Old Court Life in Spain; vol. 2

But, dearer than child or friend, Don Pedro carries with him his treasure and the famous ruby (Balax) of the Moors hid in his bosom.

The outlook is not cheerful. Spite of his constant boast of close alliance with the English, the Black Prince at Bordeaux as yet has made no sign. It is true that his daughter Costanza is at this time affianced to her cousin, the Infante of Portugal, and Don Pedro rides straight over the Sierra Morena to the frontier, certain of the protection of his uncle the king.

Don Diego Gomez is sent forward from Talavera, where he waits, to hasten the marriage. The Infanta is ready; with her she brings the crown of Castile, the jewels of her mother, Maria de Padilla, and such dower as is required; anything he has, even the Balax, so that Costanza is wedded!

It is a matter of life or death. All depends on Portugal. An uncle, an ally, a natural protector – it is impossible he can fail.

Don Diego returns. The King of Portugal will not receive him. He declines the marriage with Costanza for his son, the visionary crown, treasure, all – and warns Don Pedro sternly from crossing the borders of his kingdom upon peril of his life.

Many of his followers now forsake him in his need. But the chancellor, Don Fernando de Castro, is faithful, and Mem Rodrigues and Emanuel are ready to offer up their lives.

An absolute fugitive, Don Pedro craves from his uncle a safe conduct into Galicia, the only province in Spain, except Murcia, which still acknowledges him as sovereign.

In this miserable plight he arrives in the fruitful valley of beautiful Monterey in a most disconsolate condition, at the very moment that Don Enrique and Du Guesclin enter the city of Seville.

Yet even now the track of blood follows Don Pedro. As he passes through Santiago, the holy city of pilgrimage, where lie the relics of the Protector of Spain, after dining in company with the Archbishop, he calls him to the gate and has him murdered before his eyes, as well as the Decano or Dean, within the precincts of the cathedral.

Express after express flies in swift-rigged boat across the Bay of Biscay to Bayonne, addressed to the Black Prince and to his ally, that arrant traitor, the King of Navarre, who is with him at Bordeaux.

No answer comes. At last, driven to despair, Don Pedro himself rides forward to the coast, fits out a galley at La Groyne, and sets sail for Bayonne, escorted by all the vessels he can find, to plead his cause in person before the Prince of Wales.

CHAPTER XVIII

Don Pedro Appeals to Edward the Black Prince to Replace Him on the Throne

THE Black Prince – so named from the dark colour of his armour, and only fifteen years old when he was made a knight on the victorious field of Crécy by his father Edward III., and named by him Duke of Guienne and Seneschal of Aquitaine, – is the most notable figure of his day. Fabulously brave and romantically merciful, his modesty and generosity are only equalled by his military skill. Bearing in the field the device of the King of Bohemia, killed in the battle of Crécy, three plumes erect, with the motto “Ich dien,” his sword has never known defeat.

Three years have now elapsed in peace, during which time he has resided in royal state at Bordeaux with his wife, “the fair maid of Kent,” a period of inaction as irksome to himself as to those stormy spirits about him.

Nothing therefore could be more welcome to him than the news that Don Pedro had actually disembarked at Bayonne to solicit his help to regain his crown. As yet the policy of England had been undecided; now his father must take a side, and the prospect of war fills him with joy.

Promptly he despatches the Lord of Payme and other nobles to welcome him when he lands, and to bring him with all honour to Bordeaux.

The sumptuous pavilion prepared for their meeting lies outside the city, among pleasant meadows by the banks of the wide Garonne, that noble estuary which cuts into the land with the importance of an inland sea.

It is shaped in three compartments, the central one occupied by the Black Prince, that to the right assigned to Don Pedro, and that to the left to the King of Navarre, at the present moment paying his court to Prince Edward as holding the winning hand.

The interior is lined with rich tissues and brocaded silks, the draperies of cloth of gold held up by swords and lances, battle-axes and steel helmets – giving a warlike aspect to what would otherwise have been simply a luxurious and splendid bower.

Skins of animals killed in the chase cover the floor and are also attached to the lower portion of the pillars which support the light roof, adorned with flags and banners, the standard of St. George conspicuous in the front. Beneath, on a table, lies a glancing axe, ready, if needful, for all emergencies.

