Old Court Life in Spain; vol. 2

Upon this the knights rose and withdrew with all that grave and stately ceremonial which Ferdinand exacted from his followers. Only the young prince remained.

“Juan,” said Ferdinand, casting on him a look of inexpressible affection (deep down in his heart he was a tender man, and this only son was an object to him of almost adoration), “early and late the Infantes of Spain should learn the lesson of policy. It is a new science come in with modern times. Formerly, kings and princes could only fight. Now they use stratagem, which means the knowledge of the balance of power – state against state, noble against noble, Church against State, all of which would have been formerly despised, but in future will rule the world. You see, my son, these notables of Spain? They are the brightest jewels of my crown, but it is for me, their king, that they should unite their brilliancy. The queen, your honoured mother, and I, have by our entire union formed a mighty monarchy which will descend to you, Infante. But it must be maintained, not by brute force, but by knowledge. Santiago! by knowledge!” and as he spoke he seized Don Juan’s delicate fingers and pressed them in his own hard palm. “You look annoyed. Am I too fierce in my words? But by the blessed Virgin! I love you well, Juan. See, I will conquer Granada for you. But not a lizard runs on the painted walls of the Alhambra, but I know it. So in Spain. All is unfolded to me within our joint kingdom. I balance the great nobles as the player does his dice. I am called wise, my son, this is my wisdom.” Here he again crossed himself devoutly. “Ave Maria,” he said, “the blessed Virgin knows the hearts of men.”

Juan listened with a weary attention to his wise father, little consonant with the statecraft to which these lessons tended. He was a soldier who loved to march with the army and cared not for tortuous policy.

“But I love my mother’s ways best,” said the gentle prince, suppressing a yawn, as he sank back into his chair, “with her Grace all is truthful and open.”

“May Heaven bless her!” cried Ferdinand. “She is a noble wife. But it is our union which makes the strength of Spain.”

In the early summer Queen Isabel sets out from Cordoba to join the army, accompanied by her eldest daughter, Isabel, to become Queen of Portugal, attended by prelates, cardinals, and friars. Her younger children, Juana and Catalina, remain behind.

With her, also, are Beatrix de Bobadilla, now Marquesa de Moya, her loving friend, her secretary, Peter Martyr, the Boswell of her life, her Almoner, the Bishop of Talavera, who, when offered the See of Salamanca, replies he will accept nothing but the See of Granada!!! Garcilaso de la Vega, and her court of dueñas and ladies.

The lovely Infanta has now become a stately matron, exceedingly fair, and somewhat inclined to stoutness, spite of the constant activity of her life. All feel the majesty of her presence, and the sway of the enlightened mind that dictates all her actions. Mistress she remains of herself and of her kingdom, spite of Ferdinand’s continual interference. But her love for him is unchanged, although he is far from being the faithful husband she deserves, and she is much tormented by jealousy.

As Queen of Castile she has assisted him in the war to the utmost of her power. The united Cortes of Castile and Aragon have been invoked by their own sovereigns, and each has made independent provision for the Moorish war “to be pursued to the end,” as necessary to the well-being of the nation.

It is a lovely valley she traverses on her way from Cordoba to Granada, now followed by the rail. Here is Montilla, famous for its white wines; old towers and castles succeed each other on the hills, and the sunny slopes are lined by vineyards and pomegranate woods. Olive-trees, big as ancestral oaks, make avenues as far as the eye can reach, and the damp wind sounds like music among the reeds at the Puerte del Xenil. At the town of Bobadilla, now a station, the huge mountains of Granada shut in all the plain, impregnable barriers between the Christian and the Moor.

The queen travels mounted on a mule, seated on a golden saddle – a rich kirtle of velvet with hanging sleeves forms her robe, cut square on the neck, and a long mantle and a black hat complete her attire.

As she advances through the defile, the Rock of the Lovers (Pina de los Enamorados) opens to the sight, so called because a Christian knight, who loved a Moorish maid, flung himself from the summit to die with her in his arms.

Higher up in the mountains the queen is met by a splendid train of knights, headed by the elegant Ponce de Leon, courtly as he is brave – indeed, from his actions in this war he has been named the second Cid – and Lord Rivers, the English volunteer, mounted a la guisa (meaning with long stirrups), wearing over his armour a velvet cloak and a French hat and feather, attended by pages in silk, and foot soldiers.

