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CHAPTER XXVI
The Cid – 1037

NOW we come upon a larger view, a more extended horizon of Old Court Life, hitherto shut up in the pastoral city of Leon.

Don Fernando el Magno is king. He has transferred the Christian capital to Burgos on succeeding to the states of Leon, Castile, and Galicia by the death of his brother-in-law, Bernardo the Third, in right of his wife, Doña Sancha.

Succeeded is hardly the fit word, for Fernando actually slew Bernardo in the battle of Tamara, clearing thus for himself the way; for Bernardo’s sister Sancha was the last of the second line of the Gothic kings descended from Pelayo.

From the time of Fernan Gonzales, Castile became a kingdom instead of a county, as the Conde would have had it, only he died too soon; and though still mixed up in continual battles with the Moors about Saragossa, Toledo, Merida, Samego, and Badajos (each town and city a small kingdom of its own), the greater part of the north-centre of Spain belonged to the Christians, rough warriors for the most part and fond of fighting, of little education, narrow-minded, poor, and rapacious. So poor indeed and rapacious that they constantly served the Moors against themselves as condottieri, or mercenaries, as is heard of later in French and Italian wars.

Now the Moors might be cruel and bloodthirsty, but their crimes were those of a highly civilised race, the very salt of the earth compared to the Gothic Spaniards – only the Moors were falling gradually asunder by reason of dissensions amongst the various races of which the nation was composed.

So the Christians grew bold as the others waxed weak, and though Fernando el Magno committed the folly of dividing his kingdom among his five children, it all came together again under his unscrupulous successor, Alonso el Valiente, sixth of that name (1173).

Fernando el Magno was out and out the most powerful king that had reigned in Spain since the time of Roderich. He held an iron grip on the Moors, with great cities tributary to him. In fact, it was only the payment of heavy tribute which kept them in possession so long. Money was money in those days, from whatever source it came, and in the impoverished north there was little of it.

Fernando was a good king, according to his lights, upon whose conscience the murder of his brother-in-law Bernardo lay lightly. Had he not slain Bernardo, Bernardo would undoubtedly have killed him, in which case royal murder comes under the head of self-defence. So he reigned happily at Burgos, and had born to him a numerous family. Doña Urraca, the Infanta, was his eldest child, a most excellent lady of good customs and beauty, the Infante Don Sancho, who was to make much noise in the world, was his heir, and Don Alonso and Don Garcia were his younger sons.

Fernando put them all to read that they might gain understanding, and he made his sons knights to carry arms and know how to demean themselves in battle, also to be keen huntsmen. Doña Urraca was brought up in the studies becoming dames, so that she might be instructed in devotion and all things which it behoved an Infanta to know.

But there is one fact which makes the name of Fernando remembered to all time, for in his reign was born at Burgos, Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar, known as the famous Capitán, the Cid Campeador.

Beside the glittering vision of Santiago, the tutelary saint of Spain, in white armour, waving celestial banners, rises the image of the Cid. Encased in steel, he sits proudly astride on his good horse Babieca; a close casque on his head, under which a pair of all-seeing eyes gaze fiercely out, giving expression to the strongly marked features of a thin long face, with wildly flying beard. His scimitar hangs at his side, and at his waist, encircled by a leather thong, the formidable sword “Tizona” he alone can wield. A loose white garment or kilt floats out from under his armour, metal buskins are on his legs, and he is shod in steel.

Thus he appears, with mighty action, an aureole of power about him not to be put in words, “the Cid” or “Master” – the terror of the Moors, the scourge of traitorous kings, marking an epoch, and a principle, lifting him out of the confused chivalry of the Goths, and standing out clear from shifting details into the light of day.

Cunning, astute, and valorous, implacable in conquest, sanguinary in victory, he fought while he lived. A king in all but the name, and proud of it, boasting with haughty scorn, “That none of his blood were royal”; “That he had never possessed an acre,” “But that the city of Valencia had pleased him, and that God had permitted him to take it as his own.” “Spain,” he said, “had fallen by a Roderich, and by a Roderich it should be restored.”

Now he was battling with the Christian king, then he was making alliance with the Moors, when banished, on his own account – to his own advantage ever —por murzar, as he said (to eat).

For in the midst of all his glory the Cid was practical at heart, and at all times, be it owned, a sad ruffian (though ever tender to his own), and more keen and cruel in a bargain than a Jew.

CHAPTER XXVII
Don Diego Laynez and the Conde de Gormez

I WONDER if Burgos looked then as it does now? – a well-washed, trim little city, Dutch in its neatness, tinted, upon the principle of Joseph’s coat of many colours, pink, blue, peach, and yellow; each house totally unlike its neighbour in height and shape; the streets sprouting out all over with balconies, miradores, and low arcades under flat roofs, an unexpected Gothic tower or barbican breaking through; entered by the ancient gate of Santa Maria beside the bridge with castellated bartizans and statues of notables in flat square niches.