Outside, the building is covered with silken curtains under ranges of feathers, tassels, and streamers flaunting in the light breeze, and at the tented entrance are placed two large shields, one bearing the cognisance of the Black Prince, the other the arms of England quartered with the fleur-de-lis of France.

Around gathers a brilliant court. Seneschals bedecked with chains of gold, chamberlains in rich robes, worked with the escutcheons of England and of Aquitaine, pages, warriors, the captains of companies who have followed Edward in all his wars, hoary soldiers grown grey in many battles, nobles arrayed in historic armour come down from generations of warlike ancestors, bearing great names, Gallic and English, illustrious in themselves and enhancing the greatness of their master. The two younger brothers of the Prince of Wales, John of Gaunt, as brilliant as a popinjay, to be ever known in history as “Time-honoured Lancaster,” his younger brother, Edmund, Duke of York and Cambridge, a gallant young prince – both wearing the blue badge of the new Order of the Garter at their knee, and emulous of attracting the notice of Don Pedro’s young daughters, of whose beauty report says much. The two Marshals of Aquitaine, Sir Guiscard of Angoulême and Sir Stephen Coffington; Beauchamp, Lord of Abergavenny, Lord Ralph Neville of Warwick, Clayton, Sir John Tyrrell, Sir Hugh Hastings, the trusted ally of England Jean de Montfort, and, though last, not least, the manly figure of Chandos, of whom in these wars one hears so much – politician, tactician, and constable of all the provinces of France. Others may assume various modes and fantastic changes in dress and accoutrement, but Chandos never changes and always appears in armour of proof, arrayed to take the field.

In the centre, backed by the fanciful outline of the gay pavilion, stands the Black Prince, ready at the first imitation of Don Pedro’s arrival to advance and welcome him to his domains.

To suit the occasion, he is attired in a costume equally recalling the court and the camp. A loose surcoat of blue velvet, heavily embroidered with the arms of England, partly conceals the light suit of chain armour which clings to his form; at his waist is a girdle to which an axe and sword are attached, and on his head a cap edged by a jewelled coronet, from which rise the three heron’s feathers of his device.

Lofty in nature is the prince, square and solid in limb and chest, his hair cut short as convenient for his helmet, his upper lip, after the Norman fashion, covered with a thick moustache which mingled with his beard, light brown in colour, and long and luxuriant. Somewhat prominent large hazel eyes look out of a well-moulded face remarkable for mildness of expression, his whole personality singularly engaging, an impression only heightened as the fine curves of his lips open with the candour of a natural smile.

“Our ally tarries on the way,” he says, scanning the bare expanse of the sandy track before him, bordering the Garonne, broken by the lines of vineyards in the more cultivated lands. “Perhaps he would make us feel that we have been remiss in replying to his various messages. Nothing but absolute obedience to my father’s order would have kept me so long silent, in face of the news of his great need.”

The prince addresses himself to Chandos, who stands immediately behind him, his wrinkled countenance already showing marks of the hard life he has led in camps and battles, but, as he speaks, he lays his hand lightly on the shoulder of his brother Lancaster, looking out with eager eyes in the same direction as himself.

“How now, my young gallant, are you impatient to behold the Spanish beauties? Who knows if you do not lose your fickle heart to one? These señoritas of Andalusia must surely inherit some of their mother, Maria de Padilla’s boasted charms.”

The downy cheeks of young Lancaster turn to a rosy red at general attention being thus openly called to him. He turns aside, somewhat annoyed that his curiosity has been detected by his brother, and mutters something about a leveret of a certain breed which he expects from Spain. The excuse is received by the prince with a light laugh, and in a lower voice he continues his conversation with Chandos.

“I confess that nothing but the king’s actual presence on English soil would have decided me to look with favour on the expedition he comes to propose.”

“I agree with you, my lord,” is the answer of Chandos. “A campaign in the centre of Spain is a dangerous venture with a nation of enemies at our back.”

“Yet,” adds the Black Prince, and a serious expression comes into his eyes, “the personal appeal of an allied prince is difficult to refuse, especially under the present circumstances of his arrival. But much as I should rejoice once more to draw the sword, I can bind myself to nothing but an interchange of courtesies at present.”

