Old Court Life in Spain; vol. 1

“But our kinswoman the Infanta will offer a large ransom. Can you refuse her?”

“Refuse!” retorted the queen, her tall figure drawn up to its full height; “there is no treasure in the world that shall buy off the Conde de Castila. His death alone will satisfy me.”

And with a menacing gesture in the direction by which he had disappeared, she swept out of the hall as she had come, followed by her retinue.

CHAPTER XXV

Doña Ava Outwits Don Sancho and Releases her Husband

TIME passed and a new element made itself felt in the struggle between the Christians and the Moors. The powerful tribe of the Berbers had fastened like leeches on the Gothic lands of the north, and Almanzor, by his constant attacks in the south, had paralysed the kings of Leon and Navarre into mere tributaries. But selfish and disloyal as they were, Doña Teresa and the kings of Leon and Navarre never lost sight of their determination to possess Castile, and instead of joining heartily against a common enemy they each summoned every lord and vassal they possessed to appear in arms to march against Burgos.

Don Sancho at least understood his real position, and would willingly have accepted the large ransom offered by the Infanta for her lord, but his mother was not to be persuaded. His dark-browed uncle of Navarre, too, was as violent and as short-sighted as she, so that Don Sancho could only offer up fervent prayers to Santiago, the patron of Spain, whose shrine at Compostela had, to his everlasting shame, been so ill-defended.

Would the celestial knight again appear on his milk-white charger clad in radiant mail and ensure a victory as when King Ramiro, his predecessor, refused to pay “the Maiden Tribute” exacted by the Caliph? Would he come? And never did sovereign put up more fervent Ora pro nobis Sancta Maria than the fat king, and invocations to all the calendar of saints.

In the midst of his devotions a scratch is heard at the door, the curtain is drawn aside, and the head of a jefe appears. At an impatient motion of the king, indicating that he would not be disturbed, the jefe bows low.

“Good, my lord,” are his words, “what am I to do? Here is a pious pilgrim bound for Compostela, earnestly desiring to see your Grace.”

“For Compostela,” answers the king. “Ah! he is welcome, admit him at once. He can tell me, on his return, in what precise condition the sanctuary is left. That last raid of the Moors lies heavy on my soul.”

In a few moments the pilgrim stands before him, his face concealed by a close-fitting cap, heavily charged with drapery, which he wears on his head.

“In what matter,” asks Don Sancho, with a gracious smile, “can the King of Leon advantage you, good pilgrim? If it is within my power, command me.”

“My lord,” answers the pilgrim, in tones which fell caressingly on the ear, “I humbly thank your Grace. I am bound for Compostela, to fulfil a vow concerning your prisoner, the Conde de Castila.”

“The Conde de Castila!” exclaims the king, half starting from his chair. “He is clean forgotten. As well talk of a dead man.”

“I crave your pardon if I have said aught amiss, but the Conde has caused deep sorrow to me. In my wrath I invoked a curse upon him, in the name of the blessed saint, and now I am bound to render thanks for his death.”

“Death!” ejaculates Don Sancho, turning pale, “who talks of his death?”

“I,” answers the pilgrim, with a singular decision. “I know that the death of the Conde is near!”

“By whose hand?” demands the king, greatly excited. (Did this holy person know of some secret conspiracy of Doña Teresa to assassinate him, and had he come to reveal it?)

“By mine,” whispers the pilgrim, mysteriously approaching him. “I have about me a subtle poison, the venom of snakes, given me by a Berber. It never fails; silently it extinguishes life. But it must be properly administered. Lead me to the prison – I will answer for the rest.”

Even Don Sancho is staggered by the proposal of this cold-blooded pilgrim, and replies with caution:

“Should this prove true, I shall not be unmindful of the saint’s claims on me. But, holy pilgrim, much as I honour your design and wish you success, in these warlike times I must demand some sign to assure me of your truth.”

“Signs shall not be wanting, O King,” answers the pilgrim, in whose voice an eager sweetness seems to penetrate. “The Holy Apostle has himself appeared to me in a vision and unfolded deep mysteries concerning Navarre and Leon. The time is not far off when Castile and Leon will be united under one crown, and that union will end the Mussulman rule in Spain.”

