The Constant Prince

“Ah! there is no witch here to tell us what he is doing.”

“Do you believe in the witch still, Mistress Nell?” said Harry, slyly.

“No, sir; not since I went down to help my aunt give out the dole one day, and saw her eyes look out under old Goody Martin’s hood. Doubtless she knew us all well, having been at the manor every week. Oh, you need not laugh; when I change my mind, I say so.”

“I wish there was another witch near Lisbon, whom you longed secretly to consult about your sister,” said Harry in an insinuating tone.

“Sir, when I wandered in the woods by moonlight, I was a silly little girl; now I am a woman, and wiser. Alack! I think I miss the dogs and the fresh breeze, and I know I miss my dear aunt and uncle. This old home is very new. I halt and stammer when my father speaks Portuguese. I am altogether an English girl.”

“There is no speech like English,” said Harry; “I love it best.”

“Oh, you have grown to look quite like a foreigner,” said Nella, saucily. “I am but a country maid, and your court is too solemn for me.” There was an indescribably joyous sweetness in Nella’s voice and manner that took from her gay retorts anything of boldness.

“See, Harry,” she continued. “To-morrow I am to be presented to the queen; I practise my reverence every day.”

She came up to him as she spoke, making a low, sweeping curtsey.

“Rise, fair Señorita,” said Harry; “our poor court is honoured by such a guest.”

“Now – now, I know you are no longer an Englishman!” cried Nella. “That speech was never learned in Devon!”

“Like a Portuguese, madam, I can talk; but I mean what I say like a true son of Devon.”

“I cannot believe in such perfection. You were never one to belie yourself with over-diffidence.”

“I leave that to my betters,” said Harry, with a bow.

“Oh, saucy boy!” cried Nella, laughing, then paused suddenly, as the gates were thrown back without, and her father entered, cap in hand, escorting an exceedingly tall and stately personage, with a sad but kindly face. Behind him came Alvarez; and the whole scene brought back strongly to Nella’s mind the visit of Dom Fernando, years ago.

“My lord,” said Sir Walter, “allow me to present to you my remaining daughter Eleanor.”

Blushing, and with unwonted bashfulness, Nella curtsied timidly, in very different style from her mock reverence five minutes before.

“Welcome home, señorita,” said Dom Enrique, with a grave smile. “You come at a sad time;” and then, as if he could hardly turn his thoughts from the matter in hand, he continued, addressing her father, —

“You know, Sir Walter, that the States-General have at length resolved to offer a heavy ransom for my dear brother, and if this is refused, the Pope offers a Bull of Crusade, and we strain every nerve to free him by force of arms.”

“I am aware, my lord, that Ceuta is not to be ceded,” said Sir Walter rather drily.

“It has been so determined,” said Enrique, with a sigh; for well he knew that the decision had been made on no such lofty motives as actuated himself. Most men had thought Ceuta too precious to be parted with, not because it was a Christian town, but because it was a strong fortress; and Enrique had the unspeakable pain of finding himself on the same side with men who cared nothing for his brother; and whose principles he despised.

“The king resolves,” he said, “on the strictest economy, to make this possible. He has changed his mode of living, and cut off his few pleasures, for our brother’s sake. He hopes that his nobility will follow his example.”

“The late king, my lord, was so generous to his nobles that they owe their utmost to his blessed memory.”

“Even so,” said Enrique. “But now, Sir Walter, I came here to-day to speak with you of – of the foul treason that cut off our retreat, and made my brother’s sacrifice necessary. That most accursed traitor and renegade, Brother Martin, has indeed disappeared; but it has been whispered that others – his friends and followers – knew of his intention, and that he had in some measure spread the poison of his apostasy among his followers and admirers. Think you this is so?”

Harry Hartsed, who had been standing apart with Alvarez, gave an indignant start, and coming forward, said, impetuously, —

“My lord, Brother Martin’s preaching was ever in favour of the war. He never uttered a word of treason in my hearing, and I saw much of him. I do not believe that he was the traitor.”

“Softly, softly,” said Sir Walter. “Master Harry, you speak too freely to the duke.”

“Pardon,” said Harry, doggedly; “but I will speak for my friends when falsely accused.”

“The treason of Brother Martin,” said Enrique, “has been proved by eye-witnesses. No Christian gentleman should call him his friend.”

