the first ray of light the rail to arms was sounded, and several hours were spent in desperate efforts to break through the enemy’s ranks. It was all in vain; and as the shadows of evening fell the recall was sounded, and in humiliation and sorrow of heart the defeated princes sent to offer terms of capitulation, and to ask for what ransom they and their troops would be allowed to depart.

Chapter Fourteen

The Steadfast Prince

“Still to abide ’mid failing hearts high-hearted.”

The two Infantes occupied a tent in the centre of the Portuguese camp, and when their messengers returned they came out to the front of it, and, surrounded by their chief officers, prepared to receive the Moorish delegates who had come to offer them terms of surrender. The wounded had been cared for as well as circumstances admitted, and an attempt had been made to draw up the poor remnant of the troops in good order, so as not to produce an impression of utter defeat. But nothing could alter the dejected countenances and downcast air of the beaten army; the very banners hung listless in the still air of evening, and many a wistful look was cast at the blue sea, so near yet so unapproachable, beyond which lay Portugal and home.

Life had never held so bitter a moment for Enrique of Portugal as when he stood there to receive and not to dictate terms of surrender; and from an enemy whom he regarded with a mixture of contempt and hatred. He was, however, perfectly calm and impassive, not losing the advantage that his splendid presence gave him, and prepared to accede to the demand for a heavy ransom before he and his army were allowed to depart.

Fernando stood beside him; disappointment and self-reproach put aside for the present, he showed himself an equally worthy representative of the honour of Portugal.

The Moorish envoys were exceedingly courteous, and began their interview with many compliments on the valour of their illustrious foes.

Enrique replied, very briefly, that the fortune of war being against them, they must leave it to the King of Fez to name their ransom.

And then, still wrapped in courteous phrases, came the ultimatum. The town of Ceuta must be restored to its former owners, and to insure this one of the Infantes, with a certain number of nobles, must remain as a hostage in the hands of the King of Fez.

“The King of Portugal,” said Enrique, “will be prepared for the payment of any money ransom the King of Fez may demand.”

“The town of Ceuta,” said the chief officer of the Moors, “is the price of your liberty. Otherwise your troops must be put to the sword, and you and your chief nobles retained as prisoners at the king’s pleasure.”

“The King of Fez,” said Fernando, “has a right to impose conditions. I offer myself as the hostage he demands.”

“Fernando – no!” cried Enrique, suddenly losing his self-contained manner, and laying his hand on Fernando.

“The noble Infante,” said the Moorish envoy, “need have no fears. He and his companions will be treated as the guests of the king, and will be released immediately that Ceuta is in the hands of my master.”

Fernando smiled. “I have no fears,” he said, quietly.

“And doubtless,” said the Moor, “the King of Portugal will see that it is consistent with his honour to release his noble brother without delay.”

“The King of Portugal,” said Fernando, “will act as becomes an honourable and a Christian king.”

“I do not consent – I do not consent!” said Enrique, in such agitation that Fernando said —

“We will crave leave to withdraw, and to discuss this matter first with each other and then with our nobles.”

So saying, he moved back into the tent, followed by Enrique, who threw himself into a seat, covering his face.

“I – it must be I,” he said. “I will not leave you. How can I look Duarte in the face?”

“But I could not undertake the command of the troops alone,” said Fernando; “and besides, we will not give them more than they ask.”

Enrique still seemed unconvinced; Fernando sat down beside him and spoke earnestly.

“Look you, Enrique. My self-willed longing to give my life to the cause of Christendom him brought this on us. ‘Behold! to obey is better than to sacrifice;’ but I heeded neither Duarte’s wish nor the Pope’s will, nor our other brothers’ opinion. It is fitting therefore that I should bear the brunt of failure.”

“To demand Ceuta,” cried Enrique; “Ceuta, our one conquest from the realms of darkness! A law, alas! that we – that I should have lost Ceuta to Christendom!”

“That,” said Fernando, very low and tenderly, “will not be for your decision.”

