Old Court Life in Spain; vol. 1

“I have spoken,” answers Abdurraman, haughtily, and turned away. “Be it according to my commands.”

Deep was the obeisance with which this order was received, but the astute vizier had views of his own. In the main he was a faithful servant of his lord, but where a woman was concerned, he deemed it no crime to temper obedience with interest. An unbeliever! the sister of a Goth! what was this Onesinda but a toy, a slave, honoured by a glance from her conqueror? Had the Caliph commanded her immediate execution he would willingly have obeyed, but to bring her to Cordoba after what he knew of her treatment at Gijon was more than his head was worth.

Now it so happened that the Governor of Gijon was his friend, and that Mahoun knew much more about Onesinda than he intended to impart. Her capture had been a cruel stratagem, and at this very time she was forcibly lodged in the harem of Kerim.

The vizier had not dared altogether to conceal the important fact of her capture from the Sultan, but that she should reach Cordoba alive and tell the tale of her misfortunes, was not at all his intention. The passion Kerim had conceived for her was well known to Mahoun, and that she was surrounded by Moorish slaves, who not only urged his suit by threats and persuasion, but watched her every action. If Onesinda did not yield to the desires of Kerim, her brother’s fate was certain, were he taken dead or alive.

On Pelayo rested the hope of the fugitive Goths. The last of the long line of hereditary princes, all the trust of the conquered lay in him. That this base intrigue should come to the knowledge of the

Caliph was death to all concerned. Not all the bribes offered him by Kerim in rich stuffs, jewels, and slaves, could blind the astute vizier to the danger of his position.

“May Allah confound Kerim and his harem!” he exclaimed in a rage, as he paced the gardens after the Sultan’s departure until late into the night, his silken sandals falling lightly on the coloured patterns drawn upon the walks. “Why could not the dark-skinned beauties of Barbary content him without meddling with the pale-faced Goth? Truly the flag of the Crescent has triumphed over the Cross in the length and breadth of Spain; but it is not wise to provoke a fallen people. These Goths have the endurance of the camel of the desert, which lives long without food or drink, but even that patient animal will turn upon his driver if he rains down blows upon him causelessly. Better let the infidels starve in holes and caverns than bring them down into the plains, bent on a desperate revenge. A curse on Kerim! The Sultan forgets nothing. He will ask for Onesinda. What in the name of Allah am I to reply?”

CHAPTER XIII

Onesinda and Kerim

KERIM-EL-NOZIER, the Governor of Gijon in Galicia, is a Berber, infinitely less cultured than the Moors, and the distance from the capital at Cordoba has made him almost independent of all rule.

Little did the noble-minded Caliph, Abdurraman, guess what was passing at this moment in the remote peninsula at Gijon, sheltered on one side by the dark hill of Santa Catalina, on the other exposed to the full force of the rollers of the Bay of Biscay, and that the governor he had appointed was a tyrant who knew no law but his own will.

Kerim is not a warrior to please a lady’s eye. The voluminous folds of a white turban rest on a forehead bare of hair, a rough and matted beard curls on his chin and reaches to his ears, in which hang two uncut emeralds. He is low in stature and corpulent in person. His long dark arms are bare, ornamented with glittering bangles, his body swathed with a gaudily striped cloth over a rich vest, and full trousers descend to his feet. Sudden and abrupt in his movements, he sits uneasily on a raised dais covered with skins, a drapery of Eastern silk over his head. A strong perfume of attar pervades the recess, lined with divans, at the extremity of an immense Gothic hall, open at the opposite end, and divided into separate apartments by Oriental screens and tapestry.

The recent conquests in the North had given the Moors as yet no time to erect either dwellings, mosques, or baths, those necessities of Eastern life, and they were fain to accept the rough habitations and castles of the Goths as they found them.

Terrible is the expression of his eyes, the white against the tawny sockets, as he turns them full on the slender form before him, wrapped in an embroidered mantle, held in the strong grasp of a Nubian slave. A naked scimitar lies on the ground and the shadow of a mute darkens the curtained entrance.

Of the lady’s face nothing is seen. She holds her hands clasped over her eyes, as if to shut out the repellent visage of the Berber.

Taking in his hand, from a salver placed on the ground, one of the jewelled goblets which lay on it, and filling it with sherbet, Kerim rises to his feet.