“Right, my lord,” answers Chandos, “I am of the same mind as your Grace. Besides, it appears to my humble judgment that a sovereign rejected by the whole nation cannot have an altogether clean chronicle to show. Report, at least, is not favourable to Don Pedro, who has gained the nickname of El Cruel.”

“Tut, tut,” answers the prince impatiently, “subjects must obey their masters. I myself have no patience with these Castilian nobles who call in a bastard in place of their lawful king. Until I see cause to change, my sympathies are all with Don Pedro.”

“But your Highness will promise nothing, I trust, without direct permission of the king, your father?”

“Of course not,” answers the prince. “Have I not said so? My powers, as yours, are limited to our provinces of Guienne and Aquitaine. A descent into Spain altogether exceeds my instructions; but I shall much marvel if the king, my honoured father, and his ministers do not share my feelings in the matter of our ancient ally, driven to such straits as personally to present himself with his daughters, a suppliant at our court.”

Chandos bowed but made no further observation. It was clear his mind was against Don Pedro, of whose wanton acts of cruelty and bad faith he had heard so much. As far as his counsels were concerned, he would have the King of Castile bound down so strictly that he could not escape from his engagements. He knew that the loyal nature of the prince was too ready to take every man at his own value, especially at a time when he and his young brothers were longing to take the field.

At this moment the King of Navarre appeared, coming from the interior of the pavilion, a ready smile on his lip little indicative of the treachery within.

“Will your Grace join us,” asks the Black Prince, receiving him with the gracious courtesy so natural to him that it was felt alike by all, “in a descent into Spain, which undoubtedly will be the purport of the king’s visit to us here?”

Now, as the King of Navarre has secretly sworn upon the Sacrament an alliance with Enrique de Trastamare, giving him and the Grandes Compagnies of Du Guesclin passage over the Pyrenees at the same moment that he is joining with the Black Prince in the friendly reception of Don Pedro – this question, so frankly put, is difficult to parry. Before the open gaze of Edward his keen eyes drop, and with some hesitation he is understood to say that where the hero of England leads he will gladly follow, but that the smallness of his kingdom, placed between two great powers, will prevent his personal interference in the war.

Turning from him with a frown, the prince again anxiously directs his eyes to the path along the banks of the river by which Don Pedro is to approach. This time he does not look in vain.

In the track of a vivid sun ray, which bursts from a mass of clouds on the western horizon, the brilliant colours of flags and banners break among the green branches of a low avenue of willows, to be caught up and reflected in the broad current of the Garonne; the dark forms of mounted horsemen on caracoling steeds are followed by lords and attendants standing out on the grey landscape, in all the bravery of those romantic times where embroidered devices, crests, arms, and mottoes form a necessary part of dress, along with richly inlaid arms and costly robes edged with fur.

First rides Don Pedro, mounted on a Spanish barb, caparisoned with velvet housings; but as a fugitive and a suppliant he has rejected all the pompous display prepared for him, and appears in a dark cap and sombre mantle which covers his high black boots worn to the thigh.

Close beside him appear Emanuel and Mem Rodrigues, whose watchful eyes never leave him, among friends or foes. Whatever he may be to others, he is dear to them, and they well know in what continual danger he lives.

Behind him come his three daughters, the youngest but a lovely child, each mounted on easy-going jennets, his chancellor, and the few of his court who have not forsaken him on the road.

The mournful appearance of Don Pedro and the consciousness that he has been wanting to his royal guest in the attention due to an ally, so move the warm heart of the Black Prince that, bowing to the ground, he advances rapidly to embrace him, while Don Pedro, who has at once dismounted, would only have kissed his hand.

“Welcome, sire, to the territory of England,” cries the prince, addressing him in the French tongue, which both speak fluently. “I esteem myself happy to offer my personal homage to your Grace in my own name and in that of my royal father.”

“I thank you,” is Don Pedro’s laconic answer, turning upon him a curious gaze in which something of the bitterness of the disregarded suppliant appears. That he, an anointed sovereign, had been forced by the prince’s coldness to journey here, raises in his breast a wave of bitter pride which, in his revengeful nature, may in part explain the perfidy of his subsequent conduct.

