Old Court Life in Spain; vol. 2

From an open portal is disclosed a palace garden flushed with roses, and bordered by blossoming orange-trees, set in large porcelain pots. Butterflies flutter round delicate fountains banked up with tropical plants exquisite in perfume, and long vistas of bowery walks exclude the sun.

A warm and genial air beats in from without, and permeates around. Nor is the fairness of the earth less than the brightness of the sky – intensely blue, not a cloud visible; and although the Alcazar stands in the midst of a noisy city, the silence and solitude are complete.

Everything in this apartment is disposed for the king. He is greatly changed. A mortal illness has seized him, and he has barely escaped with his life. As he moves feebly along the marble floor, he is supported on either side by Don Juan de Mañara and Garcia de Padilla, then sinks exhausted upon a pile of eastern cushions prepared for him on an estrado. Naturally the two favourites, who tend him with anxious care, hate each other with the deadly bitterness of rivals, ever on the watch to turn every word and action against each other; especially Garcia de Padilla, a coarse likeness of his beautiful sister, always on the lookout for his own interests, and ready to pander to the basest vices of the king.

It would really seem as if the prayers and litanies offered up for Don Pedro’s life (especially by his Jewish subjects, whom he greatly favours) have been efficacious in saving his life.

Pale and feeble as he now appears, the steely hardness of his blue eyes is even more remarkable than in health, and the harsh intonation of his voice comes with a strange vigour from one so weak.

As he sinks exhausted on a divan, a waft of music comes from the patio without, a twanging of guitars deftly handled, and the silver tone of viols, with the clapping of hands of the Nubian slaves who swarm in the palace; the music ever and anon broken by the soft tones of a lute, played with infinite skill by a Moorish captive, whose nimble fingers mark and accentuate the rhythm.

“What do the fools mean?” demands Don Pedro, as burst after burst of music penetrates into the hall.

“Rejoicing, my lord,” answers Garcia, “at your Highness’s happy recovery.”

“Recovery —por Dios! and it was time, unless I was to chant the rest of my life in purgatory. Is it true that, counting on the report of my death, the bastard Enrique has had himself crowned at Toledo, and struts at the Alcazar like any peacock? Can it be possible my brain is weak? or was it a dream in my delirium?”

A silence follows, which neither the supple Garcia nor the politic Don Juan cares to break. Absolute quiet has been enjoined. Yet it is as much as their heads are worth not to reply.

“If you do not find your tongues quickly, my friends, the axe shall silence them for ever. Ho! slave,” and with a loud sound, he strikes with a handle of iron on a plate of steel.

In an instant the music ceases, and a gigantic Nubian, perfectly unclothed, appears armed with a marble-hilted javelin.

Something in the sudden apparition of this grotesque figure, as if the earth had opened to cast him forth, so strikes the fancy of the king that he laughs aloud.

“Begone, Hassan,” he says, “I did but jest; the necks of my loving companions are precious. But, amigos mios, I counsel you, trifle not with me. I am patient at no time, and now that my reason is scarcely settled from the disturbance it has had, I am dangerous to play with.”

“Play with!” replies Don Juan, who cares little for threats of any kind. “God forbid! Your Grace knows I fear nought. You shall judge of my faithfulness, for I am here ready to answer all you please to ask.”

“How here?” asks Don Pedro, reddening with a sudden flush. “Where else should you be?”

“Why, with the new king at Toledo,” promptly answers Mañara, nettled at the mention of the axe. “The new king, who is crowned by right and authority of the Holy Father, Urban V.; Don Pedro of Castile being legally and civilly defunct, by reason of the ban of excommunication pronounced against him, it is the fashion now to cry, ‘Long live El Rey Enrique el Caballero.’ Perhaps your Grace did not know that you were already dead?”

As he speaks an ashy pallor spreads over the king’s face, and out of his bloodless lips the words come thickly:

“So, so, at Toledo!” he gasps, clenching his hands in the cushions at his head. “Crowned? My brain turns. It was not a dream?”

“By my faith, no, an army is encamped outside on the Tagus, a garrison within. The troops a little mixed in nationality it is true, but the promise of the support of the great companies under Du Guesclin, to be sent to restore the Lady Blanche – ”

“Restore the Lady Blanche? Why, she is locked up in the castle of Talavera, out of which no woman ever came alive. It is you, Don Juan, who play the fool!” exclaims Pedro, raising himself up, and seizing him savagely by the shoulder. “By the living Christ! your life is in my hand.”

