Old Court Life in Spain; vol. 2

“But blood will flow in rivers, my father, before that comes; who knows if not ours?”

“Speak not of it, my son,” answers the older man, veiling his face with his hands, “I love neither danger nor poison. If Blanche dies” – but what he was about to say is drowned in a tumult of voices rising from the street, and soon a rabble of boys and men fill the paseo, while below, the music of trumpets and fifes thunders through the close alley, as a gallant body of knights, attended by their esquires, march towards the old square of the Zocodover (restricted as to size, as is all else in Toledo), where the lists have been prepared for a passage of arms between the chief officers of Aragon and Navarre.

CHAPTER XII

Don Enrique and Albuquerque in Council

THE scene changes to the Arab court of the Alcazar, where, under lines of granite columns, knights and courtiers, heralds and pages, pass in and out. Nothing speaks of a city entered by surprise, and held on chance.

To look at the radiant scene, on which a fierce sun shoots down, no one would imagine that, but a few weeks since, Don Enrique was wandering over Spain, an outcast and a rebel.

Presently a burly, thick-set noble appears, wearing a dark velvet manto, high fur-edged cap, and Cordoba boots, provided with spurs which clank as he moves. His presence instantly impresses silence on those around; for Don Jaime Alvarez is as rough in his manners as are his native Asturian mountains; not a man to be trifled with at home or abroad. He at least clearly estimates the dangers of the present position, and casts a grim scowl on the frivolous idlers loitering about.

As he leans over the balustrade, halfway up the sculptured marble stair, his eye wanders round as if in search of some one, and again he frowns as he notes the careless bearing of the sentinels who guard the entrance, and the peals of laughter which break from time to time from the undercurrent of talk below.

But he has not long to wait. His satisfied glance shows it as a dark figure emerges from the crowd and he is joined by Albuquerque, much changed since his last interview with Don Pedro in the cloisters of the church of San Juan at Valladolid. The great minister, disgusted by the ingratitude of his master and the insults of Maria de Padilla, has changed sides, and is now attached to the varying fortunes of Don Enrique. He is thinner, and slightly bent, and his once commanding eyes are dimmer and sadder.

As he approaches Don Jaime, an audible sigh passes his lips. Now, instead of at once settling the affairs of state with the unruly Don Pedro, who bears more respect to him than to any one else, he must consult with a colleague who naturally regards him with suspicion as a renegade, who from a bitter enemy has become a doubtful friend.

“Shall we sit apart in the gallery?” Albuquerque asks, after ceremonious greetings have been exchanged between the rival counsellors, as they mount the steps together to the upper gallery, supported by slender pillars rising from a carved balustrade of singular richness in scroll work, stars, and arabesques; “or shall we enter the apartments?”

“The heat is great,” is the reply, “let us remain here.”

“Have you informed Don Enrique of the news?” anxiously asks Albuquerque, eyeing doubtfully the set face of the man before him. “I myself have not seen him this morning.”

“If you mean his Grace the king, I have not either,” answers Don Jaime drily, his naturally ill-favoured countenance darkening into a most unpleasant expression.

“But he must instantly know what has happened,” returns Albuquerque.

“His Grace, as I understand,” replies Don Jaime, “is somewhat indisposed, and has not yet risen.”

“Nevertheless, let us go to him instantly,” urges Albuquerque, “the greatest results depend on what has occurred.”

“I scarcely view the matter in that light,” answers the other coldly. “We conquer or we fall by the fortune of war. It is not a struggle in which a woman more or less – ”

“A woman!” breaks in Albuquerque; “but this is a queen, who carries in her hand France and Navarre. She is here, in sanctuary within the cathedral. The importance of her presence cannot be underrated.”

“It is natural that you should think so,” retorts Don Jaime, with a sneer. “You brought her into Spain to establish alliances for Don Pedro. Now these have failed, you would use her on the other side.”

“But, my lord, while we are here bandying unseemly words,” replies Albuquerque, unmoved by the covert insult implied, “time flies. Let us at once crave an audience of Don Enrique, and expose to him our views.”

“His Highness King Enrique, you mean, I presume,” replies Don Jaime, greatly nettled. “This is the second time I have corrected you, my lord minister. You, at least, should not question the title which your abandonment of his brother’s cause so greatly facilitated. This, and the excommunication of the Pope of Rome which legalised it.”