“O great and holy seer!” ejaculates Sancho the Fat, folding his hands, greatly impressed by what appears the complete fulfilment of his utmost ambition, “much do I honour you. Disclose, if not bound by a vow, what is your name, that I may impart it to my mother, Doña Queen Teresa.”

To this request the pilgrim pays no heed.

“Perhaps you will tell me if the death of the Conde prefigures these events?”

“By the aid of Santiago, yes,” is the answer. “Such is the prophecy I have to impart.”

Now had Don Sancho been less eager to rid himself of Gonzales by every means, he would have noted the violent agitation which shook the pilgrim’s frame.

To poison a sovereign in prison – and a kinsman to boot – is a serious undertaking. Already the words of refusal are on Sancho’s lips when the curtains of the apartment fly open and Doña Teresa rushes in.

“What is this I hear?” cries this imperious woman, who has been listening outside, her cruel face darkened by anger. “Shame on your cowardice, Don Sancho; you are no son of mine. What! you would refuse the proposal of this worthy pilgrim? I understand and applaud him. To kill the Conde de Castila is a work of mercy, for by his death the lives of thousands will be spared on the battle-field.”

In the presence of his mother the fat king becomes mute. Against his better judgment he consents to the death of the Conde.

Again we come upon Fernan in prison, a very unlikely place for so brilliant a cavalier, but, alas! adverse destiny has again doomed him to pass many months in this second dungeon – much more rough and dismal than the prison of Narbonne, as the old city of Leon, with its Gothic traditions, was more uncouth and uncivilised than the capital of Navarre.

“Who are you?” he asks in great surprise as a pilgrim is ushered in. “Nor need I ask; coming from the vile king you can only be a foe.”

“I am your friend,” answers a voice that strikes like music on his ear, “your best, your only friend, my lord and husband,” and as the disguise falls to the ground the faithful Infanta stands before her lord.

We will pass over their transports. A decent veil must conceal the mysteries of married life. Naturally the first question he asked was how she came there? Together they laughed while she explained the murderous purpose of the wicked queen.

“But time speeds,” she says, tearing herself from his arms. “You must fly. The courage of our good Castilians is damped by your long absence. Not a moment must be lost.”

“What! in broad daylight?” asks he. “Is it so easy a thing to go?” and he gives a bitter laugh.

“No, love, most difficult, but we must change our clothes! I am you, and you are me. In that bed,” pointing to a straw pallet, “I stretch myself to die. I have swallowed the poison, and you, my noble husband, in the pilgrim’s dress, speed to Burgos. Once under the gateway, you are safe. Oh! greet them well, my dear ones,” and, spite of herself, as she thinks of her child, silent tears gather in her eyes.

“But, Ava,” he exclaims, “greatly as I honour your courage, your fortitude, your skill, ask me not to return to Castile by such means. My sweet wife, the stars in their courses must have willed that I should die; leave me to my fate.”

“Never!” cries the valiant woman. “Here,” and she plunges her hand into her bosom, “is the poison. If you do not fly, I will swallow it before your eyes.”

A gesture of horror is his reply.

“Besides,” she continues, her face lighting up. “What have I to fear? Danger to my life there is none! You cannot imagine my own aunt would murder me! Away, away, or some fatal accident may hinder!”

Meanwhile, what pen shall paint the anxiety of the king? How minute by minute he pictured each detail of the agonies of the expiring Conde. Truly the possession of Castile seemed to his guilty mind at that moment too small a boon to compensate for the throes of his guilty conscience. Had such tortures continued, Sancho would never have come down to posterity with the surname of “the Fat,” but rather have melted into a shadow in the land of dreams! At last, unable any longer to bear such suspense, he called a page, and commanded that the pilgrim should be brought before him.

“He is gone,” replies one of the officers of the prison, who has presented himself to reply.

“Gone!” shouts Sancho, “without my leave? What does this mean? Is the Conde safe?”

“Safe, indeed,” answers the officer; “but half an hour ago I carried him a meal, by special order, and a good one.”

“A meal?” quoth the king, utterly amazed. “Could he eat?”

“Surely,” is the answer, “and glad he seemed to get it.”

“Did he not appear to suffer? Was he – well – did nothing ail him?”

“Nothing, my liege. I never saw a prisoner more débonnaire, but he seems grown strangely short to my eyes; he certainly has dwindled.”

“You are a fool!” cries the irritated king; “I must look into this matter myself. Bring him to my presence.”

