Old Court Life in Spain; vol. 2

Little by little, as time goes on, a sense of wrong and injustice rankles in his heart which neither the marquess nor the archbishop understands, but they continue assiduously to divide between them the power and the revenues of Castile.

Don Enrique is now sixteen; yet, as the years pass, the strength of his young life does not come to him in robustness of frame or sinew. Music is his passion – the old ballads which we hear as dance tunes in modern Spain, gallardas and seguidillas set to words – and the chase, a strange taste in one so weak. Between these pursuits his time is chiefly passed; nor are those who govern him at all displeased that such simple pleasures should occupy his thoughts and divert him from any possible interference in affairs of state.

One other comfort he has in life, the company of Don Garcia de Haro. He is a few years older than himself, and was placed with him as a companion by his father, almost from his birth, to cheer him in his many childish ailments, and share in the amusements of his solitary childhood. And now, in his dull life as king, with no one to sympathise with or love him, he clings to Garcia as to a kindred soul. With this intercourse the Regents dare not meddle, although Garcia, who is much more experienced than the king, may, in course of time, become dangerous to their interests. But a certain martinet warns them not to rouse by interference the latent passions of the young king, whose reserved and silent nature is as a sealed book to their understanding.

Now the two friends are riding side by side down the steep hill from the ancient castle of Sahagun, a stronghold belted in by machicolated walls, situated to the north of Burgos, where the court has gone for the enjoyment of hunting in the abundant Vega watered by the river Cea. A capital place for snipe, partridge, and woodcock, with the chance of stags or even of wild boars driven down by cold or hunger from the adjacent mountains.

A slender retinue follows Don Enrique, for it is not in the policy of the Regents to indulge him in much state, “the revenues being needed for the necessities of the kingdom,” he is told, and the court expenses, consequently, must be curtailed.

“But what matters!” is his thought, as he loosens the reins on the neck of the noble Andalusian barb on which he is mounted, with a coat as sleek as silk, as it bounds forward, swift as the wind, over the turf. Garcia is with him, and they are hastening at the top of their speed to spend a happy afternoon together with music and song in an old pavilion, built by the Moors as a garden house or delicias, at some miles distant from Sahagun.

“Now, Garcia, I do feel like a king,” shouts Don Enrique, turning in his saddle, the wind catching his words and flinging them back to his companion, a little in the rear. “I am out of reach of the marquess. No, not even the awful archbishop can threaten me here.”

“Ah! my lord,” returns Garcia de Haro, speaking under the influence of the same rapid movement, his words barely reaching the ear for which they are intended, “may it ever be so!”

“It shall!” cries the king, turning carelessly on his saddle to cast a hurried glance, full of affection, at him. “It shall, it shall!”

Now they are passing on a true Spanish road, full of holes and overlaid with stones, on by the aqueduct into a cool avenue, all fluttering with elm leaves, past the Cruz del Campo– and what a campo, as flat as my hand – the sky glowing over them like an opal, to the murmur of many waters and a rush of streams, onto a high plateau, where the pleasant air cheerfully fills the lungs as with the flavour of new wine; through corn fields and olive grounds and fig gardens and vineyards, bordered by low banks; the pleasant songs of the farmers in their ears, as with a lazy team of fat oxen they plough the fertile earth. A scent as of blossoming beans is in the air; the berries of the ripening olives toss over their heads; folks pass and repass on donkeys, and rough men lead files of mules, all with a “Vaya con Dios,” open-eyed at the young king, uncovering his head in silent courtesy, though the hoofs of his horse scatter pebbles in their faces.

Now they are passing a lonely village, the whole population sitting at their doors, a stool placed close by, with a white cloth and a plate for charity, round which gather the blind and the cripples, impelling themselves forward at the risk of their lives, but the cavalcade rushes by too quickly to stop to relieve them.

At last they have reached the Moorish Quinta, a low, flat-roofed building with a tapia border, flanked by towers, from one of which floats the flag of Spain, the front cut by long rows of miradores and shutterless casements staring upon them like unlidded eyes.