“I drink,” he says, in a loud jarring voice, “to the success of the Goths and of Pelayo. Will you pledge me, Christian lady?”

No answer comes from the veiled figure, but the trembling of the drapery shows that she is convulsed with fear.

“Unhand the Infanta,” says Kerim to the Nubian, “and retire.”

Between them lay the scimitar, catching the light.

“Onesinda,” and Kerim seizes her passive hand, “listen! Kerim is not the senseless tyrant you deem him. But before I unfold my projects to your ear, I warn you to take heed. You are my prisoner, held by the right of war. A motion of my hand and that fair skin is dyed as crimson as the petals of the fiery pomegranate expanding in the heat of noon. As yet you have refused all speech with me. Urge me not too far, I warn you.”

“Alas!” answers Onesinda, speaking with quick breath, as she tears asunder the drapery which falls upon her face, and displays an ashy countenance belying her bold words, “I do not fear death, but infamy. Now, God be gracious to me, for the succour of man is vain.” As she spoke she drew herself back to the farthest limit of the curtained space in an attitude, not of resistance, for that was useless, but as one unwilling to provoke assault, yet if offered, resolved to repel it to the utmost of her power.

She who, were her brother dead, would be proclaimed by the small remnant of her people Queen of the Goths, was fair as became her race and of good proportions. A native loftiness in features and bearing took from her all notion of the insipidity which attaches itself to that complexion; her eyes were blue, untouched by the unnatural glitter so loved by the Moorish women, and her profuse flaxen hair fell in ringlets about her neck, on which a solid gold chain and heavy medallion rested. A kirtle over a vest, open at the throat, of blue taffetas worked in coloured silks, formed a loose robe lined with fur, and a veil of silk, falling at the back of her neck, concealed the snowy skin of her neck and bosom and served as a covering to her hair.

“You have no reason to fear me,” cries Kerim, but the base passion which looked out of his eyes gave to his words a very different interpretation.

“There can be no peace between us,” answers Onesinda, trembling in every limb, as she presses closer and closer to the wooden pillars at her back. “Had your purpose been honest, you would not have captured me treacherously and kept me here. Pelayo’s sister will never yield to force. To plant that steel in my breast,” pointing to the richly set dagger he wore at his waist, “is the only service you can do me.”

“But you must listen,” retorts Kerim, drawing so near his hot breath fell on her cheek; “for the sake of Pelayo. To further the good of this growing kingdom of the Moors, I desire to ally myself with the royal blood of Spain and rally about me those Christians who still gather round your brother. The throne of Cordoba is too distant, the empire too vast. Abdurraman needs able lieutenants. Kerim will free him of these northern provinces and govern them himself. It is a feeble mind which waits for Fortune’s wheel, the brave must seize it, and turn it for themselves. Under me the sons of the Goths shall serve, Alonso and Friula and the rest, Pelayo above all, next to myself, for the fair Onesinda’s sake! Again I ask you, Christian Princess, will you pledge me to our success?” And his hand again seizes the goblet, which he holds to her lips.

Had Onesinda seen the look which accompanied this gesture she would have sunk insensible to the earth, so revolting was the effect of love in such a form, so savage and brutal the nature; but her head had fallen on her bosom, and her closed eyes and deadly pallor disconcerted Kerim, who, with widely opened eyes, contemplated his victim in doubt if she were not already dead. A slight trembling of the eyelids and a convulsive motion about the lips relieved him of this fear. With the utmost care he placed her on a divan, and pouring into her white lips some of the sherbet contained in the goblet, anxiously watched the efforts which Nature made to revive her. As she heaved a deep sigh, she opened her eyes, then closed them again with a shrill cry at the sight of the black visage of Kerim bent over her.

“Listen,” he says again, in a much gentler voice. He understood that excessive fear or a too great repugnance would be fatal, therefore he curbed his passion.

“If you will consent to be my sultana, Pelayo shall be my second in the kingdom of the Asturias. If not” – and, spite of himself, such a look of ferocity came over his face that Onesinda shrank from him with inexpressible disgust – “the blood of every knight I have taken shall water the earth of Gijon, specially that of Pelayo, who shall expire in unknown torments. Choose, Christian, between life with me, or certain ruin to your race.”