“By the rood, but he does seem strangely altered,” mutters the king, as the prisoner stands before him. “Surely” – and a suspicion shoots through his mind, to be dismissed at once as ridiculous, as they approach each other.

“Well, Sir Conde, are the prisons of Leon better guarded than those of Narbonne?” he asks, with a sneer.

“Much better, Sir King, one can escape more easily. For a sovereign so versed in plots and conspiracies —murder even” – (at this word the king gives a great start) – “you are marvellously at ease.”

King Sancho became so bewildered, his head was going round. Was he bewitched? Was this the Conde or not? And if not, who?

Then Doña Ava, speaking in her own natural voice, broke out into peals of laughter.

“Surely, Don Sancho, a bachelor like you cannot be so ungallant as to imprison a lady.”

“A lady! A woman! God’s mercy! what does this mean? Who has dared to deceive me?”

“I,” answered the Infanta. “Shower your wrath on me, your kinswoman. May I not be a deceiver when so many of my blood excel? The queen, for instance? Now look at me, Sancho, and let this folly end.”

And the king did look, and into a most towering passion he fell, using more bad language than I care to repeat.

“A curse upon you!” are his first intelligible words. “Where is that villain, your husband?”

“In Castile,” she answers, “or far on the way. Never fear, he will soon return to settle accounts with you.”

“False woman,” and the king, fuming with a sense of intolerable wrong at having been made such a fool of, lifts his hand as if to strike her, “learn to fear my vengeance!”

“Not I,” is her answer, laughing again. “You dare do nothing to me, and my loved lord is free, skimming like a fleet bird over the plains. I fear you not, you dastard king!”

Consigning the Infanta into the hands of the palace guards, Don Sancho rushed off to the apartments of the queen. For once that wicked woman was powerless. No one dared harm Doña Ava, especially as rapid news soon spread of the wild joy with which Fernan had been received in Burgos, and that, at the head of his army, he was marching on Leon.

On the other hand, the dark King of Navarre, hard pressed by the Moors, executing forays into the north, as the safety of his daughter was at stake, refused to use his troops for her capture; thus the King of Leon was left alone to bear the brunt of the attack, pillaging, demolishing, and burning in true mediæval style.

But Queen Doña Teresa still held good.

“Keep her close. She shall not go, without the ransom of half his kingdom,” were her words.

“Now, by Santiago!” exclaims the exasperated king, “ransom or no ransom, she shall go. You ruined the kingdom in my father’s time, but, by heaven! you shall not play the same game with me!”

For once the fat king insists. The Condesa de Castila is to be restored to her husband, on condition of the withdrawal of his troops. All seems accommodated when an unexpected difficulty arises.

That little account for the horse and the hawk, which had so pleased the King of Leon on his cousin’s first visit, accepted on the condition of making payment in a year or of doubling the price, had never been settled, and it had grown so enormous that King Sancho found himself at a loss to find the money. Convenient Jews did not exist in those days as we read of later in the time of the Cid. Now, even a royal debtor looks round in vain for help.

It was in vain that King Sancho cursed the horse and cursed the hawk, then cursed them both together; that did no good, the debt remained unpaid. In this world from little causes spring great events. That horse and hawk, so innocently purchased from the bright-faced Conde, were finally the cause of the independence of Castile. Not able to discharge the debt, King Don Sancho agreed to free Castile from all vassalage to Leon. And the Conde and the Infanta rode back in triumph to Burgos, as the founders of that dynasty which became the most powerful and glorious of the Peninsula, to merge at last in the royal crown of Spain.

CHAPTER XXVI

The Cid – 1037

NOW we come upon a larger view, a more extended horizon of Old Court Life, hitherto shut up in the pastoral city of Leon.

Don Fernando el Magno is king. He has transferred the Christian capital to Burgos on succeeding to the states of Leon, Castile, and Galicia by the death of his brother-in-law, Bernardo the Third, in right of his wife, Doña Sancha.

Succeeded is hardly the fit word, for Fernando actually slew Bernardo in the battle of Tamara, clearing thus for himself the way; for Bernardo’s sister Sancha was the last of the second line of the Gothic kings descended from Pelayo.