The drawbridge is down and the sculptured portal open. Not a creature is about to salute the king, but a posse of fierce dogs, the Penates of the place, break out from behind a wall and fly at the horses’ heels, who highly resent the attack with many kicks and plunges, to the imminent danger of the riders, while terrified cows rush in from the woods to increase the confusion, then bolt into space, pursued by the dogs.

All this time not a soul has appeared. The page who has accompanied the king advances to assist him to dismount, as well as his old attendant, Martos, but, before they can reach him, he has sprung lightly from the saddle, and looks around.

“What! no one to receive me?” he says, with a light laugh, but a frown is on his face all the same. “Do the Regents hold me for a schoolboy, to be punished when I go abroad?”

“Such disrespect is not to be endured,” returns Garcia, of a much more impetuous temperament than the king, which betrays itself by the impatience with which he paces up and down, searching every corner, then sounding a horn he wears across his shoulders; but the long-drawn notes bring no response save innumerable echoes and a dense flight of birds from the old building, frightened from their nests.

“It makes my blood boil to see your Grace so treated,” cries Garcia, returning with heightened colour to the king’s side. “How dare the Regents – ”

“Tush! tush! Garcia, I am sure it is accidental.”

“Impossible, my lord! I myself announced your intention of taking your midday meal here. You observe the flag is flying.”

All this time the bevy of dogs keep up such a chorus of barking that they can hardly hear themselves speak, closing round them as if determined for an attack.

“Let them bark,” says the king, carelessly, fronting one savage old hound with fiery eyes and tail erect, about to leap on him.

Martos and the page, seriously alarmed, rush to his rescue with sticks and stones.

“Better this noise than silence. The dogs after all are doing their duty, which my servants are not. Perhaps their barking will bring out some one to stable our horses. See how wet the flanks of the poor beasts are and how they tremble. Look to them well, Juanito,” to the page, who, doffing his plumed cap, bows to the ground, “I would not have Zulema take any harm for half the kingdom I do NOT rule. We have ridden hard and long; let us hope that a good repast awaits us. I have a keen appetite.”

“I do not see where it is to come from,” answers Garcia, following the king over the drawbridge into the patio.

It was a lovely place, this Moorish patio, shut in by walls delicately embroidered and diapered in stone, supported by ranges of horseshoe arches, light as a dream, grouped on double pillars as white as snow, the central space traversed by walks paved with coloured tiles, followed by rustic arches cut in yew in fanciful devices of pyramids and crowns, from which hung coloured lanterns in the summer nights when the harem made holiday here long ago, a bubbling fountain in the midst, cutting tiny canals edged with flowers.

“Here I could live and die!” exclaims the young king, standing entranced in the centre, the sound of many waters flowing from jets and tunnels mingling with the songs of birds emboldened by the stillness and fluttering in the boughs. “Give me my zither and lute, I should never care to return to Burgos. Come, Garcia,” turning to his companion, “let us explore the interior of this fair mansion.”

But Garcia, not at all poetical by nature, and who is growing every moment more indignant at the absence of the jefe and the lack of every preparation, follows him in silence under a colonnade from which the various apartments open out through doors of cedar wood into an Arab hall – a blaze of gorgeous colour.

“This passes all belief!” cried Garcia, looking round, unable any longer to suppress his feelings. “It is high time that your Grace emancipates yourself. If this insult leads to the fall of the Regents (and you are already sixteen, and competent to reign), it will satisfy me better than the choicest meal ever served to mortal, though I confess I am as hungry as a wolf.”

“But, our Lady defend us!” he cried, as he suddenly caught sight of the dismal face of Martos, “what brings you with such a woful countenance? Speak, man! Have the dogs bitten you?”

“No, no!” answered Martos, with a grim smile. “No, but the dinner!”

“Have the dogs eaten it, then, instead of you?” asked the king.

The major-domo shook his head sorrowfully. “Dinner, my lord and master, there is none.”

“No dinner!” broke in Garcia. “Do you mean to say nothing is provided for the king?”

“Nothing! nothing!” cried Martos in despair, clasping his hands.

“I assure your Grace I told them you were coming,” broke in Garcia. “I gave the Marqués de Villena due notice. I am not to blame.”

“I am sure you are not, dear Garcia. Good Martos, do not vex yourself. Call such people together as you can find, and have the game we shot on the way fashioned into a salmis. It will make a delicious dish.”