But Albuquerque was not to be drawn into further discussion on so dangerous a subject. He simply bowed and made way for the Asturian noble to pass first under the carved portal which led into the royal rooms.

In a small but lofty chamber, wainscotted with wrought walnut wood and lighted by one of those high casements which run along the front of the Alcazar and give so much dignity to the noble façade, sits Enrique el Caballero.

Quite young, but older than Don Pedro, this son of the unhappy Eleonora de Guzman has already braved death again and again with dauntless valour. In person he is tall and fair like his brothers. The same well-cut features, and chestnut hair lying in crisp, close curls under a velvet cap, thrown back on a broad, clear brow, and a skin so delicate that the choice lace collar worn at his neck is not more white.

It is not for nothing that Enrique is named El Caballero. A suave gentleness, almost feminine, is the characteristic of his face. Frank, firm, and courteous, he charms all who approach him; but when offended, like a true Spaniard, he can be both unforgiving and vindictive. A certain mobile expression about his mouth tells of strong passions ill-repressed, but the gracious smile so readily called up is as a mask to his feelings. Altogether, a man capable of the tenderest benevolence and of the bitterest hate.

Of all the children of Eleonora de Guzman, Enrique is the cleverest and the best. Often wandering alone in the mountains, and only saved from starvation by the shepherds of the grassy Biscayan valleys – fighting with the freebooters who lurk on the frontiers, escaping into Navarre, where he vainly pleads for help, or despatching unavailing offers to the French king of firm alliance and support if he places him on the throne – Enrique has ever maintained himself orthodox to the Church, and as such is openly favoured by the Pope.

Thus, little by little, he has collected a band of followers about him; and now, confident of help from France, and strengthened in his claims by the report of Don Pedro’s death, he has entered Toledo.

As he sits at a table covered with papers, a sheet of heavily-embroidered drapery at his back, a more gallant young prince would be hard to find, as, doffing for a moment his jewelled cap, he signs to Albuquerque and Don Jaime to be seated.

“To what good fortune,” he asks, “am I indebted for this early visit?”

“My lord,” replies Albuquerque, as he places himself beside the table, “I am already late in imparting the important intelligence. The Lady Blanche of Bourbon has escaped, and is now within the cathedral. Your brother, Don Pedro, is restored to health, and is advancing on this city.”

In a moment the smiling face of the young prince changes to an expression of gravest thought.

“By the bones of Santiago, this is a wondrous change!” he exclaims. “My brother, though still civilly deceased, rises from a bed of death to fight me, and the lady comes to aid me. Is she alone?”

“As far as we know,” is the reply, “one female attendant only is with her. The Lady Blanche is invaluable as a hostage.”

“In what sense?”

“Your Highness may at once dictate peace to Don Pedro by giving her up.”

“Never!” cries Don Enrique. “Even to speak of it is a crime. My lord,” rising and turning sharply on Albuquerque, “you forget whom you now serve. The perfidious policy of my brother never shall be mine.”

“I do not advocate perfidy,” is the dignified reply of the unmoved statesman, “but it is my duty to point out your Grace’s present advantage.”

“Away with such proposals!” exclaims Enrique, his cheeks reddening under the waves of chestnut hair. “By the Queen of Heaven! I hold you a poor counsellor to advocate such crooked means. As a sister I greet her and will protect her. Her youth and hapless fate touch me deeply. Poor Fadique! how well he loved her! It cost him his life.”

After this brief passage of arms between the new king and his former enemy, Enrique reseats himself, his face still aglow with emotion, and signs to Albuquerque, who has also risen, to do the same. It is the minister who speaks first, with the imperturbable composure of a man who cares no more for the chances of life than for the throw of dice upon a board.

“Your Grace is sure of the support of the Great Companies, if you can hold Toledo until they arrive.”

“If,” quickly rejoins Don Enrique. “If, where is the doubt? Look out beyond,” and he points to the opposite hills over the dark gorge through which the Tagus flows; “are not those our tents glistening in the light? Are not those our standards flying in the wind? The lances of our gallant squadrons of horse catching the sun? Below our body of archers, whose special charge it is to guard our person? Does all Spain show a company of men more gallant? Every one of them would die rather than harm come to me! Listen to the trumpet-call ringing on the heights! Hark! it is answered from the garrison within the city. Are these not more than enough to keep possession of what we have?”

A long silence follows.