From the time of Fernan Gonzales, Castile became a kingdom instead of a county, as the Conde would have had it, only he died too soon; and though still mixed up in continual battles with the Moors about Saragossa, Toledo, Merida, Samego, and Badajos (each town and city a small kingdom of its own), the greater part of the north-centre of Spain belonged to the Christians, rough warriors for the most part and fond of fighting, of little education, narrow-minded, poor, and rapacious. So poor indeed and rapacious that they constantly served the Moors against themselves as condottieri, or mercenaries, as is heard of later in French and Italian wars.

Now the Moors might be cruel and bloodthirsty, but their crimes were those of a highly civilised race, the very salt of the earth compared to the Gothic Spaniards – only the Moors were falling gradually asunder by reason of dissensions amongst the various races of which the nation was composed.

So the Christians grew bold as the others waxed weak, and though Fernando el Magno committed the folly of dividing his kingdom among his five children, it all came together again under his unscrupulous successor, Alonso el Valiente, sixth of that name (1173).

Fernando el Magno was out and out the most powerful king that had reigned in Spain since the time of Roderich. He held an iron grip on the Moors, with great cities tributary to him. In fact, it was only the payment of heavy tribute which kept them in possession so long. Money was money in those days, from whatever source it came, and in the impoverished north there was little of it.

Fernando was a good king, according to his lights, upon whose conscience the murder of his brother-in-law Bernardo lay lightly. Had he not slain Bernardo, Bernardo would undoubtedly have killed him, in which case royal murder comes under the head of self-defence. So he reigned happily at Burgos, and had born to him a numerous family. Doña Urraca, the Infanta, was his eldest child, a most excellent lady of good customs and beauty, the Infante Don Sancho, who was to make much noise in the world, was his heir, and Don Alonso and Don Garcia were his younger sons.

Fernando put them all to read that they might gain understanding, and he made his sons knights to carry arms and know how to demean themselves in battle, also to be keen huntsmen. Doña Urraca was brought up in the studies becoming dames, so that she might be instructed in devotion and all things which it behoved an Infanta to know.

But there is one fact which makes the name of Fernando remembered to all time, for in his reign was born at Burgos, Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar, known as the famous Capitán, the Cid Campeador.

Beside the glittering vision of Santiago, the tutelary saint of Spain, in white armour, waving celestial banners, rises the image of the Cid. Encased in steel, he sits proudly astride on his good horse Babieca; a close casque on his head, under which a pair of all-seeing eyes gaze fiercely out, giving expression to the strongly marked features of a thin long face, with wildly flying beard. His scimitar hangs at his side, and at his waist, encircled by a leather thong, the formidable sword “Tizona” he alone can wield. A loose white garment or kilt floats out from under his armour, metal buskins are on his legs, and he is shod in steel.

Thus he appears, with mighty action, an aureole of power about him not to be put in words, “the Cid” or “Master” – the terror of the Moors, the scourge of traitorous kings, marking an epoch, and a principle, lifting him out of the confused chivalry of the Goths, and standing out clear from shifting details into the light of day.

Cunning, astute, and valorous, implacable in conquest, sanguinary in victory, he fought while he lived. A king in all but the name, and proud of it, boasting with haughty scorn, “That none of his blood were royal”; “That he had never possessed an acre,” “But that the city of Valencia had pleased him, and that God had permitted him to take it as his own.” “Spain,” he said, “had fallen by a Roderich, and by a Roderich it should be restored.”

Now he was battling with the Christian king, then he was making alliance with the Moors, when banished, on his own account – to his own advantage ever —por murzar, as he said (to eat).

For in the midst of all his glory the Cid was practical at heart, and at all times, be it owned, a sad ruffian (though ever tender to his own), and more keen and cruel in a bargain than a Jew.

CHAPTER XXVII

Don Diego Laynez and the Conde de Gormez

I WONDER if Burgos looked then as it does now? – a well-washed, trim little city, Dutch in its neatness, tinted, upon the principle of Joseph’s coat of many colours, pink, blue, peach, and yellow; each house totally unlike its neighbour in height and shape; the streets sprouting out all over with balconies, miradores, and low arcades under flat roofs, an unexpected Gothic tower or barbican breaking through; entered by the ancient gate of Santa Maria beside the bridge with castellated bartizans and statues of notables in flat square niches.