“I care not,” is the retort, shaking off the king’s hand, who, weaker than he deems himself, falls back muttering curses. “Your Grace has questioned me, I tell the truth. Don Enrique holds Toledo, the Lady Blanche is with him. Here is Don Garcia, ask him, if you doubt me. The queen, your mother, had no power to march troops against the Conde de Trastamare while you lay between life and death.”

As he speaks, a sullen fury falls on the king. He sits perfectly motionless, his head pressed between his hands.

“Call hither the Lady Padilla,” he says, in a voice so veiled it is scarcely audible.

So quickly did her presence answer the summons it would seem as though she had been hiding near at hand. Her dark face shone out against the glitter of the many-hued hall. A long white robe falls to her feet, and she waits until the king addresses her.

“In my sickness, Maria,” says Don Pedro, in a voice that still sounds unfamiliar to those around (Maria starts with an alarmed glance and looks at him), “you tended me night and day. Why were you silent on what touches me so nearly as the advance of Enrique upon Toledo and the escape of the queen?”

“Because,” answers Maria, her eyes softening into a glance of ineffable love, “your life was dearer to me than all else. What did it matter if the Bastard reigned from the Pyrenees to the Pillars of Hercules if my Pedro died?”

“There spoke the true woman!” exclaims the king. “Now, by my faith, you have conquered me, Maria, quite.” Then taking her hand, he draws her down upon the seat beside him.

“Listen to me, Juan and Garcia,” turning to them, “you know me, I am El Rey Justiciar. In evidence of the love I bear this lady, and to put to rest once for all any questions which might arise by reason of the many traitors around me, at my death, I declare as successor to the throne of Castile, the Infante Alonso, Maria de Padilla’s son. At the earliest moment our ministers shall ratify the act, and call on my nobles to do homage to him as my heir. Are you satisfied now, sweet one? This will seal the bond,” and he draws her face, glowing with triumph, towards his own, and impresses a kiss on her warm lips.

“And Blanche?” whispers Maria in an undertone, but not so low but that both Don Juan and her brother hear.

“Ah, Maria, will you still keep me to my bargain?” answers Don Pedro, with a sigh.

“Yes,” quickly responds Maria, “I do, especially now that she is at large.”

“At large? I cannot believe it. But, Maria – Blanche, divorced and dishonoured, cannot harm you. I shall never set eyes on her again.”

“Yes, sire, but as long as she lives, she will raise up France against you.”

“And if she dies, do you think they will let me bide?”

“My sister,” puts in Don Garcia, “leave the matter to the judgment of the king. Urge him no more, I pray you, at a moment he has, by such a signal act of favour, named your child successor to the throne.”

“Truly, I love not Blanche,” says Don Pedro, “I will speedily take Toledo, and imprison her where she shall not escape. But her life– ”

“Yes, her life!” cries Maria, rising from the estrado. “It is mine, you promised me. I claim it.”

“Now, por Dios, Maria, but you press me sore. Is it that you seek to be queen yourself?”

“Perhaps,” she answers, carelessly. “What if I do? Have you not told me a thousand times I was born to wear a crown?”

“This is no time for trifling,” answers Don Pedro, sternly. “I have made your son a future king. Let that suffice. The blood of Fadique clings to me still. I saw him in my fever, there, outside, in the patio, where he fell bathed in blood. And now another ghost will haunt me in that pale-faced demoiselle. So nearly had I passed into the silent land beyond the grave that to my weakened brain shadows came to me as real. I fain would add no more to that dim company which rise up in the silent night to curse me.”

As the words pass his lips, a page, fancifully attired as an Eastern slave, appears between the golden pillars of the hall, and, after prostrating himself on the ground, raises his arms aloft in Moorish fashion, and announces: “The queen-mother.”

Hastily advancing, Mary of Portugal stands before her son. On her face are the signs of deep emotion, almost of terror, as she hastily observes the impression her presence has produced.

“My son,” she says, in a low voice, “my son,” and as she speaks the words she stretches out her arms to embrace him. Then raising her head, her eyes fall upon the figure of Maria de Padilla, erect in the shadow behind, and in a moment the words she was about to utter die on her lips, and a tremor passes over her.