“If I may speak,” said Alvarez, “Señor Hartsed was much with Brother Martin, and in his councils.”

“What! You dare to say that he spoke treason to me!” cried Harry.

“Young gentlemen,” said the prince in his tone of grave dignity, “you forget yourselves. Sir,” – to Harry – “you have given your opinion, and that is enough. Sir Walter, I must go, for I have much business on hand.”

Dom Enrique rose as he spoke, gave to Nella – who had retired to some distance – a courteous farewell, and went out, his look of sorrowful oppression never having given way during his visit. Alvarez followed him.

Sir Walter, when his guests had departed, turned back to Harry, and rebuked him sharply, both for daring to stand up for so foul a traitor as the renegade monk, and also for forgetting the respect due to the prince.

Harry took the reproof sullenly. His heart too was sore at the thought of his lost master. Brother Martin’s passionate preaching had really stirred his emotions, and made him feel himself a true Crusader. He thought him unjustly accused, and was determined to defend him.

Alvarez, on the other hand, was filled with wrath at the very sound of his name, and the result was that the next time they met the two young men had a violent quarrel, in which Alvarez was passionate and Harry obstinate and sulky. They were silenced and rebuked by Sir Walter, who happened to overhear them; but they parted in mutual anger and hatred.

All was going wrong. The king suffered much in health from his sorrow and from the great labours which his endeavours to fill his empty exchequer cost him. Dom Enrique was unapproachable in his grief and pre-occupation; and the gentle Fernando, whose eyes and ears had ever been open to his followers’ troubles, and who had managed to heal many a quarrel, was far away.

Into the midst of this sad society, where every one was full of mortification, sorrow, or anger, had come Nella Northberry, and her high spirits recoiled from it. She was sorry for the prince and angry at Brother Martin’s treason, but she was not unhappy like the rest – only dull, and a little home-sick. She soon became aware of her power both over Harry and Alvarez, and her vanity was not quite proof against the flattery of the passionate homage of the young Portuguese. Her love of mischief prompted her to provoke her old companion by as much sauciness as was consistent with the etiquette which she was compelled to observe towards him; for the queen had placed her among her ladies-in-waiting. Nella hated court life, was too young and undeveloped constantly to keep herself in sympathy with the prevailing troubles, and, in short, she diverted herself by making her two admirers jealous of each other. Nella was young, gay, and unguarded; but she soon had cause to regret her first month in Lisbon.

Chapter Seventeen

Misjudged

“But whispering tongues may poison truth.”

Spite of sadness of heart and severe retrenchments, a certain number of court ceremonials were inevitable, particularly when the convocation of the States-General had filled Lisbon with the Portuguese nobility and great ecclesiastics.

Nella did not love pomp and state; she had been accustomed to a life of great freedom and simplicity, and, spite of some girlish pleasure in the handsome dresses provided for her by her father, she found it unspeakably wearisome to stand behind Queen Leonor for hours while she held receptions. One of these took place as soon as the offer of a ransom for Dom Fernando had been decided on, and the whole company were full of the subject, discussing the wrongs and rights of it at every moment when speech was possible. But besides the main question, there was a strong undercurrent of suspicion and indignation against the supposed sharers of Brother Martin’s treason. A great many people who had followed the apostate priest and had admired his preaching were loud in abuse of him, and repeated more than one saying which now appeared to them suspicious. Harry Hartsed, from a mixture of obstinacy and dislike to join in an outcry on an absent man who could not defend himself, declared that there was no proof against Brother Martin, and that he had always heard him express the most loyal sentiments. He was fresh from rather a sharp discussion on these points when the queen’s movements made it possible to approach Nella, who looked very handsome, her fair skin set off by her green and silver dress, and her golden head towering above the other ladies. She smiled when she saw Harry, as if his presence was a pleasing variety.

“Well sir,” she said, in English, “these court receptions may be mighty fine for you, who have your tongue free to talk, but I find it dull enough to stand speechless for hours.”

“Speak now, then, fair mistress,” said Harry, smiling; “and let me catch your words as they fall. Or would you prefer to listen while I tell you that I have but lived through the hours till I could reach your side?”

“No,” said Nella, pouting. “Why, have you grown into a courtier too?”

“And do you really wish yourself back again at Northberry?”