The earl, as eccentric as he is brave, bare-headed makes a reverence to the queen, which she returns, at the same time graciously condescending to compliment him on his valour in the siege of Loja, further condoling with him on the loss of his two front teeth, knocked out by the hilt of a Moorish scimitar.

“But Earl Rivers might,” continues Isabel, in her soft voice, bending on him the calm lustre of her blue eyes, recorded as such a beauty in her faultless face, “have lost the teeth by natural decay, whereas now their lack will be esteemed a glory rather than a shame.”

To which the earl, bowing to his saddle-bow, replies that he returns thanks to God for the honour her Highness has done him in allowing him to meet her; that he is contented, nay, even happy in the loss of his teeth seeing that it was for the service of God and of her Highness; for God having given him all the teeth he possesses, in depriving him of two has but opened a window in the house of his body, the more readily to observe the soul within.

As the royal cavalcade approaches the great gonfalon of Spain, the queen makes a low reverence and passes to the right hand, awaiting Ferdinand, who appears in state, armed cap-à-pie in mail so wrought with gold it seems all of that metal – a snowy plume waving over a diadem on his neck, a massive chain, the links inwrought with gems of the rough workmanship of Gothic times when everything was ponderous, mounted on a chestnut charger, and attended by the Christian knights. But as they approach each other, these royal spouses, in the presence of the army and in a hostile land, it is not in the guise of mutual lovers, but as allied sovereigns that they meet. Three formal reverences are their salutation, the queen taking off her hat as Ferdinand approaches and formally kisses her on the cheek. He also kisses his daughter and blesses her, and so they pass into the camp to the lofty tent prepared for Isabel. In the centre of the camp, not, indeed, a tent, but a pavilion in the Oriental taste, formed of sheets of cloth of gold, divided into compartments of painted linen lined with silk, each compartment separated from the other by costly arras. Lances make its columns, brocade and velvet its walls, and it covers such an extent of ground as might have been occupied by a real palace.

All lay in profound repose, the gorgeous pageant was over, the shades of evening deepened, the stars came out serene in that large firmament, and lighted up the streets of tents, gay with banners and devices, where the camp-fires burned.

Alone, the queen had not retired to rest, and was offering up her fervent prayers for the success of the war and the safety of Ferdinand. In an instant a vivid and startling blaze burst forth beside her. The tent was in flames. The light materials fed the fire. She had barely time to escape from the burning embers falling about her, and to rush to her husband’s tent. Into his arms she cast herself – the valiant queen for a moment all the woman – in her alarm.

“The Moors have done this!” cried Ferdinand, as he listened to her confused account. “They will be on us. Let the trumpets sound to charge,” and hastily wrapping himself in his manto he made his way through the blazing camp to command his forces.

But no Moors were there. The towers of Granada rose white and placid in the night. The only light, the beacon fire in the high outpost of the Vega. No sound came from the city. For a moment the thought of magic floated through Ferdinand’s mind. He was superstitious, and the Moors dealt much in necromancy, but it was evident that in its course the fire was associated with the queen (whether by purpose or accident), and he was resolved to take advantage of this to rouse his indignant army to action.

“Heaven,” said he, as his knights came rushing round him, “has saved the queen. Let this danger to her life break up the camp and lead us to the solid walls of Granada. Let us lodge her safely within the walls of the Alhambra. Woe to the Moslem and his wiles!”

At these words lances rattled and swords leaped from the scabbard.

“Woe to the Moslem!” echoed from every side.

With the morning light a vigorous assault was made, and a fierce battle fought among the charred wrecks of the smouldering camp. But Ferdinand’s cold and sober policy was principally bent on restraining the fiery spirits he commanded. Mostly he contented himself with skirmishes and closing all the issues through which provisions could reach Granada.

It was the accident of the fire which led to the building of Santa Fé (the city of Sacred Faith) in the Vega, as a permanent refuge, to convince the Moors that nothing would turn the Christians from the conquest.

The ruins of Santa Fé still remain on the slope of a line of low hills opposite Granada, close by the castle of Rum or Roma, granted by Ferdinand VII. to the Duke of Wellington in the Peninsular War.

At Santa Fé Isabel appeared in complete armour at the head of the Castilians. She inspected every tent, reviewed her troops, consoled, exhorted, encouraged, a very Christian Bellona, who carried victory in her hand.