“You here!” her face flushing crimson, “you – Jezebel – that come between my son and me. I might have guessed it. I came to speak of mercy, before you who live by blood. Of honour – to one who never knew the word. Well do I know you and the current of your thoughts, and that you would prompt my son to an act of cruelty that will shake his very throne, and place him in the certainty of an alliance of vengeance.”

Silent, inscrutable, stands Maria, but Don Pedro interposes: “To what action do you allude, my mother?” he asks.

“What!” answers the queen, exasperated by his manner. “The intended murder of Blanche, in order that she may reign.”

“And if so,” comes from Maria, in a deep-toned voice, “Doña Maria, the Queen, what is that to you?”

“I speak not to you,” is Mary’s answer, her passion waxing hot. “I am here to address my son. Think you, sire, the Queen of France will hear unmoved that her sister’s life has been sacrificed to her? That the alliance on which you count, of Aragon and Navarre, will stand when the hosts of France, led by Du Guesclin, shall scour Castile? Already a new king has risen in Toledo who rests his title on this royal lady’s name whom this false woman would lead you to sacrifice. Restore to Blanche her rights, and the league against you will fall asunder.”

“Madam,” answered Don Pedro, “I am the guardian of the crown I wear. Meanwhile, I warn you,” and he broke off to give one of those strange discordant laughs, “that, like my sainted father, your husband, beauty with me is paramount. She whom nature crowns is queen. Behold her here,” taking Maria by the hand. “I command you, therefore, Doña Maria, my mother, in my presence to treat the Lady Padilla with the respect her many charms command. To me she is the brightest jewel in my crown, and I will prove it, too, shortly to you and all the world.”

As he paused, the queen’s countenance fell, and her whole attitude changed. Exposed to the full battery of Maria’s insolent eyes, it was she who appeared the suppliant, and Maria the queen.

“My son,” she says, speaking in a very different tone to that she used on entering, “will you not grant me the same power of speech you accord to the least of your subjects?”

“Have you any more to say, madam?” he asks, turning wearily from her. “If not, the audience is ended. When I stood in need of help in my fever and lay between life and death, you feared to enter.”

“Oh, Pedro,” cries the unhappy mother, the tears streaming down her face, “believe it not. On my knees I entreated that fiend who rules you to let me pass, and she barred my access by the guards, whom she had the insolence to command to arrest the mother of their king! It was I, as self-appointed regent, that have kept the realm together when it was believed that you were dead! That you find any troops or treasure is due to me.

“Ah! Pedro,” she continues, advancing to where he lay, and seizing one of his unwilling hands, “let us speak together alone. I would convince you that in sparing the life of Blanche you insure your own;” and she turns such an imploring glance at him, that it touches even his hard heart.

“Will it please you, fair lady, to give place for a short space to the queen-mother?” says Don Pedro, addressing Maria, whose attitude has never changed.

“Whatever your Grace commands shall be my duty to obey,” is her answer, the submission of her words contrasting strangely with the dark scowl which knits her brow.

“Be it so, sweetheart. I have that to say touching yourself, which will surprise her. It were best said in your absence.” And rising feebly upright, he leads her by the hand into the inner patio, and lover-like kisses her hand.

At this moment, Garcia de Padilla, who has remained an unobserved witness of the interview, rushes forward, and, with effusive courtesy, offers his arm to the king to assist him to his seat, bows to the ground, and is lost to view among the pillars.

Then, resuming the conversation with the queen: “You forget, my mother,” says Don Pedro, as he places her beside him (it is said, he never was more dangerous than when he assumed a gracious air), “that this demoiselle of France, who bears my name, has been convicted of incest with my brother Fadique by a council of bishops appointed for that purpose, and that, far from being a prisoner, she is at this moment free, in the city of Toledo, under the chivalric custody of my rival and successor, Enrique el Caballero. You forget I am superseded, dishonoured. Ha! ha! Yes! dishonoured by these bastards, whom you had not the sense to wring the necks of, when they were young.”

“Yes, Pedro, but I am confident all this will be set right. I have received such assurance during your illness, from Toledo, that I know you will overcome your brother whenever you take the field. As to Blanche – ”

“Yes, madam,” interrupting her, “but as yet I am too weak to wield a weapon. I think you can have little to say to me,” he adds coldly, “that the Lady Padilla could not hear. It is her son I have named my successor, and the lady declares she is my lawful wife. What if I proclaim her such to the assembled Cortes?”