“And you, fair flowers of Spain,” continues the Black Prince, turning to the Infantas, who had also dismounted and who gather timidly round the prince to make obeisance, “I would welcome you also, and express my deep regret that my consort, the Princess of Wales, to whose tender care I would have consigned you, has by reason of her condition not been able to leave Angoulême to meet you. Meanwhile, my brothers of Lancaster and York, nearer of your age and therefore more apt than myself in judging of your needs, will take her place in all necessary courtesies.”

John of Gaunt bashfully advances to take his place among the young princesses with his brother, both much encouraged by the glimpse of the lovely eyes of Doña Costanza, glowing like stars under the folds of a black mantilla which descends almost to her feet, while Don Pedro gravely acknowledges the salutations of the warriors and the court, and expresses his thanks for the magnificence of the courtesy with which he has been received.

“Can the stricken heart of a sovereign know comfort,” he says, in his high and trillant voice, singularly unpleasant after the agreeable intonation of the Black Prince, “against whom his people and those of his own blood have turned traitors, it is alone at the hands of your Grace. This moment of meeting with you, most illustrious Prince, is the only instant of consolation I have enjoyed since I left my rebellious country, given up to the horrors of civil war. I come in the guise of a beggar, but it is to one who can replace me on the throne.”

Whether Don Pedro, from long habits of hypocrisy, really believed what he said is doubtful, but he had at least the art of convincing those whom he addressed. This faculty of deceit, his specious flattery, his royal air, even under the modest garb he wore, at once fascinated the frank and open-hearted prince, overjoyed at the prospect of a speedy campaign to reinstate him.

As they pass into the pavilion where a sumptuous collation has been prepared, Edward himself, spite of the protest of his guest, not only offers to the king the golden embossed salver of scented water to wash his hands, but during the first course stands to serve him, behind his chair, before taking his own seat at the board.

“I know my place as a subject,” are his words, “and I pray your Grace not to impede me in the fulfilment of my duty.”

Not so Chandos, who observes Don Pedro at his ease, and marks with suspicion the sinister expression of his young face, and the falseness of the smile he calls up in answer to the hearty greetings of the prince.

Adversity and dissipation had already scored with hard lines that yet boy-like countenance. The faultless mould of feature is still there, as we see it perpetuated in the bust at Seville, but a perfidious glance mars its beauty.

Small and thin in stature, Don Pedro is entirely overtopped by the English prince, who sits erect and strong as a young oak beside the willow-like suppleness of his Spanish guest.

Much discussion of ways and means takes place between them after the collation, the Black Prince lending a willing ear to the representations of Don Pedro and his reiterated promises to reinstate the English king in such subsidies as should be advanced to him in order to raise a fighting army to take the field.

From Bordeaux Don Pedro passes to Angoulême with his daughters – in the same state, accompanied by the Black Prince, his young brother, the King of Navarre, and the Duke of Lancaster, in whose young heart the girlish beauty of Doña Costanza has made a serious impression – to salute the princess, who is daily expecting her confinement.

The reticence of the Black Prince alarmed Don Pedro. No decision of any kind as to the support he had come to seek could be extracted from him; open-hearted and honest almost to a fault, he had been so earnestly implored by Chandos to enter into no semblance of an engagement before he had obtained the assent of his father, Edward III., that he absolutely put a bridle on his lips whenever Don Pedro sought speciously to approach the subject so near his heart, until he had received the royal sanction. That such sanction would come he felt convinced, the very idea of an open attack upon royalty (in those feudal times held so sacred and inviolable) would probably have sufficed to ensure the consent of King Edward, but more amply so when united to the political advantages ensured by a close alliance with Castile.

Not only is a formal permission demanded by the Black Prince himself to march into Spain, but it is backed by the official protest of Don Pedro against the manifold wrongs and injuries inflicted on him.

Of gifts the Black Prince will have none. To him jewels and treasures come as ignoble bribes; but in the meantime at least it is open to Don Pedro to lavish presents on the Princess of Wales as an indirect mode of gaining her goodwill. A table of curious workmanship, set with priceless gems, is presented and long preserved in England, and, though last not least, the precious Balax, destined so strangely to find a central place in the English crown.