At Santa Fé she met Columbus, and after refusing him what he needed for his enterprise, sent after him, when he had crossed the bridge of Peñas on his return, and consented to find funds for his departure to the New World.

Now nothing in the siege was so fatal to the Moors as the building of Santa Fé.

While their enemies were revelling in the plenty of the land the supplies of the city were cut off. Autumn brought them no crops, the Christians spoiled them; all their sheep and cattle were lifted, and famine began to be felt.

Then Boabdil, who had succeeded his father, Muley Hassan, called together the heads of the city – the alcaides, dervishes, alfaquis, and imams of the faith, within the great Hall of the Ambassadors, where his father had sat. By his side his mother, Ayxa la Horra, just middle-aged, of commanding stature, in long, ample robes, worked with jewels, her dark hair shaded by a turban diademed with gold – and asked them, “What is to be done?” At the momentous question every face grew white, and they who had fought so many years so manfully, hung their heads and wept.

For a time no voice answered until an aged alcaide rose and with a faltering voice uttered the word “Surrender!”

As with one voice all joined in: “Surrender!” echoes up to the domed roof, glittering with crystal damasked in deep-coloured wood – the arabesques and the fantastic devices echo it, the fairy-like arcades bordered with orange and lemon-trees carry it on to the women’s quarter beyond the Court of the Alberca, where wails and shrieks repeat it.

“Surrender!” sounds from the towers upon the cliff down to the deep valley of the Darro where the bubbling waters foam.

“Surrender!” is carried by the winds into the narrow streets of Granada, where want and famine stalk, tangible to the eye in sunken faces of famished men.

“Surrender! Yes!” cries the aged alcaide, taking up the word. “Alas! we have no food. None can reach us since the armed walls of Santa Fé command the place. We are 200,000 young and old. We are all starving. Of what avail are the Alhambra walls? The Christians are at home, well defended. Allah has willed it. Kismet! It is done. We must surrender.”

They know it, these hard-visaged Moslems sitting round on ancient seats, hiding their eyes under their vast turbans, swarthy warriors grizzled with toil, and silken, effeminate courtiers, and the imperious queen standing erect, her arms folded on her breast, yet resolute to the last.

Meanwhile, Boabdil, calm but ashen, eagerly scans each face, but speaks not. Then the fierce Mousa, the most valiant of all the Moorish knights and they are many, starts to his feet.

“Surrender!” he shouts, in a voice like a clarion. “Who dares say that word is a traitor. Surrender to whom? To Ferdinand, the Christian king? to Isabel, his slave? They are liars, invaders, giaours! Death is the least evil we have to fear from them. Surrender means plunder, sacking, the profanation of our mosques, the violation of our women, whips, chains, dungeons, the fagot, and the stake. This is surrender! Let him that has a man’s heart follow me to the Christian camp. There let us die!”

But the words of Mousa brought no response. Boabdil el Chico yielded to the general voice, and the venerable dervish, Aval-Cazem, was sent out to Santa Fé to treat for terms with the Catholic sovereigns.

Alas! Then came a night of mourning and of wailing, as the sun went down over the Alhambra in clouds of blood.

Within the walls where they had been born and lived, there they would linger! Among those enchanting courts, beside gushing fountains, the song of birds, the scent of flowers. The soft shadows of pale groves, and those painted halls, the very picture books of history and of song.

Now, all is to be abandoned. The royal treasure packed, the inlaid walls stripped of their hangings, the gold vessels set with pearls, the carved platters for perfumed water, the turbaned crown and royal robes and garments woven in Persian looms, the accumulated treasures of centuries, unknown to the outer world, unspeakable, garnered in the lace-walled recesses of the harem.

At break of day all must depart into a cold and arid world – the stately Sultana, La Horra, and Boabdil’s large-eyed queen, in robes of death and mourning, bearing ashes on their heads, followed by all the pomp of an Eastern court. Guards, slaves, mutes, and eunuchs, passed out of the gate of the Siete Suelos, the conquered city sleeping at their feet, while on the opposite side, by the Gate of Justice with the mystic hand, rode in a dazzling company of Christian knights, lighted up by the rising sun – Aragonese and Castilian horsemen with round casques, knights in chain-armour rattling their spears, gold-tabarded trumpeters, men-at-arms and arquebusiers with hedges of lances and bucklers, led by the primate of Spain, bearing in his hand the silver cross to be planted on the signal tower of the Vega.