As he awaits her answer, Kerim seats himself by her side. With a smile on his dark face he strove to take her hand. In this gentler mood, he seemed to Onesinda a thousand times more loathsome than in his fiercest moments.

One glance was enough. Gathering her robes about her, she darts to the farthest extremity of the vast hall.

“Moor,” she cries, and the horror she felt was expressed in her features, “for me death has no terrors. For my brother, I do not believe you. Can the eagle nest with the vulture? the dove with the serpent? It is but a cruel wile to deceive me.”

“I swear it, lady, by the tomb of the Prophet. Think well before you take your own life and that of those who are dear to you.” He paused, and the unhappy Onesinda felt all the agony of her position. To allow this hideous African to approach her was to her a fate so horrible that flesh and blood rose up in revolt against it. To open the possible chance of success to Pelayo and his followers by the sacrifice of herself is, as a daughter of the Goths, her duty, did she believe his words to be sincere.

Looking into his dark face, what assurance had she? In his cruel eyes? In those full red lips, cutting like blood athwart the blackness of his beard? It is the countenance of a savage. Not a generous quality could dwell under such a mask. No, there is nothing in the hard nature of this African on which to form a hope! And yet her brother’s life, if he speaks truly, hangs on his will. She had no means to prove his words. Pelayo is absent, some said already dead. Was this dark treachery towards his Sultan true? Or rather is it not some fiendish scheme to entrap the last remnant of the Goths and raise himself to power and favour with Abdurraman?

Bursting into a flood of tears, she casts herself upon the ground and fixes on him her pale blue eyes.

“Alas! you know not the heart of woman to make such a proposal. To invoke your pity,” and her voice trembles, “would be as useless as it is mean. Help the noble sons of the land, but insist not on such a sacrifice. By the memory of your father, by the bones of your chiefs, seek not an end so wicked.”

Unmoved, Kerim contemplates her, a smile of triumph on his dark face.

“It is your turn now to supplicate, proud Infanta, mine to deny. Either you comply, or every Moslem soldier in the citadel of Gijon shall hunt the Goths in the length and breadth of the Asturias like vermin. Reflect ere you decide. I swear by the Holy Caaba I speak truth.”

With a menacing gesture he departed, leaving Onesinda prostrate on the ground and the Moorish slaves returned to bear her into the dark grove where the harem stood fronting the ever-beating sea that washes the iron-bound coast which girds the north of Spain.

CHAPTER XIV

Tragic Death of Onesinda

THE Plaza of Gijon swarms with a motley crowd. The news of some great event to take place has spread abroad and brought down peasants from the distant mountain-tops, clad in primitive coverings of skins, and the thick-set natives of Galicia from their groves of wide-branching oaks and thick copse wood, too often stained with blood in the fierce encounters between Moslem and Christian.

Townsmen there are, in coarse hempen garments, and artificers from the lowly dwellings of Gijon, mixed with mounted groups of naked Nubians, as black as night; Bedouins carrying long lances and wattled shields; Berbers and Kurds on foot among the crowd, casting looks of defiance on the sons of the soil, easily recognised by the fairness of their faces and long auburn hair, grouped about native musicians singing wild melodies to the click of the castanets; Moorish knights in the light armour which contrasts so favourably with the heavy accoutrements of the West – an indistinguishable rabble of the conquered and the conquerors, remarkable for nothing but the contentious and sullen spirit in which the Moslem ousts the Christian at all points.

In the centre of the plaza rises a gaudy pavilion formed of sheets of the brightest silk, scarlet, yellow, blue, and orange, the tent-poles and pillars glittering with tiny flags, before which the astounding clamour of bands of Eastern musicians raise martial echoes. Within, visible through the partially withdrawn curtains, is placed a throne with such magnificence as the limited means permit.

Planted in front the standard of Kerim floats heavily in the breeze, this Arab of the desert pretending to no distinction but the Star and the Crescent, the emblems of his faith. Horsemen and foot-soldiers are ranged on either side, and banners and pennons are displayed by each Moorish knight or captain before his own tent, dazzling with the flash of splendid accoutrements and gorgeous display of brocade and tossing plumes, fluttering to the sound of drums, trumpets, and shrill-voiced pipes, recalling to the Arabs the deserts of their home.