“Mother of God!” cries the queen, clasping her hands, a look of absolute horror on her face, “give me patience! To be so mocked at by my son! Such madness is impossible!”

“Not a whit! Not a whit!” he exclaims, facing the infuriated queen. “Now, by the heavens above, Blanche of Bourbon shall die! And speedily too! My mind is made up.”

Alas! The strain upon the unhappy mother is too great. As the king utters these words, she staggers backwards, a deadly pallor overspreads her face, and with a wild cry of “My son! My son!” holding out her arms in the vain hope of his support, she falls fainting on the floor, and is borne away by her ladies waiting without in the Patio de las Doncellas.

CHAPTER XI

A New King – Enrique de Trastamare

AGAIN we are at Toledo, on the banks of the dark Tagus, a river full and strong, flowing for three hundred and seventy-three miles from the lonely mountains of Biscay to the port of Lisbon.

The wild and melancholy Tagus! A very river of fate, now darkly rushing beside blackening rocks, now meandering sweetly by the meadows of the Huerta del Rey, whispering by the Baths of Florinda under King Wamba’s old palace, or turning the Moorish mills which still supply the city with corn.

Many and many a tale could old Tagus tell of races come and gone since the Jews fled to Tarshish when Jerusalem was taken by Nebuchadnezzar, but black and silent it goes its way under the walls of the stuccoed palace of the Taller del Moro, where all the guests bidden to a festival were slain; the Gothic-towered church of San Juan de los Reyes, with its masses of votive chains hung outside, and the ancient synagogues of La Blanca and El Transido, trellised with honeycombed carvings on the walls, the Holy of Holies shrouded by eastern veils. An arch-ancient river, as one may say, looking into streets so narrow that Roman consuls and Gothic kings had to pass on foot or in litters.

Hebrews, Romans, Goths, and Moors have possessed Toledo, but of all it is the Moor who has most left his mark. Moorish is the Puerta del Sol by which you enter, a magnificent Arab arch blazing in the sun, and Moorish is the Alcazar which crowns the hill with its long façade of miradores and towers.

Here the new king, Enrique de Trastamare – by his own election – holds his court, accompanied by that great minister, Albuquerque, who has turned against his late master, Don Pedro, and the powerful northern noble, Don Rodrique Alvarez, who devotes his riches and his weapons to his cause.

From the first, Enrique wisely threw in his chance with the northern powers, and now the repudiation and imprisonment of Queen Blanche has given a new strength to his alliance.

The ire of the French king is greatly roused by the ill-usage of his sister-in-law; Navarre is with him to a man, and Aragon friendly.

To many, Enrique has come as a saviour to a much-tormented land. No one was safe from the attacks of Don Pedro, and his own discontented subjects appealed to the Pope, who has placed Castile under an interdict.

If Don Pedro dies, his brother will undoubtedly succeed him. If he lives, he is strong enough to fight him. As yet but a few of his allies have joined him, but report says he is speedily to be reinforced by Les Grandes Compagnies under the Constable Bertrand du Guesclin, so that the bold step of marching on Toledo was not so foolhardy an enterprise as it appears.

The adjacent hills are white with his tents, and squadrons of horse are posted low down on the banks of the Tagus to guard the bridge and the Moorish mills which supply the city with bread.

His flag – a tower on a red ground – proudly floats over the city, and men-at-arms, bowmen, soldiers, knights, and that promiscuous rabble which follows a camp, pass and repass through the narrow streets, where, side by side with the rich fruits and products of the land are locksmiths and workers in steel blades as thin and fine as a needle, yet more fatal than an axe, the heavier scimitars and broadswords in common use, and hamps and chains and locks; painters who expose gaudy likenesses of saints and madonnas; moulders of Moorish azulejo tiles, the deep rich colour lighting up the dark holes which serve for shops; skilled wood-carvers of roofs and spandrels, crests and medallions; workers in brass with forge and file; and carpenters with planks of wood and heaps of shavings – all these different trades piled pell-mell on each other.

In hot weather an awning is stretched across the calle, where a big tree leans out, serving as a lounge for Asturian porters, ready to bear any weight, close to a blank wall, with an elaborate doorway sunk into the soil, and green with mildew, leading to a synagogue up a narrow alley.