Enrique started, and looked up in his face. Fernando took him by both hands and smiled with wonderful sweetness, while he said —

“When we took Ceuta, my Enrique, and all my joy was gone at the fear of your death, you bade me remember that we would both have given our lives for it in the battle. I bid you think of that now.”

Enrique bent his head down on his brother’s hands and groaned aloud.

“How can I face Duarte – what can I say to him?” he repeated.

“Tell him,” said Fernando, “to remember that both he and I are Christian princes, soldiers of the Cross of Christ. And give him my – my love.” Here he faltered for a moment; then, recovering himself, said, firmly —

“We delay too long. Let us consult with the officers. I cannot, I suppose, remain here alone.” Enrique seemed quite unable to recover himself, and Fernando was forced to take the lead in the discussion that followed. There was no lack of volunteers to share in his self-devotion, nor indeed was there any particular reason to shrink from a temporary detention in an enemy’s country. Several nobles of sufficient station to satisfy the requirements of the Moors were selected, and Father José resolved on accompanying his beloved prince; and this fact a little comforted Enrique, and enabled him once more to meet the Moorish envoys, and to announce to them that he had resolved on accepting the terms proposed, and that his brother, with twelve companions, would remain behind as hostages for the restitution of the town of Ceuta, he himself and the rest of the army being allowed to depart unharmed.

Moussa-Ben-Hadad, the Moorish envoy, was courtesy itself. El Señor Dom Fernando, Infante of Portugal and Grand-Master of Avis, would be the guest of his king, who would be honoured by his presence, and would do his best to make his stay agreeable, short as it would be. He would be allowed free communication by letter with Portugal. A document was prepared and signed by Moussa-Ben-Hadad and by the two Infantes, to the effect that Fernando was to remain a prisoner until such time as Ceuta should be given up.

Alvarez and Harry Hartsed both entreated to remain with him; but he refused steadily, saying that their rank was not sufficient for hostages, and that no unnecessary force should be wasted. Sir Walter Northberry was among the wounded.

All was prepared for the start during the night, and with the first dawn of day this defeated Christians began their retreat, in good order and with banners flying. They had no need to eat their hearts out with mortification and wounded pride, as they noticed the innumerable ranks of the foes between whom their own small force took its way to the beach. Self-reproach and shame was for the leaders, who had so misjudged and mismanaged; and Enrique felt as if the weight bowed him to the earth.

The time for parting came, and the two brothers were alone. It might seem but a formal parting for a short time, but upon them both lay the weight of a conviction which each was too tender to the other to put into words. But the sympathy between them was too deep and keen for any doubt as to the other’s opinion. Fernando laid his hands on Enrique’s shoulders and looked full into his face.

“You are my other self, and you know my heart by your own,” he said. “Courage! for we shall not part for ever.”

Enrique dared not give way. He took Fernando’s hand, and together they went out to the front of the tent – the last one remaining of the little camp – where Enrique’s suite were ready mounted on the one side, and the escort of Moors awaited Fernando on the other.

The brothers embraced each other in silence; Fernando mounted his horse and bowed to the knights and nobles standing round. In the light of the summer morning, with the new sun shining on the red cross on his breast and on his steadfast, smiling eyes, Enrique beheld him; then, mounting his horse, he rode away, and left this well-beloved brother behind.

Chapter Fifteen

A Burning Question

“To do a great right, do a little wrong.”

The ill-fated expedition had not long set sail before the king discovered its insufficient numbers, and in all haste he ordered Dom Joao to equip himself and follow his brothers to Ceuta. Joao, to do him justice, was perfectly ready to do so, and in a very short time set sail with a fair number of troops, hoping to join them before they could leave Ceuta, and, had they waited for a reinforcement, all might have been well.