“God forbid, your Grace,” Albuquerque replies, while the triumphant glances of Don Jaime seem to shame the coldness of his manner, “that I say aught to arrest the natural ardour of so chivalrous a prince. But there are many dangers which make me venture to suggest a peace. Your Highness entered Toledo by surprise; a strong party, especially among the Jews within the city, favours your brother. Your army is made up of many ill-assorted elements. The Castilian hates the Aragonese; the men of Portugal are jeered at for their coarseness by such French mercenaries as have joined your standard. Toledo is a large and straggling city, ill-calculated to resist a siege without a much larger garrison than you possess. And as to his Grace, my late master, who knows but that his sickness is but a feint to put you off your guard? True that the Lady Blanche is here, and that both France and Navarre may send reinforcements, as soon as time allows, but they are not here. Besides, our funds run low. The devil take the Hebrews in this city! The interest they demand is so exorbitant I know not where to find money to pay the troops, who are already clamouring for pay.”

“The chance of war, the chance of war!” cries Don Enrique, chafing under these prudent considerations. “Fortune favours the bold. Had I reasoned thus on the rugged slopes of the Asturias, I should not be sitting now within these walls. What say you, Don Jaime, ever so faithful to me in all changes?”

“I say that your Grace is born to reign.”

“Yes,” is the reply, “there is something within me that tells me so. No matter what happens, my star will prevail. The throne, the throne, nothing but the throne!” As he speaks an almost glorified look shines on his face, in which all the charm of the expression is brought out by a radiant smile, as he gazes over the expanse of city and plain to the snow-tipped range of Guadarrama, dim in the distance.

“Does he see visions, this boy?” thought Albuquerque, gravely observing him and but little impressed by this outburst of youthful confidence. “Pardon me, my lord, if I recall you to the present time. You will surely at once visit the Lady Blanche, and free her from the discomforts of the cathedral; the worthy chapter will be at a loss how to entertain so delicate a princess.”

“Yes, yes, I will at once proceed to the cathedral to offer her such hospitality as a soldier can command. Call the jefe of my household, and cause the state apartments to be prepared as are fitting for her, and such attendants as have escaped with her.”

“And what is far more important,” adds Albuquerque, “I will send off instant despatches to the most Christian king, informing him of the presence of his kinswoman, and urge on him the need of quick support.”

“May the Christian king not chance to remember that it was you, Albuquerque, who brought her into Spain? The sight of your name may raise suspicion. But no matter,” observing the frown which rises on his face at the ill-timed jest. “By my faith! I would not be in the shoes of the Governor of Talavera, who has favoured the queen’s escape; for favour her he must, else she never would have passed the gates of that invincible fortress. Pedro will invent new tortures to punish him; what say you, Albuquerque?” and more than a touch of irony betrays itself in Don Enrique’s voice as he recalls the sufferings the policy of Albuquerque have entailed on him. “Your kinswoman, Maria, too, will have a new grudge against me, and work some diabolical charm. Methinks I see myself in effigy, burning upon a blazing pile, my life-blood ebbing as, drop by drop, the wax falls into the flame! Ha! ha! If it were only with witches and warlocks I had to do! But God is with the just! and the Holy Father’s blessing is potent.”

No answering look of mirth responded to his words; a sad expression was on the fallen minister’s brow as he gravely saluted and quitted the chamber, leaving Enrique and Don Jaime to arrange the preparations for his immediate visit to the cathedral.

CHAPTER XIII

Queen Blanche in Sanctuary

THE bright morning which broke so auspiciously at the Alcazar has darkened. The deep shadows of gathering clouds press up from the horizon and veil the city in a soft mist. The many towers and domes of the Cathedral rise up like landmarks on a shadowy sea; the delicate tracery of the gilded spire, capped by a crown of thorns, catching some latent sunbeam hidden in the lining of a cloud, alone stands out apparent in the gloom.

Like the Cathedral of Seville, the original Gothic church, in which the Wambas and the Witicas had worshipped according to the Gothic creed from the earliest ages, had become a mosque under the Moors, to be again consecrated by San Fernando, who, smelling blasphemy in the very walls, pulled them down and laid the foundations of the present church, finished two centuries later, in the florid style of that barocco union of the east and west so common in Spain.