A mass of dismounted cavalry is stationed before the pavilion on which all eyes are turned, each Moslem erect by the side of his gaily draped charger, until, at a shrill cry, surmounting even the din of the music, each man vaults into the saddle and spurs forward towards a cloud of dust announcing the arrival of Kerim surrounded by his Ethiopian bodyguard.

At full gallop they approach, bristling with spears and brandishing their scimitars, disposing themselves in a semicircle which leaves Kerim alone, so resplendent with steel, feathers, and gems that, as the sun shines down upon him, he looks like a statue of light.

The grim forms and wild faces of the Africans, tossing their arms in every direction with savage shouts, reining up their horses but a hair’s-breadth from the edge of the crowd of spectators – who, uttering piercing screams, rush backwards upon those behind, who in their turn lift up their voices in screams of utmost terror – create such a scene of noise and confusion that a white silk litter borne by slaves, round whose arms and legs are bound rich bangles and bracelets, followed by a crowd of veiled women in snowy garments, is scarcely noticed.

Yet a group of dark-robed Goths have marked it, and the sadness of their faces and their looks of shame and sorrow show how abhorrent to them is this Eastern pageant and its cause. For who has not guessed the occasion of these rejoicings? Onesinda, for the sake of her people, has consented to become the bride of Kerim.

Nor is she and her countrymen around her, to whom, through the light lattice of the litter, she is plainly visible, without hope that Pelayo, if yet alive, may have planned a rescue. But in the face of such an array of forces, called out purposely by Kerim, it would be a mad and senseless sacrifice of life.

The agony of mind of Onesinda is not to be described. Did he indeed appear, what would Pelayo think of her? Would he understand the amount of the sacrifice? To become a vile and nameless thing? To submit to this crowning outrage of the Moor, with no power to whisper into his ear the sacredness of her motive?

Alas! poor Onesinda, she is of too gentle a nature to battle with such a fate! So colourless has she become, her face is scarcely visible among the silken cushions of the litter as she breathlessly scans the assembled crowd.

A wild hope seizes her. May not Alonso or Friula, if Pelayo is away, be present? Some valiant ally or devoted follower still faithful to her? Some pitying Goth with a soul for her distress? At least one by his look to remind her that he is there?

Nothing! She sees the threatening faces of the Moors, she hears their muttered curses, she beholds their contemptuous gestures as they point at her. Do they believe she is a willing victim?

And now Kerim has dismounted from his charger; a tall white turban is set upon his head, crowned with a spiral diadem, in which a ruby crescent blazes, surrounded by drops of pearls; a white robe, sown with jewels, clothes his limbs, held up by a golden sash worked with gems, in which the blade of a small dagger rests, incrusted with precious stones, of so fine a temper one touch is sufficient to cut the thread of life.

Followed by his guards, he follows the litter towards the pavilion, surrounded by a phalanx of sheikhs and alcaides. And as he approaches the litter the drapery is drawn aside, the clash of discordant music strikes up, and the voice of the Imaum chants Allah Akbar.

The moment is come; Onesinda must descend. A look of mingled triumph and love lights up Kerim’s swarthy face and brings out the whiteness of his eyes into a revolting prominence. Already his naked arms, glittering with bracelets, are stretched out to clasp his bride, already the soft aroma of her presence comes wafting to his senses like spicy perfumes of paradise, when, by a deft and sudden movement, breaking from the strong arms which bear her up, Onesinda seizes the dagger which lies beneath his sash and with desperate courage plunges it in her breast.

With frantic haste Kerim tears it from the wound, but her life-blood follows it. Clasping her in his arms, he gazes on her face. Has death come to her instantly? Her eyes are closed, yet a faint flush is still upon her cheek. Then the lids slowly rise, but the orbs are fixed, and glazed. Gradually the flush vanishes and gives place to the pallid hue of death!

Ere the poor remains of the Gothic maiden can be borne away, a great clattering of horses’ feet is heard advancing; a Moslem herald gallops forward, followed by trumpeters and men-at-arms, and several knights, who ride into the plaza. After a flourish of trumpets and due recital and summoning of Kerim, Governor of Gijon, to listen, he is commanded, in the name of the redoubtable Sultan Abdurraman, to appear without delay at Cordoba, together with his Christian captive, Onesinda, sister of the royal Goth, known as Pelayo, Dux of Cantabria.