Of the Cathedral I say nothing, because the present one was built later by Fernando el Santo, but the line of towers of the Gothic castle stood out darkly prominent on the hill behind – Calle Alta, as it was called – as old as 300; the fortress and residence of the Condes de Castila, and the place where the bright-faced Fernan Gonzales lived his merry life, shutting up his prisoners – Garcia, King of Navarre, Doña Ava’s treacherous father, for a year, and other kings and queens too numerous to mention, – with celebrations of royal births and marriages a score; the old church of Sant’ Agueda, an “Iglesia juradera” (church of purgation), on the brow of the hill, the family posada, or house of the Cid, to be seen to this day, the ancestral shields hung outside on pedestals forming part of the front, setting forth the quarterings of Laynez Calvo, of ancient Castilian lineage, the father of the Cid; a priceless old Suelo, on which you can still observe the measure of the Cid’s arm, marked on marble; and the mouth of a mediæval passage through which he could ride into the plains with his men without being seen by the citizens in the streets below.

At this moment “the child of Burgos,” as the Cid is called, has thrown aside his warlike accoutrements, having been present at a council at the Ayuntamiento presided over by the king, and is now on his way to visit his lady love, Doña Ximena, the daughter of the Conde de Gormez.

As he passes along the Calle, gay as a butterfly in the bright sunshine, under the barbicans and towers which so nobly break the lines, it may be said he has too much of a swagger in his gait, but he has reason to be proud, for, young as he is, Doña Ximena loves him, and the good old King Fernando has admitted him to his council because he is already strong in arms and of good custom.

Just as Don Rodrigo has passed out of the Palace of Ayuntamiento (town hall) in the great plaza, its front honeycombed with sculptured cornices, badges, and devices on a warmly tinted stone, two hidalgos appear under the arched doorway talking loud.

“I tell you the king does wrong,” the younger man is saying in a loud voice – no other than the Conde Don Gormez, with flashing eyes, moving with a haughty swagger, a tall olive-complexioned Castilian in cap and plume, laced boots, and ample cloak, “very wrong in affronting the Emperor of Germany and the Pope in a little state like Castile.”

“The king does right,” answers the other, very determinedly, but in a feebler voice, for he is stricken in years. “What, Conde Don Gormez, would you have Castile do? Become bounden to a foreign power, when we have so lately gained our freedom from Leon?”

“I think the matter ill-considered,” is the reply; “but of course you approve it, Don Diego Laynez. The king is old and foolish, and loves age and infirmity about him. No one exceeds you now in arrogance, since your young son Rodrigo sits by you at the council. He is reported of good courage against the Moors, but his youth makes him incompetent to advise the king.”

“Conde Gormez,” answers the other, reddening with anger, “your indiscreet words prove that it is not age or experience which gives judgment.”

“What do you mean, Don Diego?” asks the

Conde fiercely. “I allow no observations on my conduct.”

“I do not condescend to fathom it,” is the answer, with a contemptuous glance. “Jealousy and thirst for power – ”

“Take that, old fool,” cried the Conde, silencing him with a sounding blow on the cheek, which made him reel backwards against the wall.

He could not speak, all his passion had vanished in the humiliation of being struck. White and tottering he stood, while his trembling hand sought the hilt of his sword.

“Mother of God!” he said at last, “you had better have finished me altogether than put this insult on me. Is it that you deem my arm so weak you mock me, Sir Count?” And as he spoke, with difficulty he drew his sword.

“Perhaps it is,” replies the other with an insolent laugh. “Put up your weapon, old man, or worse may come to you.”

“No, no,” returns Don Diego, the colour mounting to his cheek as his fingers feel the temper of the blade; “as knight to knight, who have so often stood side by side in battle, I demand a fair fight and no quarter.”

“As you will,” he answers, and an evil fire comes into his eyes. “It is a favour which, at your age, you have no right to demand. If you desire to be spitted, I will oblige you all the same.”

And then and there he drew his rapier, and placed himself in a posture of defence.

But the combat was too unequal. It lasted but a few minutes. The Conde de Gormez was the first espadero in Castile, in the flower of his age, graceful, skilful, strong; Don Diego was old and weak. His blows fell like water on his stalwart adversary, who treated him as one does a wayward child.

“Mark you,” he said at last, throwing up Don Diego’s sword, “I spare your life. Go home, you dotard, and teach your son to hold his tongue before his betters and learn to be a wiser man.”