Then Martos and a page appeared, carrying a single dish, and placed it on the table.

“How is this?” cried the king, with more anger than he had yet shown. “Where are the servants I pay to serve this palace? Where is the jefe whose duty it is to receive his sovereign?”

“Gone, my lord and master, gone no one knows whither. Nothing left but a crippled scullion and those cursed dogs, who fly upon us every time we move.”

“I must look to these matters more closely,” said the young king, roused at last to a sense of his position. “As my tutors and governors are so careless of the charge conferred on them by my father, it is time that I should relieve them of their office.”

A delighted look overspread Garcia’s face, and a sardonic grin from Martos indicated that he had much more to say if he dared.

“Speak freely, my faithful Martos,” said the king, “if you have anything to tell me.”

Garcia eagerly listened.

“It is a great liberty, Altezza, for one so humble as I am to interfere in the affairs of those so much above me, but I have cause to know that your Highness’s governors are not worthy of the confidence reposed in them.”

“Did I not say so?” interposed Garcia. “They hated me too much to be honest.”

“Proceed, Martos, I see you have not told me all.”

“True, my lord. And there is something of which I would fain inform your Grace,” continued he, speaking in a whisper, with a careful look round. “I know that there is to be a great fiesta given at the house of the Archbishop of Toledo to-night. All the grandiose are bidden, and all the cooks in Burgos will attend. There will be plenty of food there,” with a sly glance at the solitary dish of game yet untouched lying on a huge table.

As the old man spoke, the king’s face changed to a graver look than it seemed possible for those placid features to assume.

“I understand,” he answered, “while the King of Castile is without a dinner, his Regents and nobles feast. Alas! I am often weak in health, which leads me to shrink from the duties of my office, but, por Dios! I am strong in spirit, and I will settle these caballeros as they deserve.”

That same night the Casa del Cordon, in the great Plaza of Burgos, where the Regents lived, was blazed bright as day. Circles of light blazed in the heavily mullioned casements of the front, where the arms of Mendoza Velasco appear within a deep entablature, surrounded by carved figures, each line and detail of the building defined by low Moorish lamps softly glimmering, and armorial shields. Crowds of men-at-arms and alguazils stationed along the street bore torches of resin, casting fiery gleams upon the pavement, crowded as far as the eye could reach with Burgolese notables come out to see the show, wrapped in their everlasting mantos.

Passing through a lofty guard-room with raftered ceiling – the walls hung with tapestry – where casques and shields of antique pattern shone out, side by side with crescent banners and scimitars captured from the Moors, the guests arrive and are ushered into a Gothic hall of sculptured oak heavily carved, a richly wrought balustraded gallery breaking the lines high up under the cornice. All the great names of Burgos are present. The Villacruces, De Vaca, Peralta, Gomez, Laynes, descendants of the Cid Campeador, Lerma, De Bilbas, and Mendoza, making their way to tables ranged transversely across the dais at the upper end, bright with golden lamps, fed with delicately-scented oil, each place set with cups and sturdy flagons enriched with jewels, trophies of Arab filigree work, taken from the Moors, and gilded shields all wreathed with fruit and flowers to represent a garden of delight.

In the centre of the board, on two chairs more elevated than the rest, sit the Archbishop of Toledo, his pale face outlined against the panels of dark oak; and opposite to him the courtly figure of the Marqués de Villena, his handsome features greatly set off by the quaint half-ecclesiastical costume he wears of the Master of Calatrava, with belt and sword, the cross of Christ embroidered on his breast.

The days are past when the great nobles come to feasts in plumed casques and chain armour, as knights ready to mount and ride as the trumpet note sounds. Now more peaceful times have come, the land of castles has expelled the Moors – shut up in the east of Spain among the mountains of Granada where they are soon to be attacked – and the great chiefs can display their taste in abundance of costly jewels and apparel of brocade and velvet, samite and silk, crimson, purple, and yellow, close-fitting to display the person, with mantles trimmed with miniver or ermine; the long skirts worn to the ankle, embroidered with all the art the needle could attain, with the crests, cognisances, and initials of the wearer, pointed shoes and golden girdles thick with gems, holding glittering daggers, the head covered with graceful caps or furred bonnets adorned with circlets of jewels and plumes placed on flowing locks trimmed according to the fashion of the time.