“Ay, that I do! Indeed, Harry,” said Nella, with a sudden change to earnestness that reminded him of her childish days, “sometimes I think that I do not love my good father nearly enough; for I cannot help wishing to go back again to Devon, though since Adela and Walter Coplestone have married and left the old manor it has been solitary enough.”

“I shall not be able to go back to Devon till I have seen war enough make my fortune,” said Harry; “nor do I wish to go – now,” he added, meaningly.

Nella blushed a little and cast down her eyes, and as she raised them they met those of Alvarez, fixed on her with an expression of such passionate jealousy that her heart gave a frightened throb. How she wished that she had never teased Harry by encouraging his rival – for as such she began to recognise Alvarez; and though she scarcely realised that Harry wished her to be more to him than his old playmate, he had always been jealous of interference, and the feelings of Alvarez were unmistakable. The latter, too, was by far the best match, and Nella had a frightened conviction that her father would favour this suit whenever it was formally offered. She was glad when the queen signed to her to attend her, so that further speech was impossible.

While this little scene was passing a dance had been going forward – one of those stately and ceremonious exercises which were limited to a few couples at a time, whose graceful movements afforded a spectacle for the rest of the company.

Dom Pedro had led out Queen Leonor; and the king excusing himself on the plea of fatigue, sat down a little apart, watching the dancers with sad, unseeing eyes. Presently Enrique came up and joined him.

“I have a petition to present to you, my brother,” he said.

“What is it, then?” asked Duarte; “what is it you wish?”

“Will you give me leave to go with the envoys who offer the Moors this ransom? Who could plead as I? And at least I should see my Fernando once more.”

“I cannot refuse you,” said Duarte; “but, Enrique, my mind misgives me. I would not be too long without your counsel.”

“My counsel!” said Enrique, bitterly; “take any counsel rather than mine.”

Duarte smiled.

“Your presence, then,” he said. “But I think it is well that you should go, though I have little hope, Enrique, in my heart – ”

“Dare to utter such a threat, and you shall answer for it with your life!”

These words, in tones of high indignation, suddenly interrupted the brothers’ colloquy.

“How now? Young gentlemen, remember where you are?” said Enrique, advancing, and confronting with his stately presence Hartsed and Alvarez, who, with flashing eyes, and hands on their sword-hilts, had been so carried away by their dispute as to forget entirely the royal presence.

Alvarez collected himself at once, bowed, and drew back; but Harry cried out, fiercely, “My lord, I care not where I am! Dom Alvarez has insulted me foully, and I defy him to repeat his base slander!”

“The cause of your dispute, sir,” said the prince, “can be of no moment to me, unless it were confided to me in a more suitable manner. Such violence argues ill for your cause, be it what it may.”

The prince was himself very sore-hearted, and Harry had committed a great breach of propriety; but he felt himself deeply injured, and flung away without a word. Alvarez followed him into the court outside, and then the two young men turned and faced each other, and Alvarez spoke.

“I believe you to have been cognisant of the treason of your friend, the miscreant priest, Martin.”

“Speak at your peril,” shouted Harry, “or I will go back and before all the princes give you the lie!”

“As you will, señor. I will not yield the Lady Eleanor to a traitor, nor see my prince’s confidence abused by a foreigner.”

“Foreigner!” cried Harry. “No one but a rascally foreigner would utter such an insult. Draw, and defend yourself!”

Alvarez was not slow to answer this demand, but the clash of arms in the palace precincts soon collected an indignant crowd, and among them Sir Walter Northberry.

“Now, Master Hartsed,” he cried, wrathfully, “brawling in the palace court. What means all this? Put up your swords this moment, gentlemen – for shame?”

“Master Hartsed challenged me and gave me the lie,” said Alvarez.

“Dom Alvarez insulted me and called me traitor,” cried Harry.

“This is not the first time that I have heard this wrangling,” said Sir Walter. “Señor Dom Alvarez, it would be well if you would explain your charge against a member of my household. And you, Harry, be silent until I question you.”

Trembling with indignation, Harry put a great force upon himself and remained silent; while Alvarez bowed, and looking at Sir Walter with his dark, flashing eyes, said —

“Sir, I had not meant in any way to make public my suspicions, but Master Hartsed’s violence towards me, in especial after the honour which you this morning have done me, obliges me to speak.”

Sir Walter bowed, and Alvarez continued – “Perceiving some slight tokens of favour which the lady whom I am unworthy to name had the grace to bestow on me, Master Hartsed lost patience and demanded how I dared to address Mistress Northberry.”