CHAPTER XV

Pelayo Proclaimed King by the Goths

TO those who have not visited the north of Spain, the grandeur of the dark chain of the Asturian mountains rising sheer out of the plains of Leon and Lugo can hardly be imagined. The change is so abrupt, the aspect so dark and threatening of frowning defiles, deeply scored precipices, and pointed summits heavy with mist. Here winter lingers into latest spring and the tardy summer soon retreats before the grey and deathlike hue which clothes the rocks and narrows inch by inch with the green mantle which sunshine brings.

This is the true Iberia, the cradle of the race, the title borne by the eldest born of Spain, the stronghold which has held out last against all conquerors. The Romans left their mark at Gijon; in the south the Moors stamped the soil with their lineaments; in the east, Catalonia formed a separate kingdom, with laws and customs; Navarre, with its ancient line of kings, raised Alpine barriers. But the mountain crests are free, and those deep cavernous recesses which cut the rocks resound only to the shrill cry of the eagle or the bleat of the wild deer.

Full in the front of a stupendous face of rock, facing east, the mouth of a deep cave opens; the narrow track which leads to it ends here, Nature herself forbids further progress. Piles, avalanches rather, of black boulders, the spittle and waste of mountains shaken by earthquakes in bygone ages, have fallen from above, and, smoothed by time to dull surfaces of greys and greens, guard its opening, shrouded by a feathery veil of thorn, ivy, and wild trailing plants which love the shade.

From within the cave a transparent rivulet murmurs forth in a bed of coloured pebbles to meet the sun and join its feeble ripple to the louder sound of other waters flowing from the gorge above.

In front the grass spreads soft and verdant; cups of the early crocuses peep out, lilac and white, and dark purple violets nestle under dry leaves, filling the air with fragrance. A few scraggy beech-trees turn their white trunks outwards, the roots deeply imbedded in the rocks, and clumps of low firs and juniper follow the almost imperceptible track which leads onwards to remoter glens.

Slowly mounting from below, a little band of Goths, clad in the homespun jerkins which distinguish them at once from their gaudily attired conquerors, ascend the path, stepping from rock to rock. The dry leaves of winter rustle beneath their feet as they pass up under the gnarled boughs of scraggy oaks.

Carefully the foremost ones plant their steps upon the stones, as they bear upon a crossed frame the body of Onesinda, which the Christians of Gijon secured in the confusion following her death and the arrival of the herald summoning Kerim to Cordoba.

A dark pall covers her, and so slight and fragile is her form that the outline of her figure scarcely raises the folds.

Behind appears the stalwart figure of Pelayo, wearing the Gothic cap of steel and armed with the simple accoutrements of a Dacian warrior.

Not a tear moistens his eye. His face is set and white, marked by the vicissitudes and hardships of his life; a countenance on which Nature has set her seal as a leader of men – the sole remaining link of the early Gothic kings.

Behind him follow three other chiefs, who have joined in an eternal hatred to the Moor, Friula, Teudis, and Recesvinto.

A sorrowful procession, fitly set in the impenetrable wilds which surround them, solemn as themselves, who want no spur to their resolve to sell their blood dear in the cause of their country. But if they did, surely the slight form they are bearing, so cruelly sacrificed to the Moor, is enough to stir up their souls to never-ending vengeance.

Silently the bearers rest the bier upon the green platform of grass before the cave.

Then Pelayo advances to the front, and putting back with his hands the thickly trailing thorns that impede the opening, the bier is placed within under the shadows of an overlapping stone.

Not a word has been spoken, but many streams murmur as they go bubbling in the sun, and the splash of the distant waterfalls answers, and the sighing of the wind passes with hollow sound. Only the shrill cry of an eagle catches the ear as it swoops upon its prey, unconscious of the presence of man.

By a common instinct the Gothic chiefs gather before the cave, the lofty figure of Pelayo towering above them all. These men represent a nation conquered, fugitive, helpless, but still a nation which will never die, but live to bring forth long lines of kings in succeeding centuries to rule over two hemispheres.

They know it, these Gothic chiefs, the prophecy is in them – a solemn faith in the justice of their cause, which tells them the hordes of unbelievers shall not prevail.

And as they wait, by other paths, invisible to the eye but known to the fugitives, emerge the dark forms of other brothers-in-arms, who now join the group.