He had not calculated on their over-haste. The vessel bearing the fatal news crossed him on the way; and when he arrived at Ceuta he was greeted with the story of the defeat of the army, of the detention of Fernando, and of the serious illness of Enrique, who, completely overcome by mortification and anguish of heart, had fainted on reaching his ship, and had been carried on shore at Ceuta, unable to exert himself further. All was in confusion; but Dom Joao wasted no time in reproaches or regrets; but after giving a few necessary orders, and encouraging the troops to look for better times, he went at once to his brother’s lodging.

Enrique was recovering a little from the violence of the fever that had seized on him, and was dressed and lying on a couch; but when he saw his brother he rose up, weak as he was, and threw himself on his knees before him, covering his face.

“Alas, my brother! how can I look on you?” he cried. “I have been the worst enemy of my country and of the Church and of my most dear brothers!”

“It has all gone very ill,” said Joao. “We must seek for a remedy. Rise up, my brother; you shame me. This from you to me!”

“Ah, could I but find a harder penance!” sighed Enrique; but he allowed Joao to help him back to his couch, and began to tell him how it had all chanced, and to ask what had brought him there in such good time.

“Duarte has troubled much about Fernando,” said Joao; “how was it with him when you left him?”

But the attempt to speak of Fernando threw Enrique into such an agony of weeping that Joao was obliged to cease questioning him, beginning to perceive how terrible must have been the experience that had thus prostrated one of such resolute will and power of endurance.

“Courage!” he said; “a better day must dawn. Fernando will soon be restored to us; and though we yield Ceuta nominally, it shall go hard but we will soon win it back again. For that object a war will cause no difference of opinion.”

Enrique made no answer. He lay silent for some moments, then turned and looked up at his brother. “We were eating our horses before we yielded, and there was no water, and no hope. That must soon have killed him and all the poor fellows whom we have led to ruin.”

“You would have been fools to hold out,” said Joao, bluntly. “But what is to be done now? Here am I, with six thousand at my back – ”

“Here? Fresh troops?” cried Enrique, starting into animation. “Then what is to hinder one more effort? Let us go back to Tangier, and win it, or die!”

“But the treaty?” said Joao.

“The treaty! That does but hold Fernando fast. We gave no pledge not to continue the war on another footing. And they harassed our rear enough as we retreated to show how far they care to keep their word. I am another man, now you give me hope.”

Joao was not altogether averse to the proposal, and Enrique, with reviving spirits, recovered his natural ascendency; and arrangements were made for Joao to return home with the sick and wounded, while Enrique, with the fresh troops, marched again on Tangier. No second brother, he said, should be thus risked. His first care, however, was to put Ceuta into a complete state of defence; and while he was thus engaged came first the news that the fleet which he had sent home immediately after the retreat from Tangier had met with a violent storm and been wrecked on the coast of Andalusia, where the Castilians had showed great kindness to the distressed sailors. Next arrived a peremptory despatch from the king, ordering both his brothers to return at once, and to make no further effort to continue the war for the present. Enrique was bitterly disappointed, though he felt that he could not wonder at the king’s doubt of his judgment.

“I cannot look him in the face,” he said; “I cannot see his grief. Go you to Lisbon, and I will hide myself in Sagres, and pray for pardon.”

The king convoked the States-General of Portugal, and a great council was held to decide on the next step. The Pope was again written to for his opinion, and the discussion began with all the ardour and heat attending a question where good men see, strongly, different sides of the right. For Duarte himself it was a time of agonising doubt. His peculiar tenderness for Fernando made the thought of his loneliness and suffering, of his possible hardships and of the loss of his daily presence, haunt him by night and day. Every feeling of his heart urged him to give up the city and win this beloved brother back. But then, he looked on himself but as the steward who must give an account of his kingdom. Ceuta, Portugal itself, were not his to yield. What right had he to give back one acre of Christian land to the realm of darkness – to let the consecrated soil be profaned once more by the accursed faith of Mahomet? What life, what love, was too precious to be sacrificed to save the souls of the Christians of Ceuta? This was one side of the question; and perhaps it is hardly possible in these days to realise how powerful this obligation seemed to such a prince as Duarte. On the other hand, it was urged that it was a foul shame to grudge any fortress, however valuable, for the life of a prince of Portugal, who had voluntarily offered himself, trusting in the honour of his country, and also that, after all, they had given their word to cede Ceuta, and were bound to redeem it, even to an infidel power. These were the nobler views on either side. Of course the party who contended for the retention of Ceuta contained many who cared nothing for the religious question, but who declared openly that the great sea-port was worth far more to the state than the precarious life of a prince who had never been able to make himself prominent or useful, while many of those who wished to yield it cared little for Fernando, and less for the pledge, but were only anxious to avoid the expense of a war.

