Patrañas

Don Diego, with all his fortitude, could not keep himself from falling on his son’s neck in an agony of despair. Rodrigo himself was shaken by his father’s grief. And all the nobles gave signs of compassion at the misfortune of one so young and brave.

Xiména had kept herself proud and erect while the gladsome welcome had sounded in her ears as an injury to Conde Lozano’s memory. But when she saw the scene of mourning around her, despair took possession of her too, and she fell into Urraca the Infanta’s arms.

“It is because you would not take my advice, and look at him,” whispered Urraca. “Had you looked on his noble face, you never could have done it.”

“I knew it, and therefore I dared not look,” she replied.

“Look at him now,” pleaded Urraca.

The guards were leading him out, and his head was bent to the ground; but at that moment their eyes met, and both felt that he must not die.

That night he was in his prison. She could not rest in her chamber: the guard had respect for her orders, for she was an earl’s daughter, and he let her stand behind an arch where she could hear him talking with his faithful esquire.

“Think no more of Xiména,” said the esquire: “she loves you not.”

“Nay, say not so,” he answered. “Wrong her not. I know she loved me, and she could not change; therefore she loves me yet. As she was to me when I encountered the Conde, so was I to her when she denounced me to the king; and in what she has done to honour her father’s memory, she has shown her true nobility.”

“It may be very grand,” said the esquire, “but it is yet hard you should have to die.”

“Hard! Of what use would life be to me if Xiména will not be mine? I have only one use for it; and if she requires it of me, it is a joy to yield it up at her behest.”

When Xiména heard him express so much devotion for her, and judge her so justly and tenderly, she could bear to hear no more, lest her tears should betray her. She withdrew to her chamber, but could not sleep; but when her tired eyelids, weary with watching, closed, there seemed to come a sweet, soft voice, as of an angel, which spoke of pardon and forgiveness, and of mercy more sweet than justice. And before her eyes there floated visions of terrible Moorish hordes encompassing her native land, spreading fire and sword over its smiling plains; and there rode out against them a single youth, clad in bright armour, and wherever he raised his flashing sword the ranks of the enemy gave way and fled before him.

And when the morning light came in, and chased these phantasms away, she rose and went to the king, and asked the liberation of him whose condemnation she had sought yesterday.

Then the king saw that his stratagem had answered well, and that he had done right to trust to her woman’s heart. So he ordered Rodrigo to be brought forth, and pronounced him free. And then he joined their hands and gave them to each other, and told them they were worthy of each other, for each had preferred a father’s honour before the love of their own heart; and now it was his royal will that they should forget the past, and live for each other in the future.

RAGUEL; OR, THE JEWESS OF TOLEDO

Alfonso VIII., King of Castille, succeeded to his throne in troublous times. His native country was overrun and subjugated by a people alien in nationality and religion, and his own particular dominions were a prey to civil dissensions, which had gathered strength during his minority. The Pope, Innocent III., seeing how he was beset, had called on other Christian nations to assist him in resisting the encroachments of the Moors; and these auxiliaries had unhappily shown themselves disorderly and rapacious, wasting the territory they had come to protect. By his prudence, Alfonso found the means to remedy all these disorders in turn. His French, German, and English allies he dismissed to their own homes without involving himself in any quarrel with them. He established tolerable order and harmony among the rival families of the nobility, and he struck a blow against the Moors which they never recovered, and which deserves to be remembered as one of the noblest achievements in the history of Christendom. After driving their hordes before him across the Sierra Morena, he gave them battle at a place called Las Navas de Tolosa, undismayed by their overpowering numbers. During the early part of the day, it had seemed impossible to resist their countless hordes. “Father,” said Alfonso, turning to the Archbishop of Toledo, “here are we called upon to lay down our life for the Faith.” “Nay,” answered the prelate, with almost prophetic instinct, “say, rather, here are we called to establish the triumph of the Faith.” The cross-bearer, filled with ardour at the words, rushed into the thickest of the fray; the Christian soldiery hastened to protect the venerated sign, and so great was the enthusiasm which Alfonso’s bravery kindled, that the infidel host was entirely routed, and its commander ran away into Africa.