Nothing can be worse than the situation. It stands absolutely in a hole. But it is within that this shrine of marble is wonderful. The clustered pillars of five vast naves, a marble space in the centre as wide and long as a hippodrome, the solid bulk of the retablo a blaze of gold, separating the high altar from the nave; the sculptured semi-circle of the absis broken by chapels, niches, shrines, and tombs sunk in the deepness of shadow, where kings and archbishops repose; the superb pavement in marble, lapis lazuli, porphyry, and agate lighting up the floor, rare pictures on the walls, statues, carvings, and huge bronze doors leading into the choir, the double pulpits coated with gold, the glorious screen in alto relievo, and the superbly painted windows casting down warm shadows as of ruby, emerald, and sapphire on the floor.

Deeper and deeper fall the shadows, and more and more solemn gathers the half-light, save for a glimmer far in the distance where a dim lamp burns before an altar of most delicate tracery flanked by two lofty windows, the front shut in by a brazen rail, while a lacelike shroud of exquisite stonework rises behind, reaching as with giant leaps to the heavily groined roof.

In the farthest corner, crouching beside the altar, sits Blanche, her feet resting on an embroidered cope, brought by the pitying priests, Claire close beside her. Both are so still in the waves of gloom outside, that they might pass for statues on a tomb, pressed close together, habited in hood and cape as Carmelites.

“I shall die,” whispers Blanche, “if no one comes before night,” and a cold shudder passes over her.

“Dear Blanche, keep a good heart, after all we have gone through. Here at least we are safe. I wish to heaven,” adds Claire, “he were, who has staked his life to bring us here.”

“Ah, Claire, you are in love, and that comforts you. I have no one to care for me since I parted with Fadique, God grant that he is saved. But, Claire, are you quite sure that the priest understood he was to inform the Conde de Trastamare that I am here?”

“Yes,” is the answer; “what a miracle it was that he is in possession of Toledo. Had it been Don Pedro, he would have broken the sanctuary as sure as fate.”

“I should like to see this Enrique de Trastamare,” whispers Blanche, her white face lighting up for an instant at the thought of a possible protector. “I am sure he is good, because he fights against that horrible monster Pedro. After all, I am a queen; the King of France will rescue me. You remember the Governor of Talavera said the French were marching on Toledo, and that was why we were to come here. For my part I would have rather gone in quite another direction, towards Navarre. Ah! how I tremble when I think of it all, and that mule that kicked me off, just as we were leaving the castle by the narrow path! I wonder I was not killed; I am sure I am bruised!”

“And our danger,” adds Claire, glad to see Blanche’s mind disengaged from the continual terror she endures, “when we passed the outer tents of the encampment, in our Carmelite disguise (how clever of the governor to think of it), and those soldiers asked us so rudely if we would absolve them! Oh, how I shake when I think of it. All seemed over with us; and so it would have been, if that handsome Aragonese knight had not come up, and perceived from our accent that we were French, and conducted us across the lines,” here Claire breaks off with a heavy sigh, and Blanche kisses her tenderly and inquires what ails her.

“Can you ask? When you know I cannot tell if he is safe across the frontier, my valiant Raoul! Alas! alas! if he falls into Don Pedro’s hands! Oh, the noble heart!” and she puts her hands before her eyes to shut out the horrid image her fancy has called up. “When he gave his love to me, I told him he must save my queen, else I would never look at him!”

“But this is a fearful place!” cries Blanche in a louder voice, peeping out into the nave, the desolation of her position coming over her. “Do you hear that noise!” as a sudden echo rebounds from aisle to aisle. “I am sure there are spirits here,” and trembling all over, she clings to Claire.

“Be comforted, my queen. Some one will come. The priest who serves us is very kind, and he assured me of the favour of the chapter. Believe me, we shall not be forgotten. Collect yourself, dear princess. You know what Raoul said of Don Enrique?”

“Oh, I am dead of cold and fright!” answers Blanche, bursting into tears. “I care not if I die – one stab and all is over! I dream every night of Don Pedro, a dagger in his hand, and just as I am about to escape, the point falls here,” and she lays her hand upon her neck. “I know it will end so. All die who offend Don Pedro.”

“See!” cries Claire, as the darkness enveloping the lengthening lines of the gigantic pillars lifts, and a glint of light strikes like living fire on the famous statue of the Virgin, recovered from the Moors by San Fernando, seated upon an altar on a silver throne, and glittering with jewels, an exquisite canopy of fretted pinnacles of saints shrouding it, “See! the Holy Mother herself has come to comfort us.”