CHAPTER XXVI

The End of the Moors

AT the end of the Alameda, outside Granada, there is a bridge over the Xenil, opening from a broad and lofty avenue of elms. How gay it is! The murmur of the green-tinged river! The soft, warm wind among the trees, the borders of old-fashioned flowers! How majestic the infinite whiteness of the range of the Sierra Nevada backing all, a smooth, pure world lost in a firmament of blue!

Beyond is a road along which carts and coaches roll, a dirty, muddy country road, leading to Motril, and from that to the sea, passing through barriers of mountains.

A mile or so on, a little chapel, dedicated to San Sebastian, lies to the right, close on the road. You might pass it a thousand times without notice, it is so dark and small. Yet, homely as it looks, there is no place in all the range of history more sacred than this spot.

It is the 2d of January, 1492, when Boabdil el Chico, King of Granada, mounted on a powerful war-horse, rides slowly forth from the Alhambra by the gate of the Siete Suelos. We know his face, from a portrait in the palace of the Generalife – a sad-expressioned visage, as of one born to ill-luck, swarthy-complexioned, with coal-black hair under his turban; and we know too, that at his special request, the gate of the Siete Suelos has been walled up from that day, and so remains, encumbered by huge masses of masonry, over which time has cast a softening hand in trails of vine leaves and low shrubbery.

Slowly he descends the hill by a winding path still existing, cleaving the steep ravine, very stony now, and difficult to traverse, and passing by high walls (to be called henceforth the Cuesta de los Matires), crosses the bridge over the Xenil, gallops down the road, and draws rein before the chapel of San Sebastian, then a mosque.

His very dress is recorded. A dark mantle over an Eastern tunic of embroidered silk, a regal crown attached to his turban, and in his hand two keys. (Thus he is represented on a stone carving in the Capilla Real in the cathedral.)

Before the little mosque, Los Reyes Catolicos await him. They are also on horseback: Isabel rides a white jennet, richly caparisoned. Her grand head bound by a jewelled coif, forming a regal coronet, her face radiant, her queenly form erect.

Ferdinand is beside her, with a sparkle in his cunning eye, which the rigid canons of courtly reserve cannot master, so triumphant does he feel.

Beside them is their young daughter, Catalina, to become wife of Henry the Eighth, and her gallant brother, the delicate Infante, lately knighted by his father upon the battle-field, and around, a brilliant group of valiant knights: Ponce de Leon, browned by the long war, the faultless-featured; Gonsalvo de Cordoba, that king of men, who, young as he is, has been entrusted with the negotiations with Boabdil; Medina Sidonia, of the noble race of Guzman; the Marqués de Villena, Fernandez, Cifuentes Cabra, Tendila, and Monte Mayor.

Behind press in three hundred Christian captives released at the signing of the treaty, besides bishops, monks, cardinals, statesmen, veterans, grown grey in war, Asturian arquebusiers, Aragonese sharpshooters, lances, banners, battle-axes, croziers, crosses, and blood-stained trophies, all backed by the red walls of the Alhambra towering on the hills.

Hurriedly dismounting from his horse, the unhappy Boabdil would kneel and kiss Ferdinand’s hand, but he generously forbids it. Then the poor humbled monarch offers the same homage to Isabel, who also graciously declines it, a wan smile breaking over his haggard face, for in her hand she holds that of his little son – detained as a hostage at Sante Fé – whom he seizes and embraces.

And now the moment has come when he must deliver up the insignia of royalty, and, with the natural dignity which so rarely forsakes an Oriental he tenders the keys of the Alhambra.

“Take them,” he says, “you have conquered. Thus, O King and Queen! receive our kingdom and our person! Allah is great! Use us with the clemency you have promised. Be merciful as you are strong!”

At these words, uttered as by a dying man, Isabel’s great heart melts, and her eyes fill with tears.

Not so the astute Ferdinand. With difficulty he can suppress his joy; he knows too well the crafty part he meant to play with Boabdil and his kingdom, and his appealing words grate on his ears.

But, suppressing these feelings, “Doubt not, O King!” is his reply, “the sanctity of our promise, nor that by a timely submission you should suffer. I give you our royal word that our Moslem subjects shall find equal justice with our own.”