But between the right on either side Duarte’s scrupulous conscience wavered with agonising uncertainty; though with his deep love for his brother, and his instinctive preference for the simpler, more immediate duty, he inclined somewhat to the view of yielding the city. Pedro and Joao spoke in the council with no uncertain sound. A treaty should be kept, they said, and their dear brother’s life saved at all costs. No sacrifice could be too great to make. Then let them go to war with every resource at their command, and win Ceuta back, and Tangier, too. Their words had great weight; but the Archbishop of Braga, a powerful ecclesiastic, spoke on the other side, all the other bishops agreeing with him, declaring that one man’s life must not be considered in comparison with a whole city.

The Pope’s letter came in support of this view. The war had been undertaken in defiance of his wishes, and had led to an unhappy result. Certainly, Christian land must not be given up to an infidel power; but he offered the much-desired full of Crusade, and recommended Duarte to go to war to deliver his brother. All this time Enrique had remained at Sagres and made no sign, only trusting that the matter might be settled without his intervention. But now, Duarte wrote, summoning him to Lisbon, assuring him of his forgiveness and affection, and desiring to hear his view of the question.

The time had gone by for the wild anguish with which Enrique had met Joao; but when he came into Duarte’s presence, and kissed his hand, ten years might have passed over the heads of them both since they parted. Duarte’s gentle cheerfulness had faded, and all the fire had gone out of Enrique’s great grey eyes, and his manner was subdued and spiritless.

Duarte made him sit beside him, and for a long time they were silent, holding each other by the hand. Then Enrique said —

“My brother, you can forgive?”

“We suffer together,” said Duarte. “Enrique, you know what our brothers say in this matter, and the contrary opinion of the Pope. How does your conscience speak?”

Enrique’s strong frame shook, as he answered —

“Were I the hostage, I could not so buy my freedom. Would that I were!”

Then Duarte took a letter from his bosom and put it into Enrique’s hand. It contained a few lines from Fernando, speaking of his good health and kindly treatment, and begging for Duarte’s forgiveness for the rashness that had risked so much. He sent messages of love to all his brothers, especially to Enrique, “who granted me my heart’s wish at the cost of his own judgment.” There was no single word as to his own return, or as to the cession of Ceuta, and Duarte said —

“This most precious letter was doubtless read by his jailor before he was permitted to send it, so that he could not freely speak his mind, to us.”

Enrique kissed the letter, he seemed unable to speak, and Duarte said —

“I sent for you, since you and he were ever as one, so that your mind on this matter will be his.”

“So he said.”

“Yes, you wrote me his words,” said Duarte.

There was long silence, and at last the King spoke again.

“Grieve not so terribly, my brother, speak as your conscience urges. Alike we love him.”

“Alas, yes! Duarte, his one wish was to see those cities Christian. For that he longed to die. I know, he meant that you should hold fast by Ceuta. And we were bound to that service. Had he died by a Moslem sword, we must have given thanks for a blessed end. My life —his life must not be weighed in the balance with Christian souls. Remember our knighthood. We shame him, if for his sake we tear down the Cross our father raised, and see the Crescent glittering again on the cathedral of Ceuta. We dare not put our brethren before our God.”