Yet, notwithstanding his bravery and his wisdom, Alfonso, like King Solomon of old, found it a harder matter to govern himself than to govern his kingdom; and though he had vanquished his adversaries, he suffered himself to be led away by his passions.

At Toledo, now a splendid ruin, then the magnificent capital of his kingdom, was a beautiful Jewish maiden, named Raguel or Rachel, for whom he conceived a strong attachment. Now the precepts alike of his religion and of his high position precluded his union with a Jewess and an obscure person, yet for all this he refused to part from her. The voice of the Archbishop, which had so notably animated his drooping spirits on the field of battle, was powerless with him now; and he warned him in vain for seven years.

Mindful of the services he had rendered them, and for which they had awarded him the appellation of “the Noble,” the people bore with the scandal all these years in silence, though with averted faces; but at last, when they found him gradually more and more unmindful of his former virtues, and all his prowess forgotten that he might squander his time and his revenues on the fancies of the Jewish maiden, murmurs began to arise, and they determined to deliver their noble king from her enchantments.

Hernan García de Castro and Alvar Fañez, two of the highest nobles of Castille, were foremost in leading the resolve of the people, and urging it on the king. They had never failed his summons in the hour of danger, they had fought bravely by his side against their country’s enemies, and their virtue and valour gave weight to their words. Yet the king was so tardy in attending to them that the people lost all patience.

The king was keeping his court in the sumptuous Alcázar, the palatial fortress whose ruins even yet strike the traveller with admiration. Abandoning himself to the enjoyments of the delightful spot, Raguel and he sat one day, surrounded by their favourites and flatterers. “May divine Raguel’s surpassing beauty ever continue to be the aurora of Toledo, ever enamel its brilliant sunlight!” said one of their minstrels, to the accompaniment of his joyous instrument.

“May she rejoice in her surpassing beauty as many ages as there are sands of gold93 under the limpid torrent of crystal Tagus!” responded another.

Suddenly there burst on their affrighted ears the noise of a tumultuous gathering of people. The venal minions fled. The king, still worthy of himself, rose to show himself to his people, and Raguel was left alone to hear her sentence pronounced in ominous shouts from without: —

“Muera Raguel, para que Alfonso viva!”“Rachel must die, that Alfonso may live!”

García de Castro stood between the king and his angry people. The king called him a traitor; and he knelt and laid his sword at his feet, offering willingly to receive sentence of death if he could be proved a traitor, but insisting on being heard first. He then exposed to the king the wrongs of which his people complained. He asked him of what use were all the laurels he had gathered in the earlier part of his reign, if they were to be hung up to wither out of sight.

“Corn cannot ripen if the sun withhold its rays, flowers will not flourish if the gardener neglect to water them, neither can the Castilian people prosper if their king hide himself from them.” So well did the intrepid García plead the right cause, that the king, overcome by his righteous arguments, promised to be himself again, to dismiss Raguel, and live once more for his subjects.

Delighted with his promise, the people returned peaceably to their homes.

The king, however, was not so strong as he thought. He imagined he had conquered himself, and went to take leave of Raguel. But the beautiful Jewess had no idea of letting him off so easily. Decked in her most captivating attire, she came out to meet him, and with her graces and tears succeeded so well in undermining his determination, that his promise was forgotten; and, like the phœnix from its ashes, Raguel rose more powerful than ever, and more dangerous too, for now a struggle had begun between her and the people – one or the other must be vanquished.

Infatuated by her entreaties, the king went so far as to place her on the throne. The indignation of the Castilians at seeing a low-born Jewess on the ancient seat of their monarchs, can scarcely be conceived; but it overflowed all bounds, when decree after decree went forth, heaping taxes on the Christian population and exemptions on the Jews – when proscriptions and executions of the highest in the land were threatened, and the noble García himself was sent into exile.

In this last step Raguel had outwitted herself. García gone, there was no one to act as moderator of the people. They rose in mass and stormed the palace; assembling in the basilica, they solemnly pronounced her worthy of death as an enemy of their king and country, and with desperate resolve drew their swords and turned to execute their award on the spot.