Ferdinand then hands the keys to Isabel, who passes them on to her son, Prince Juan, who in his turn gives them to the Conde de Tendila the new Alcaide of Granada.

Then, in breathless silence, the glittering group await the signal which is to make the Alhambra theirs. Isabel, her hands clasped in silent prayer, Ferdinand, casting anxious glances to the fortress-crowned hill. Behold! in the clear morning light, the silver cross borne by the Bishop of Salamanca blazes from the citadel, the red and yellow flag of Spain beside it, fluttering over the crescent banner, which is slowly withdrawn. One great shout of triumph rises to the skies; trumpets sound, artillery booms, and to the voice of the shrill clarions comes the cry: “Santiago! Santiago! for God and for Spain!” and the pious queen, hastily dismounting, enters the little chapel beside the road (that morning become a Christian church), to celebrate a solemn Te Deum to the warlike music of fifes, flutes, and joy-bells.

Such is the chapel of San Salvador on the road to Motril, the Arab walls untouched, the altar, a rude Mithrab, under a Saracenic arch, still standing, an incrusted dome overhead, edged with a coloured border, the whole a little circular interior of fit proportion, and honeycombed niches at its sides. On the outer wall an inscription, in old Spanish letters, sets forth that:

“On this spot King Boabdil met Los Reyes Catolicos, and delivered to them the keys of Granada; who, in memory of their gratitude to God for overcoming the Moors, converted this mosque into a chapel, in honour of San Sebastian.”

The sovereigns enter the city towards nightfall (dreary in that season of January, for Granada is a mountain place), the shadow of tossing plumes and glancing armour falling on fields of snow, which deaden the tramp of the war-horses and the passing of arquebusiers. But the bells ring out triumphant in the dark air, and penetrate into the deepest recesses of the Moorish patios, where every Moslem has shut himself up in black despair.

“There was a crying in GranadaWhen the sun was going down;Some calling on the Trinity,Some calling on Mahomet.Thus cried the Moslem while his handsHis own beard did tear:‘Farewell! farewell, Granada!Thou city without peer!Woe! woe! thou pride of Heathendom,Seven hundred years and moreHave gone, since first the faithfulThy royal sceptre bore.’ ”

At the door of the great mosque, the same on which the harebrained knight of Pulgar with his fifteen companions as wild as himself had fixed the tablet with the words Ave Maria, they halted. Like the chapel, it had been hastily consecrated. Here the sovereigns offered up prayer and thanksgiving.

In what part of the present cathedral did this occur? At what is now the high altar, or within the Capilla Real?

Did any wandering spirit whisper into the ear of the still beautiful queen, in the swell of the triumphant anthems which rise to celebrate her fame, that there she would lie entombed with Ferdinand by her side?

The first interview of Columbus with the queen took place in the middle of the Moorish war, when all available revenues were absorbed.

It was the Andalusian Fray Perez de Marchena, who sent him to Santa Fé, recommending him to the Bishop of Talavera, a learned prelate, at that time confessor to the queen and shortly to become Archbishop of Granada.

It was Talavera who presided at the council of Salamanca, before which Columbus exhibited his charts and detailed his projects.

Like Galileo, he was rejected as a vain dreamer, not altogether free from suspicion of magic.

A second time he came to Santa Fé, and boldly expostulated with Isabel on her backwardness.

“Her refusal,” said Columbus, “was not in consonance with the magnanimous spirit of her reign.”

The great queen was touched at the rough sincerity of his words.

“I will assume the undertaking,” was her reply, “for my own kingdom of Castile. I will pawn my jewels if the money you raise is not sufficient.”

The box or casket, with a gold pattern, which she gave him, is still preserved in the sacristy of the cathedral at Granada. He returned it to her filled with virgin gold, “As admiral, viceroy, and captain-general of all islands and continents in the western ocean,” titles which descended to his son.

The memory of Columbus (or Colon, as he is called in Spain, a name continued in his present descendants, the Duques de Veragua) is perpetuated at Seville by a large flagstone let into the marble floor in the centre of the cathedral.

A Castilia y a LeonNuovo Mundo dio Colon,

is the motto. On either side the rude outlines of two small caravels are cut, models of the vessels in which he started from Palos in Andalusia in search of the new world.