Nothing could exceed the lavish promises of Don Pedro. The lordship of Biscay, which, as close to Guienne, is important, is conferred on the Black Prince and his heirs for ever, signed with the seal of Castile, a curious state document which remains in England to this day – Pedro binding himself also, by the most solemn oaths, to pay large subsidies to the English troops, and equal parts of the general cost of the war to the Prince himself; a rich dower to the Infanta Costanza, forthwith affianced to the young Duke of Lancaster, already languishing in a not hopeless passion which is, he thinks, to insure to him the crown of Spain – she, in the meantime, as well as her two sisters, to remain at Bayonne as hostages for her father’s word.

All this was concluded in the presence of Charles of Navarre, surnamed “the Bad,” who, having secretly largely facilitated the passage of the Grandes Compagnies into Spain against Don Pedro, now receives from him the grant of the provinces of Guipuzcoa and Alava, the town of Vittoria, and any other he may choose to claim, upon condition that he will serve in person in the coming expedition against Don Enrique.

As to the Black Prince, the martial ardour within him is already at fever heat. There is something inexpressibly attractive to him in the prospect of meeting his ancient rival, Du Guesclin, in the field. The constable had good reason for extolling the magnanimity of the prince in the matter of his brother Oliver, taken prisoner in the battle of Poitiers by Thomas of Canterbury – and though ready to engage against each other in battle, their feeling is of friends.

In these days of mercenary warfare no shame was felt in passing from one side to the other if the pay was good. “To live by the sword” was a noble profession, and the needy knight or commoner must go where battle leads.

From the Black Prince downwards, every English trooper and archer was enthusiastic in the cause of Don Pedro. Even the calm Chandos was infected, if not convinced, in the face of such constant denials, and specious explanations on his part. Like his master Plantagenet he grudged every day that detained him inactive in Guienne until the authority of Edward III. was received.

As a preliminary, heralds were at once sent into Castile to summon the English and Gascon knights who had taken service with Don Henry the Bastard (so was the brilliant Caballero designated in these state papers) “to repair to the prince’s standard with all speed,” an order instantly obeyed by Sir Hugh Calverley, Sir Eustace d’Ambrecourt, Walter Hewitt, and the Lords of Devereux and Neville, to the considerable weakening of Don Enrique’s army.

At length the long-desired decision came from the council, assembled at the Court of Windsor, 1366, which set forth that it was “noble and honourable, as well as just and advantageous, to assist Don Pedro, King of Castile and Leon, in his legal rights,” and that his Highness Edward Prince of Wales, was authorised to march with the forces he might think fit to effect the same, under the command of Lord John Chandos, High Constable of Aquitaine, Sir Guiscard d’Angoulême, Sir Stephen Coffington the great standard-bearer of St. George, Lord Beauchamp of Abergavenny, Neville, Clayton, Tyrrell, Hastings, Cheney, Boteler, Willoughby, Felton, Loring, the prince’s grand chamberlain and bannister, besides his foreign followers, De Buch, D’Armagnac, D’Albert, and others.

CHAPTER XIX

The Black Prince Defeats Don Enrique and Reinstates Don Pedro. – Don Enrique Murders Don Pedro. – Death of Don Enrique

WE are in a romantic age of youth and fanfaronnade. Our dramatis personæ are overflowing with the sap of life. Of the three Plantagenets, the Black Prince is in the prime of life and fame, his two young brothers in the heyday of valour and love. Don Pedro, little past thirty, a professed lady killer and seducer, and Enrique de Trastamare, the ideal Caballero, a few years older. Add to these those who have vanished from the scene, Blanche of Castile, but fifteen when she was married, and Maria de Padilla, dying in the flower of her days, there results a circle of youth, beauty, and romance unparalleled in history.

As for a tournament these ardent spirits prepare for battle. Only Du Guesclin is wise and old, also Chandos, who endeavours to allay the universal ferment in men’s blood. But what is their influence against the spirit of the age?

When Don Enrique finds himself on the 3d of

April, 1367, face to face with the Black Prince, he has but one idea, to rush on him at once and make an end! Strategy and prudence are cast to the winds. “Let us fight like true knights and carry the crown upon a lance!” is his idea.