“That is false?” cried Harry, “you lie in your teeth!”

“Master Harry, will you be silent at my desire?” said Northberry, sternly, “and hear Dom Alvarez to the end!”

“I,” said Dom Alvarez, “was fain to tell him, that I marvelled how the friend and defender of the traitor Martin, whose name was on all men’s lips, should dare to raise his eyes to an honourable lady. Upon which he threatened, and finally drew upon me.”

“And on what grounds, Señor Dom Alvarez, do you accuse Master Hartsed of cognisance of this foul treason?”

“Master Hartsed,” said Alvarez, “was ever in the company of the traitor, he has denied the possibility of his treason, and still calls him his friend. He must choose, I think, between this friend and loyal gentlemen.”

“Into my house he comes not if he takes the traitor’s name on his lips,” said Northberry. “Now, Master Harry, what have you to say?”

“Nothing, before those who call me traitor,” said Harry, with some dignity; then his anger getting the better of him he exclaimed – “Dom Alvarez knows best whether it was not he who threatened to interrupt my suit with his foul slander.”

“Your suit, ha, ha!” said Sir Walter, roughly, “’tis the first I have heard of it. Now, to put an end to this folly, I will tell you, sir, that I have betrothed my daughter to Señor Dom Alvarez de Pereira. Nor do you make a fit return for my hospitality by raising your eyes to her. And this matter of your intimacy with the traitor priest must be looked to. Not that I hold you guilty of his treason, but it misbecomes you even to name his name.”

Those present noticed, that instead of violent self-defence Harry Hartsed received this speech in silence, only turning very pale as he bowed stiffly to Sir Walter and walked away by himself.

Chapter Eighteen

At Abzella

“My Arthur, whom I shall not seeTill all my widowed race be run.”

Many miles inland, out of sight of the blue sea, on the other side of which was home and freedom, the Portuguese captains waited at Arzella for the news of their deliverance. They had been hurried away from Tangier almost immediately after the Portuguese had embarked, and though no positive cruelties were inflicted on them, the Moorish promises of courteous treatment did not prevent their escort from making their journey as wretched as they could. Intentional forgetfulness of needful comforts, rude jests, over-haste, and much ill-temper, tried the hot spirits of the Portuguese nobles sorely, and they were less wretched now that they remained under the charge of Zala-ben-Zala, and were allowed a certain amount of freedom and solitude, during which they could solace themselves with speculations as to the turn events were taking in Portugal, and how soon Ceuta would be handed over to the Moors. The prince never joined in these discussions, and when they were urged upon him would reply gravely – “As God wills;” though he sometimes endeavoured to pass the time by tales of the old Crusaders, of the sufferings they endured, and of the support which was granted to them. And once, when some of the younger nobles repeated to him the insulting language used towards them by their jailers, he pointed to a gang of slaves who were toiling over some of the fortifications of Arzella.

“So suffer our fellow-Christians,” he said.

“They are not peers of Portugal,” said the young man, sullenly.

“Stripes wound and blows hurt, be they who they may,” said Fernando. “We can but endure; but oh, my friends,” he added with tears in his eyes, “would that I were alone to suffer!”

“Alas, sir!” cried the young man, yielding, “it is your indignities that cut us the most.”

It was after some weeks of dreary waiting that the prisoners became aware that envoys had arrived from Portugal and had been brought under a safe-conduct to Arzella, where Zala-ben-Zala was to discuss with them the terms of their deliverance, and one day the prince was summoned alone to meet them.

Fernando turned as he left his companions and said, in a tone of peculiar earnestness —

“My friends, remember, were we free, we would all give our lives to save Ceuta to the Church of Christ.”

Fernando was conducted from the fortress where he had been lodged across the town of Arzella to the governor’s palace, and ushered with much state and ceremony into the great hall, where stood Zala-ben-Zala, surrounded by a crowd of Moorish nobles and officers in their splendid dresses of state; opposite them a few Portuguese in full armour, and in front Dom Enrique himself, also armed, his dark surcoat giving additional dignity to his great height and stately presence, he was bareheaded, and as pale as death.

“You are at liberty to speak with one another,” said Zala-ben-Zala. “Maybe the interview may change the mind of your highness.”