The king was absent on a hunting expedition; but García, who had heard of the new rising of the people, risked his life by infringing the sentence of banishment in order to save the life of his persecutor.

He succeeded in reaching her before the people had made their way into her apartment, and telling her of her danger, urged her to fly. But, loth to lose her high position, she refused, calling on her guards to defend her. The Castilian guards, however, refused to draw on their countrymen in defence of a Jewess. Meantime the people streamed in, and rushed upon her.

“Stay,” said García, “stain not the bright steel of your Toledan blades with blood which belongs only to the sword of the executioner.”

And his voice acted for a moment like the spell upon them.

But they were determined not again to leave it in her power to trample on their ancient institutions, and once more turned to slay her.

Then Alvar Fañez drew from his hiding-place behind the throne, a trembling Jew, who had been Raguel’s minister in her elevation, but had not the courage to defend her now, and compelled him to be her executioner.

The king, hastily recalled from the chase, arrived but in time to see her expire. In the first burst of grief and fury he would have steeped his sword deep in the blood of his subjects; but once more the good García interposed, and by his temperate counsels recalled him to reason. When the violent throbbing of his agony had subsided, he acknowledged that his people had acted as a wise surgeon, that he alone had been in fault, that his punishment was deserved, and once more he was hailed as

Alfonso el Noble

DON JAIME DE ARAGON

The good King of Aragon whom men call Jaime, was wondrous brave. Day and night he bethought him by what new means he could increase the glory of the Christian faith, and lay low the power of the usurping Moor.

He called together the nobles of every degree belonging to his kingdom, the archbishops and prelates, and all the orders of knights, and summoned them to meet him in his good town of Zaragoza on a certain day.

When they had all come together, he spoke thus to them: – “My soul is greatly grieved that our fair Island of Mallorca94 should remain in the hand of the Moor; the voice of our Divine religion is silenced, and Al Korán is openly taught. The noble seaport of Valencia, too, so rich and flourishing, which the Cid won back for us once, to our shame is now retaken by the infidel. Now I have resolved that I will spare nothing, not even my own life, to recover these two strongholds. For I trust in the protection of Christ, that He will give us the victory according to our prayers. To this end, then, I have called you together, to tell you this my resolve, and to seek your counsel as to the means of compassing it.”

To which they all responded with a shout of confident joy: – “Be it done in the Name of God, that which his Highness desires; for in an undertaking so honourable our goods and our lives shall not fail him!”

The bearers of all the noble names of Aragon sent forth their sons that day; and Barcelona by the sea welcomed them, and gave them all provisions for the undertaking with no measured hand. She found them ships too to take over their arms and men. And when the king found all was ready and nothing wanting, he took his place on the ship, and his nobles followed round him. At break of day next morning the trumpet gave a blast, and so they set sail, that gallant host, with shouts and tears of joy, all the brave colours waving which they had borne in many a fight. The cross they bore aloft, and the Virgin Mary’s image, and that, too, of St. George, who always watched over Aragon.

Proudly they skimmed the water, the oars of the galleys cut the waves, and the white sails cut the air; for they knew that there gazed upon them, from out Monjuy so high, the ladies fair they had left behind, praying for victory.

Now as they neared Mallorca, the Moors were all amazed; to their shores they rushed in sudden haste, striving vainly to drive back the Christian host. So a bloody fight ensued; but the Christians won the day; and with the help of God the cross was raised once more on all the islands near.

They then came back by Valencia, laid siege to its strong walls; nor could its fortifications stand before their impetuous onset. So good King Jaime of Aragon came home covered with glory and renown.

DON ALONSO DE AGUILAR

The hosts of King Don Ferdinand were gathered under his banner to go out and recover Granada from the dominion of the Moors. All the nobles of Spain were there in their strong shining armour of wrought steel inlaid with gold. It was St. Michael’s day in the morning, and the king called the principal of them into his tent, and thus said to them: – “Who will be the knight who, to show his prowess and to cover his name with glory in succeeding generations, will go up for me to the Snowy Sierra95.”