Enrique’s faltering voice strengthened, and the colour came back into his face as he spoke. The terrible anguish of this avowal had been faced and met; the bitter cross which he had helped to fashion taken on his shoulders. It had cost many a long hour of prayer and fasting before he had brought himself to the point of declaring the view that his inmost conscience had all along suggested, and even now he implored Duarte to spare him from the necessity of speaking of it in the council. He could not change his mind; but if the States-General, if Duarte thought otherwise —

“This was for me only,” said Duarte. “No one shall question you. Alas! your silence might have told me your conviction. I seem to hear him speak through your lips.”

Pedro was less considerate than Duarte. He was indeed too generous to utter a word of reproach to Enrique for his former disregard of his opinion, and when, coming in to seek Duarte, he saw his changed looks, he greeted him with the utmost kindness; but the substance of the conversation could not be concealed from him, and he said, sarcastically —

“Well, your conscience may be at ease. There are many in the council beside you and the Archbishop of Braga, who think our poor Fernando’s life worth less than a valuable fortress. He is sickly, they say, and of no use to the state, let him pine in exile, we will keep Ceuta safe while we have it.”

“Hush, my brother,” said Duarte with his gentle authority. “Well you know that taunt is out of place.”

“I meant no taunt,” said Pedro; “but it was one thing for Fernando to dream of crusading lying here on his couch, or even to lead an army to the attack, and quite another for him to suffer all the contumely which Moorish cruelty and spite can suggest, if we do not hold to our side of the bargain.”

“You speak as if we would leave him in their hands without an effort,” said Duarte. “But, come, the Queen waits for supper for us. My Enrique, you will be a welcome guest.”

Enrique would fain have been spared the supper, though of course no one but his brothers had a right to question him on his views; but he knew that it was best that he and the King should be seen together, and came to the table, though he looked so white and sad that the Queen rallied him on his unsocial air.

Leonor disliked depression and dull times, and did not see why the cession of Ceuta should be made a burning question. Dom Pedro, on the other hand, disliked the Queen’s frivolity, so he turned to Enrique and engaged him in a discussion of the latest calculations, by which his study of the stars was being reduced to a science useful to mariners; and that congenial topic brought a little brightness to Enrique’s mournful face, for he and Pedro differed on some nice point, and in discussing it forgot for a brief moment the dreadful difference that really lay between them. But the responsibility that rested on his shoulders never passed from the King’s mind. Others thought, argued, believed, but in the long run he must act.

Chapter Sixteen

Old Friends

“But the blue fearless eyes in her fair face,And her frank voice, showed her of English race.”

In the midst of all this turmoil and excitement Eleanor Northberry came back to Portugal. Suitable escorts were so rare that, one having offered itself, she was sent back without previous notice, and arrived just as her father had recovered from the wound received before Tangier, and while the question of the cession of Ceuta was still before the States-General.

She had grown into a most beautiful maiden, tall and straight, light of foot, and slender of limb, with a clear voice that spoke her mind without fear or favour; blue eyes, clear and bright as the morning; and a skin fair and rosy, such as had not been seen in Lisbon since the young days of Philippa of Lancaster. The arrival of the English beauty was like a ray of sunlight in the gloom of that time of suspense and sorrow; and to Harry Hartsed it dispersed the clouds altogether; for she greeted him heartily as fellow-countryman and friend. He lived, too, with Sir Walter Northberry since the break-up of Dom Fernando’s household, so that they had many opportunities of intercourse, and Harry was envied, especially by Alvarez, who fell a victim to this new and lovely creature the first time that he beheld her.

Young hearts will be gay, and young lips will laugh, happily for the world, even in sad times; and Harry and Nella, a few days after her return were enjoying a lively chat over their old recollections of pleasant Northberry.

“This central court, with its fountain, and those tall orange-trees, and the couch on which my father sits, is almost the only thing I can remember well. We stood there under the trees, I and Catalina, and the prince sat here, by my father, and gave us the little crosses, on the day we sailed.”

“Alas!” said Harry; “when shall we see our beloved prince again?”

Nella did not know much of the matter in dispute, and decidedly inclined to the view of rescuing the good prince at all cost. She looked solemn for a moment, and then said, —