Amid the bustle of attendants rushing to and fro with ponderous dishes, and skins of wine to replenish the flagons, and the joyous talk of the numerous guests echoing down the hall in which the deep sonorous voice of the archbishop is prominent by bursts of loud laughter and noisy jests as deep draughts of the finest vintages of Val de Peñas and Xeres mount into the brain, the feast proceeds, each guest pledging his neighbour, the Conde de Peralta drinking to Don Pedro de Mendoza, in his turn bowing to the Conde de Lerma, who, rising in his chair and bowing low, carries his full goblet towards the Marqués de Villena, who with lofty courtesy acknowledges the toast, and forthwith fills his golden cup to drink wassail to the archbishop.

“I will warrant your Grace of not dying of old age with this vintage,” cries Don Pedro de Mendoza, addressing the archbishop as he has risen in his place to return the compliment, eying the generous liquor with the loving eyes of a connoisseur. “It is enough to carry a man far into a hundred years.”

All at once the conversation is arrested by the soft notes of a Moorish zither; just the sweep of the cords and a tap or two on the sounding board, galopando, then the plaintive cana or cry rises, preluding the cancionero of the Cid – ever the popular hero of Burgos – sung with such exquisite sweetness that the entire company is hushed.

Si es EspañolDon RodrigueEspañol fue elfuente andalla.

“What new constellation has your greatness procured us?” asks Don Silvela Velasco, turning to the Marqués de Villena – a known lover of music. “Who is he? Not the young king himself, with all his talent, can excel him.”

“He sings well,” is the answer of the marquess, listening attentively until the final cadenza, and giving his opinion with the decision of a master. “But I know nothing of him. Minstrels were commanded to be present, and he is come. His voice and the music please me. I am accounted, as you know, my lords, a judge in these matters. You are aware that if the king has any merit, he owes it entirely to my training.”

Again the sweet voice sounds, this time with more power in its tones.

“Who is he? Can no one tell us?” asked the archbishop, breaking off in a discussion of the value of certain jewels which he had purchased from a Jew.

“A wandering estudiante who is travelling through the north,” answered the chamberlain, advancing with doffed cap and bended knee; for the Regents exacted the same respect in addressing them as the kings of Castile; “recommended to me by a friend as skilled in his art.”

“That cannot be doubted,” said the archbishop. “Bring him round, that we may judge of his appearance.”

This command was promptly obeyed, and a youth stood forward on the edge of the dais, habited in a long dark mantle of coarse cloth, sandals on his bare feet, and a mass of thick fair hair combed down so straight under a pointed cap it was almost impossible to distinguish his features. Not that he appeared the least dismayed, but stood perfectly at his ease in front of the radiance of the scented lamps, his zither in his hand, minutely surveying the faces of those before him.

“Your looks proclaim you young,” said the archbishop, struck for a moment with a fancied resemblance to some one he had seen. “Where do you come from? By our Lady of Saragossa, you have a pleasant voice.”

“Grandeza,” answered the minstrel, “I am an orphan, of good birth, reduced to the greatest want. To-day, upon my word, I have not eaten a meal.”

“Poor boy! here you shall have your fill. How long have you been so reduced?”

“Since my father’s death, your Grace. He died when I was a child, and the wicked governors he placed over me have despoiled me of my inheritance. You see me, mighty señors, reduced to sing for food.”

“A right good youth, and worthy of largess,” observed Don Pedro de Mendoza, ill-famed as the most ruthless squanderer of the royal treasure. (If Don Pedro could have scanned the expression of the face before him, he might have seen such a smile of scorn gathering about the thin lips as would have startled him.)

“The saints bless you!” was the reply, “and deal with you as you do to others. As for me,” with a deep sigh, “I am not only starving, but at this present time I know that my sinful guardians are carousing at my expense.”

“The Virgin protect us!” exclaimed the archbishop. “Did ever man hear of such infamy!”

“If the youth speaks truth,” returned Villena, not to be behindhand in the expression of sympathy, “the matter should be submitted to the king’s judges, and right done in ample restitution.”