But the nobles looked one on the other, and no one said “I will;” for if it was a perilous adventure to go, the return was utterly uncertain. And for the fear that filled them, you could see their very beards tremble.

Then arose Don Alonso, who was called “of Aguilar,” and said, “Good King, I will go. This enterprise is such as I seek. I have no desire in life but to die defending my country from the infidel folk; and may Christ give me the mastery!”

So he put on his armour before the king – his armour all damascened with gold, and bestrode his noble steed, and slung his broad shield on his arm, and took in his hand a stout lance with a sharp iron head. Right valiant he looked in his might as he rode at the head of his troop.

And they crossed the Snowy Sierra and soon came in sight of the Moors. And the Moors poured down upon them so closely that they were well-nigh overwhelmed by numbers. Then the Christian ranks gave way, and began to fly from the face of the Moor.

Now, when brave Don Alonso saw them give way, he called to them with a mighty voice and said, “Turn! caballeros, turn! Turn back to the battle; for though they against us be many, a coward still is he who shows fear! Remember the mighty deeds of your old Castilian fathers. Better is it here to die in the noble profession of arms, than to crawl back to your firesides and live a dishonoured life. Thus dying you will live, for your fame shall be sung throughout Spain; for life soon comes to an end, but honour dieth never!”

At these generous words they felt their hearts come back; each seemed filled with a giant’s strength, and fought till the Moors stretched him dead.

Don Alonso remained the last, still brandishing his gory lance, and ever and anon charging the Moors with an impetuosity none could resist.

But when the Moors saw their heroes thus mown down, wounded and dead, with one consent they agreed to attack him on all sides at once. There he sat erect on his charger; his eye was full of fire, his shield shone bright on his arm – dented, indeed, but not pierced, and in his hand his stout, unbroken lance. But though his horse was so high, there lay round him such a heap of slain, that when the Moors came to the attack, as they climbed on the fallen bodies they found themselves raised to his level.

On they came with frightful algazara96; and, stout in each other’s presence, they charged, and thrust, and charged again. The boldest ventured in front, but before they came within reach of his lance their brethren had pierced him from behind; and before he could turn to repay them, those who had been in front thrust him in the side. And they thrust his bonny horse, too; and the horse and his rider fell there, where they stood, crowning the mound of the slain. Sixteen lances had pierced Don Alonso – pierced him through and through.

But Don Alonso that day had inflicted a loss on the Moors which filled them with confusion and dismay. Then, from out their ill-guarded camp, came running a Christian captive; it was she who in days gone by had brought up the young Don Alonso.

Guided by the instinct of a mother, she at once descried his form as it lay crowning the heap of the victims of his prowess.

So she fell on his neck and wept, and wept till she swooned away, and wept when she woke again. And she stroked his long, dark hair, and his cheek that was ashy pale; and his eyes, that could never more see her, she closed with a mother’s care. Then she wrung her fair, white hands, and she raised her cry to God; and her cry must have pierced the clouds as it pierced the hearts of men.

“Don Alonso! my Alonso!” she cried. “Now, God receive thy soul; for the cruel Moors have killed thee, the Moors of Alpujarra! And now all Spain shall mourn thee, mourn thee as a mother mourns, lamenting thine early death! And King Ferdinand shall mourn thee, for he has never a knight like thee! Aguilar and Montilla shall mourn thee, for they’ll ne’er have a lord like thee! And all the host shall mourn thee, for not one has a comrade like thee! But the angels in heaven mourn not, for my boy is among them with joy; for he died resisting the pagans who devoured his country fair.”

So she tried, but in vain, to smile, for her mother’s heart was weak; and in the effort it broke, and she fell icy cold at his feet.

Now an ancient Moor came by, whose beard was long and grey; and she lay so helpless there, he saw he had nothing to fear, so he drew his scimitar, and with stealthy steps crept near and severed her dying head, holding it up by the long dark hair.

By the long dark hair he bore it, to lay at the feet of the king. Now the Moorish king rejoiced when he knew Don Alonso was dead, Don Alonso of Aguilar; so he told them to take his body, and that of his mother as well, and bear to Don Fernando, the king.