In front a paseo, or plaza, is planted with rows of trees, overhanging the gorge of the Tagus, and rough benches are set, on which two Jews are seated engaged in earnest talk.

Although under the rule of Don Pedro the Jews are in such favour that it is said by his enemies he has adopted their faith, they still, from habit, wear their national dress, a long, loosely-fitting gabardine with a girdle, long yellow boots lined with fur, and a high, square cap of a peculiar cut.

Such is the costume of the two men; the elder, Father Isaac, with the aquiline nose and piercing black eyes of his nation, his thin features ending in a long beard; the younger, Cornelius, of the same type, but ruddier and stouter, and with far less distinction in his coarse physiognomy.

“By the God of Abraham, El Caballero Don Enrique shall rue it!” speaks this one in a louder tone, seeing that the plaza is utterly deserted for the street, the hum of which reaches them dimly, broken by the continual chiming of the bells from the cathedral close by. “His entrance into the city was a surprise. Without that renegade Ben Hassan’s help, he could not have kept his unruly troops together – already the Aragonese had threatened to go back. And now he is safe in the Alcazar, and refuses to meet the bond. ‘He will pay when he is at Seville,’ he says, – very fine!”

“At Seville he will never be,” answers the elder Jew in a lower tone, a gleam of hatred lighting up his deep-set eyes, “at least, while Don Pedro lives. At no better interest can we place our gold than to maintain him who is the rightful king and the friend of Israel. Ben Hassan is a traitor, and deserves to die as a scapegoat for his people.”

“You speak well, Father Isaac,” is the rejoinder. “Think you that Don Pedro will ever forgive our tribe? His spies are everywhere; and he is sure to know, though he now lies sick at Seville.”

From long habits of caution, to this direct question the old Jew for awhile did not answer; then, with a cautious glance round to see that no one lurked among the trees, replied:

“A trusty Hebrew is on the way to Seville, to offer the king the supplies he may require; also charged with rich presents of jewels, and a crown of fine gold to Maria de Padilla. Were she queen, Israel would return to its ancient glory in the land.”

“They say Blanche of Navarre has escaped, and is in sanctuary in the cathedral. Is this true, Father Isaac?”

“I know not, for certain; but if she expects help from France, by the body of Moses, son Cornelius, before it comes Enrique will not be here.”

“I understand the will of our nation is to expel him, Father Isaac; but have they the power?”

“Gold, my son, gold is the axle on which turns the world. By this the humble Israelite is often stronger than kings. Our only danger is lest the destroying angel strike Don Pedro dead. While he lives, the protector of the Hebrews shall be richly furnished for his enterprise, and we of the tribe of Levi within this city will spread ducats broadcast to pave the way. Had it not been for that renegade Hassan (whom the Almighty consume in Gehenna), our conspiracy were already ripe.”

“And do you think this great outlay of our hard-won substance needed?” asks the younger Jew, a hungry look in his eyes, like a dog robbed of his bone. “Father Isaac, Don Pedro is not sure. May not Samuel Levi have misreckoned? A man who turns against his own blood and dabbles with Moorish superstitions is little to be counted on.”

“Impossible,” answers the elder man, his black eye lighting up with the fire of youth. “By the great Jehovah! let no such miscalculation mar our action. The oppression of ages on our nation has made us cowards. A craven race we are. We will – and we will not – if it costs us gold. Now our very existence in this land of Castile hangs on Don Pedro; Don Enrique hates us. The French will torture us and spoil us, as do the hunters for the soft fur that wraps the bosom of the hapless hare. Once let us have news from Samuel Levi that the king is recovered, and has marched from Seville upon Toledo, these hands of mine,” and he holds up his pointed, delicate fingers, “shall open to him a postern.”

“There will be much bloodshed,” answers Cornelius, thoughtfully, “and our dwellings may be sacked.”

“Bury our treasure, then, son Cornelius, we must bear that. The Hebrews in Toledo, once masters before the Moors, are still numerous. Our foes are divided. All is prepared. The bribes are ready. He can raise no gold. Already the ground is mined under his feet, and then” – and he stretches forth his hand and points to the vast expanse of river, mountain, rocky gorge, and undulating plain, the white tents of the pretender visible through the foliage – “this alien camp shall give place to the royal standard, and the Hebrew name again be raised high among the nations. Then, son Cornelius, we shall receive what interest we choose to ask for our gold.”