CHAPTER XIV

Don Enrique Welcomes Queen Blanche to Toledo

HOURS pass, struck out from the Giralda tower in many-toned bells, each bell with its own name and recognised by its tone. Figures had glided in and out, dwarfed to pigmies by the vast size. Groups had formed at distant shrines, to vanish as they came. Veiled women had knelt on the marble pavement, and a crowd had gathered round a preacher in a far-off aisle.

At length, when hope seemed dead, the shrill blast of trumpets and the clatter of horses’ feet came to the ears of the ever-watchful Claire, from the direction of the Puerta de los Leones, dull at first, and low, but marvellously distinct.

Then steadily advancing footsteps are heard approaching, the heavy tread as of a company of armed men whose mailed feet fall heavy on the marble pavement.

With beating hearts Blanche and Claire start to their feet to await their doom.

The glare of many torches is thrown forward, calling up fantastic shapes; an armed figure emerges, clearly defined against the light, a long Castilian sword at his side, and a mailed hand is stretched forward.

“Welcome to Toledo, madam,” says the voice of Enrique de Trastamare. “Never could we have esteemed ourselves more happy in the fortune of war than by your presence.”

As he speaks Blanche throws herself at his feet; her veil falls back. She weeps, but her tears do not mar the fresh beauty of her face.

“Save me, my lord!” she cries. “Save me, for the love of God.”

She clasps her hands, as if addressing a deity. Her sobs drown her voice, which still murmurs, “Save me! Save me!”

Enrique’s eyes fill with tears. He stoops and raises her, imprinting on her cheek a royal kiss of welcome.

“You will not betray me to Don Pedro?” she whispers, seizing his mailed hand.

“Betray you!” he answers, greatly moved. “Rather die! If I am a crowned king, I am no less a belted knight. There is no right of chivalry more precious than the succour of distress, especially that of a royal lady allied to us by marriage. Our entrance into the city of Toledo was by surprise; there are here no noble ladies to form your court at the Alcazar; but such rough welcome as a soldier can afford is yours, fair queen. I pray you to honour our quarters with your presence, where I have already ordered such preparations to be made as are possible.”

Something in the voice and aspect of Enrique so powerfully reminded Blanche of Fadique, that she remained utterly speechless, to the great distress of Claire, who whispered into her ear, “For the sake of the Virgin, who has sent him, thank him as he deserves.”

Enrique, quickly penetrating the sense of the words, saluting her graciously, replied:

“I desire no thanks from the queen. If I did, I much mistake me if the noble demoiselle with whom I speak could not as fittingly reply as her mistress.”

At this compliment, spoken with all the charm of Spanish gallantry, Claire blushes deeply, and holds down her head.

“Pardon me, my lord,” and Blanche stops suddenly as Enrique draws her gently forward in the direction of the portal, “if I ask of the welfare of your brother, the Grand Master?”

Her voice trembled as she named him, and her face grew ashy white. Instead of answering her, Enrique paused abruptly and laid his disengaged hand on her shoulder, as if to support her. His silence, and the care with which he bore her up alarmed her. Slowly she turned her eyes upon his face, clouded by grief, and a faint cry escaped her.

“Is he dead?” she asked, in a voice almost inaudible.

“He is,” was the answer.

“By whose hand did he fall?”

“By that of my brother, Don Pedro. He called him to the Alcazar, and smote him in the Hall of the Ambassadors at Seville.”

Exhausted by the long ride from Talavera, the vigil in the cathedral, and the agitation of meeting with Don Enrique, this cruel blow was too much. Ere he had spoken Blanche fell into a swoon so death-like that as Claire knelt before her under the glare of the torches, she asked herself if life would ever return?

Great was the compassion of Don Enrique as he looked down on her fair young face.

“Let the nearest leech be summoned instantly,” he commands, turning to an attendant. “Meanwhile, ask the good fathers if they have no strong waters to sprinkle on the queen, or no relics at hand which, by their virtue, will bring the dead to life. Even I, a soldier, have heard in camp of the virtue of Santa Leocadia, whose bones lie in the Sacristy. Let every means be tried. Madam,” turning to Claire, vainly trying by every art to revive her mistress, “my royal sister is happy indeed to possess such a friend; I will myself remain and assist you.”