And Don Fernando said, “Good service this day was done by Alonso of Aguilar; and though by the Moors he has died, his memory yet shall live; his deeds shall clothe every knight, in the fancy of every Moor, with power to equal the prowess of Alonso of Aguilar.”

THE BLACK CHARGER OF HERNANDO

Hernando was a poor knight, who had spent all in the service of his country. He had nothing to call his own but his stout armour, his high-couraged black charger, and his bold lance; and with these he was ever in the thickest of the fray against the Moors. But at last his turn came; and in return for the losses he had caused them, the Moors contrived to surround and slay him.

Now, when his black charger knew that his master was wounded to death, like a valiant steed true to his Christian master, he turned and bore him out of the fight to a lonely dell, where a pious hermit might minister the last consolations of religion to his parting soul. But a sordid Moor, seeing the helpless dying man thus borne along, determined to possess himself of his stout armour and his bold black charger; he followed with fruitless attempts to arrest the gallant beast until it pleased him to stop before the hermit’s cell, where it waited patiently while they lifted the sacred burden down – the hermit and the Moor together; for the Moor desired to possess himself of the outer shell of his armour, and the hermit, the inner shell, namely, his body, that the kernel, that is his soul, might go up holy and clean before God. Then his soul had scarcely passed away, when the Moor stripped him of his armour, and packed it all safely on the back of the black charger, and prepared to lead him home, for he was afraid himself to mount him. But the black charger no sooner perceived his dear master’s remains safe in the care of the hermit, to bury them, and his armour safe in his own, than he started off at his wildest speed, leaving the Moor who had ventured to lay his infidel hands on the reins, to measure his length in the dust. And on and on he went, nor stopped till he reached Hernando’s hillside home.

Doña Teresa, his wife, had never ceased every day to look out for her Hernando’s return. And when she saw his black charger, bearing his empty armour, she knew at once all that had come to pass; and like a noble Christian spouse, she had the strength to thank God that her Hernando had spent his life in the service of his religion and his country. Then she took his precious armour and laid it safely by, and she caressed the gallant black charger, and led him away to his fresh-littered stall.

Then every day she tried the armour on the young Hernando, and made him bestride the black charger, that he might be a valiant slayer of Moors like his father.

Now young Hernando was slight, and young Hernando was pale. And he shrank from the cold, hard armour, and the tall, snorting steed. But his mother Teresa was brave, brave as became a Christian spouse, and she listened not to his fears; but bade him be of good heart, and put his trust in Christ.

And at last the day came when she bade him go forth and do battle to the Moors. Young Hernando’s heart beat high, for his spirit indeed was willing; and he burned to add his name to the long traditions of prowess which his mother told him of his house. But his arm was all untried, and he shrank from the thought of pain, for the young tender flesh was weak. But he would not belie his mother, so he crossed the bold black charger; and the noble charger snorted, when he felt that once more he bore a Christian to the battle. By night they travelled on; and by day they slept in the shade. In the morning, when the sun began to dawn, they rose, and set out on their way; and as they crossed a plain, young Hernando saw a tall Moor coming towards them. And his heart smote him for fear; and he would gladly have turned out of the way. But he bethought him it became not a Christian to shrink away before a Moor; so he nerved him with what courage he might, and rode on steadily along his way.

Now, when the bold black charger scented the Pagan hound, he snorted, and shook his mane, and darted to the encounter. So young Hernando was borne along, and found himself face to face with his foe. Then his father’s shield rose to protect him; and the lance lifted up his arm; and the black charger rode at the Moor; and the lance cast him down from his seat. Then the sword leaped from its scabbard, and planting itself in young Hernando’s grasp, struck off the pagan’s head.

So Hernando tied the head to his saddle and bound the body upon its mule. Thus he rode on to the town – to the town of Royal Burgos. And when the people saw him bestriding the bold black charger, the grisly head hanging from his saddle, and the headless body following behind, bound fast to the African mule, they cried, “All hail to the victor! All hail to young Hernando, who conquered the pagan Moor!”