“I speak the mind of the council of Portugal,” said Enrique, in a voice of deep sadness. Then he stretched out his arms: “Oh, my Fernando, the choice was not for me,” he said.

Fernando held him fast for a moment, all the surroundings forgotten; and then they sat down together on a great divan and looked into each other’s face, and Fernando knew that Enrique had not brought his freedom.

“Come,” he said, “tell me your errand.”

“They will not yield the fortress,” said Enrique. “They offer any ransom, and the Moors accept none.”

“As God wills,” said Fernando, but he tightened his grasp of Enrique’s hand.

“My most dear brother, Pedro and João would have freed you; but I – that Christian town; and now I see the council risks your life – not for the Church, but for selfish power, and I– I lent my voice to theirs.”

“I, too, have thought much on it,” said Fernando, steadily; “of the obligations of the treaty, however ill our enemies have kept the lesser provisions of it.”

“What, they ill-use you?”

“Nay – you see I am well. And I think of those unhappy ones whose fate hangs on mine. And I thank the merciful Saviour, who lays not the choice on me, but gives me the easier way of submission, and permits my poor life to be a defence to a fortress of Christendom as in no other way it could be. The wish of my heart is given, – may I but tread, in the footsteps of those blessed ones who have endured worse sufferings in the same cause, on honour which myself little deserved?”

Fernando smiled as he spoke, and for a moment Enrique felt that the confusion of good and bad motives, the doubtful self-denial, and still more doubtful justice, that led to the retention of Ceuta, were lifted by his brother’s faith and love into the instrument of a holy martyrdom.

“So,” continued Fernando, “bid Duarte not to grieve, for if I suffer, it is no more than I have deserved, and to suffer, even without choice, for such an end, is too great honour.”

“Duarte is sick with the care and weight of decision,” said Enrique sadly.

“Ah, could I but see him?” said Fernando, suddenly faltering; then, with renewed firmness, “But it cannot be. And you, my Enrique, how changed your face is. You must turn your thoughts again to Sagres and the adventures of your mariners. That is the appointed way in which you must serve. We still work together.”

“And if – if the council and the king resolve to yield Ceuta?”

“Why then – God’s will be done!” said Fernando, “and we may yet clasp hands again. Meanwhile some soul is passing away with the holy rites of the Church, some babe receives Christian baptism – who else were cast into outer darkness. But see; the governor interrupts us.”

“Prince Fernando,” said Zala-ben-Zala, “I trust your entreaties have induced the Duke of Viseo to endeavour to change the mind of the king.”

“The King of Portugal,” said Fernando, steadily, “must act as he thinks well. I have made no entreaties, and shall make none.”

“Know you what you say!” thundered out Zala-ben-Zala, suddenly changing his tone. “Think you that henceforth your life will be easy, as it has been! Shall the forsworn hostage be treated as a king’s son? No! Our prisoner no longer – you are our slave; and when next King Duarte sends envoys, let them see their prince of the blood – their Grand-Master – tending the horses of his Moorish masters as a slave – I say – in fetters and in rags?”

“The princes of Portugal do not yield to threats,” said Fernando, calmly.

“I am but a mouthpiece,” said Enrique, as steadily as he could.

“Go home and tell what you have seen,” said the Moor, roughly.

The coarse threats stood the two princes in good stead, for their pride nerved them to a firm and silent farewell, though Enrique’s heart was ready to break as he passed out of the hall with the officers who accompanied him, and left Fernando standing alone among his captors.

A short while afterwards, as the Portuguese nobles were eagerly watching for the prince’s return, or for a summons to join him, their prison was suddenly entered by a party of Moorish soldiers.

“Now, Christian dogs, our turn has come,” roughly shouted the foremost; and seizing on the Portuguese nearest to him he tore off his velvet mantle, flung it aside, and forced him down while he fastened fetters on his wrists. Resistance was vain, and with blows and curses the whole party, the old priest included, were loaded with chains, and dragged through the streets to the courtyard of the governor’s palace.

There stood their beloved prince in a rough dress of common serge, fetters similar to their own on his wrists, and his chained hands on the rein of Zala-ben-Zala’s beautiful Arab horse. He stood with his head up and his lip curled, with a sort of still disdain. At that moment the Portuguese envoys, with Dom Enrique at their head, passed with their guards through the court, and Zala-ben-Zala advanced to mount his horse with a rude gesture to the prince who held it.