“Otherwise it were a disgrace to the government of the Regents,” put in Don Pedro de Mendoza.

“Restitution is not sufficient,” sententiously observed the archbishop in a pompous voice, intended to impress the company with his high sense of justice. “If the guilt of his guardians be proved, death is their proper due.”

“Methinks your holiness is somewhat severe,” put in the minstrel, making a low obeisance.

“Not at all, not at all! We rule Castile and Leon, not the king, who is disabled by bodily infirmities. It is our duty to have justice done.”

“What noble sentiments!” exclaimed the singer, clasping his hands. “Happy is the king to possess such servants! I leave my appeal with you, my lords, confident that you will see me righted.”

But what he said, though spoken low and in an altered voice, had such a familiar ring in it as to make the archbishop again look sharply at him; then, as if satisfied, he turned away.

Now the festival had continued far into the night, and, as the fumes of the generous wine mounted to their brains, the guests spoke more and more openly to each other.

Again had the voice of the minstrel been raised, during a momentary pause, as he intoned with extraordinary power and skill The March of Bernardo del Carpio:

With three thousand men of Leon, from the city Bernardo goesTo preserve the name and glory of old Pelayo’s woes.

And as his notes rang out in the great hall, the enthusiasm he excited so mastered the stately company that they rose en masse to drink to the health of Castile.

“And of the Regents!” cried Mendoza, “our capable leaders! Don Enrique must be put aside. He is sick and unfit to reign. What say you, Caballeros? Methinks the race of Trastamare is played out.”

“Agreed! agreed!” came from all sides.

“And who can better replace him than the Regents?” cried the Conde de Lerma, who had good reason to tremble lest, when the young king came to reign, he should discover the villainies of which he had been guilty.

“And I! and I!” shouted Velasco and Peralta, tossing high their goblets.

Indeed, the whole company was in a state of violent excitement, to which not only the wine, but the patriotic ballads of the minstrel had much contributed.

“My lords! my lords!” cried the archbishop, rising from his seat, seriously alarmed at the imprudent vehemence of his partisans, “these are matters not to be lightly mentioned. Such words are treason if they get abroad. To-morrow is the fiesta of the young king. His Grace has invited us to a special tertulia in honour of the event. I drink to his health, and better capacity to fill the high place he inherits!”

A palpable sneer was in his voice as he added these words in a low tone.

“Yes, the fiesta of our king,” added the Marqués de Villena, amid a general chorus of mocking laughter. He was no more loyal than the prelate, but less hypocritical, and, like him, fully aware of the dangerous consequences, should any premature knowledge of a conspiracy get abroad. “I pray you, Grandezas, to disperse quietly. Whatever be in your minds, this is no place to discuss it.”

And so they parted, each one to his abode, attended by bands of armed followers with torches.

The singer was left alone, but he was met at the portal by a friend, attired like himself as an estudiante, and thus together they passed unheeded into the night.

Great curiosity was felt, especially by Don Pedro de Mendoza, the treasurer, as to how the king had obtained money to defray the expenses of the tertulia which had been announced. Mendoza knew that the coffers were empty. Had he borrowed money from the King of Aragon, or some powerful northern noble? Had he unearthed a treasure, or contracted with the Jews? If so, how could it happen that he was ignorant of it?

Again all the great nobles assembled, and many more, from south and north, who had not been present at the entertainment in the Casa del Cordon, composed especially of the supporters of the Regents.

Most of those who came from afar had never seen the king (so purposely was he secluded), and looked on him as a sickly youth, destined soon to follow his father to the tomb. It was this idea, indeed, sedulously spread abroad, which added so much to the prestige of the Regents. If the king died, who was to succeed him?

When the cedar doors are thrown open, a huge undecorated gallery is disclosed, devoid of any furniture except bare wooden tables and benches placed on either side.

At the head the young king is seated in a chair of state, surmounted by the arms of Spain. On one side the hereditary Constable of Castile (Condestable) supports him, clad in complete armour; on the other the chamberlain, Don Martinez de Velases, who introduces the company. As each feudatory advances, Don Enrique inclines his head. His manner is courteous but very cold, as he raises his hand to signify the special place assigned to each at the table, where a piece of bread and a cup of water are placed.