Of the Cathedral I say nothing, because the present one was built later by Fernando el Santo, but the line of towers of the Gothic castle stood out darkly prominent on the hill behind – Calle Alta, as it was called – as old as 300; the fortress and residence of the Condes de Castila, and the place where the bright-faced Fernan Gonzales lived his merry life, shutting up his prisoners – Garcia, King of Navarre, Doña Ava’s treacherous father, for a year, and other kings and queens too numerous to mention, – with celebrations of royal births and marriages a score; the old church of Sant’ Agueda, an “Iglesia juradera” (church of purgation), on the brow of the hill, the family posada, or house of the Cid, to be seen to this day, the ancestral shields hung outside on pedestals forming part of the front, setting forth the quarterings of Laynez Calvo, of ancient Castilian lineage, the father of the Cid; a priceless old Suelo, on which you can still observe the measure of the Cid’s arm, marked on marble; and the mouth of a mediæval passage through which he could ride into the plains with his men without being seen by the citizens in the streets below.

At this moment “the child of Burgos,” as the Cid is called, has thrown aside his warlike accoutrements, having been present at a council at the Ayuntamiento presided over by the king, and is now on his way to visit his lady love, Doña Ximena, the daughter of the Conde de Gormez.

As he passes along the Calle, gay as a butterfly in the bright sunshine, under the barbicans and towers which so nobly break the lines, it may be said he has too much of a swagger in his gait, but he has reason to be proud, for, young as he is, Doña Ximena loves him, and the good old King Fernando has admitted him to his council because he is already strong in arms and of good custom.

Just as Don Rodrigo has passed out of the Palace of Ayuntamiento (town hall) in the great plaza, its front honeycombed with sculptured cornices, badges, and devices on a warmly tinted stone, two hidalgos appear under the arched doorway talking loud.

“I tell you the king does wrong,” the younger man is saying in a loud voice – no other than the Conde Don Gormez, with flashing eyes, moving with a haughty swagger, a tall olive-complexioned Castilian in cap and plume, laced boots, and ample cloak, “very wrong in affronting the Emperor of Germany and the Pope in a little state like Castile.”

“The king does right,” answers the other, very determinedly, but in a feebler voice, for he is stricken in years. “What, Conde Don Gormez, would you have Castile do? Become bounden to a foreign power, when we have so lately gained our freedom from Leon?”

“I think the matter ill-considered,” is the reply; “but of course you approve it, Don Diego Laynez. The king is old and foolish, and loves age and infirmity about him. No one exceeds you now in arrogance, since your young son Rodrigo sits by you at the council. He is reported of good courage against the Moors, but his youth makes him incompetent to advise the king.”

“Conde Gormez,” answers the other, reddening with anger, “your indiscreet words prove that it is not age or experience which gives judgment.”

“What do you mean, Don Diego?” asks the

Conde fiercely. “I allow no observations on my conduct.”

“I do not condescend to fathom it,” is the answer, with a contemptuous glance. “Jealousy and thirst for power – ”

“Take that, old fool,” cried the Conde, silencing him with a sounding blow on the cheek, which made him reel backwards against the wall.

He could not speak, all his passion had vanished in the humiliation of being struck. White and tottering he stood, while his trembling hand sought the hilt of his sword.

“Mother of God!” he said at last, “you had better have finished me altogether than put this insult on me. Is it that you deem my arm so weak you mock me, Sir Count?” And as he spoke, with difficulty he drew his sword.

“Perhaps it is,” replies the other with an insolent laugh. “Put up your weapon, old man, or worse may come to you.”

“No, no,” returns Don Diego, the colour mounting to his cheek as his fingers feel the temper of the blade; “as knight to knight, who have so often stood side by side in battle, I demand a fair fight and no quarter.”

“As you will,” he answers, and an evil fire comes into his eyes. “It is a favour which, at your age, you have no right to demand. If you desire to be spitted, I will oblige you all the same.”

And then and there he drew his rapier, and placed himself in a posture of defence.

But the combat was too unequal. It lasted but a few minutes. The Conde de Gormez was the first espadero in Castile, in the flower of his age, graceful, skilful, strong; Don Diego was old and weak. His blows fell like water on his stalwart adversary, who treated him as one does a wayward child.

“Mark you,” he said at last, throwing up Don Diego’s sword, “I spare your life. Go home, you dotard, and teach your son to hold his tongue before his betters and learn to be a wiser man.”

With that he sheathed his formidable weapon, turned his back, and with a quick step disappeared.

CHAPTER XXVIII
Don Rodrigo (the Cid) Kills the Conde de Gormez

IT was the hottest hour of the day, when the citizens took their siesta; the sun poured down in splendour on the white walls, absorbing the shade; the river was dried up.

No one had witnessed the encounter. But what did that matter? Conde Gormez would be sure to publish it abroad. Oh, shame and grief! Don Diego was for ever dishonoured!

Just as, with wavering steps, he was addressing himself to seek his horse where he had left him, he heard the clank of spurs upon the pavement, and his son Rodrigo appeared.

“Well met!” cried he, clutching his arm and gazing up wistfully into his beaming face; “the saints have sent you.”

“May their blessing be ever on you, my honoured father,” is the reply, as he stops to kiss his hand. “I was hastening home to tell you that the marriage is fixed, and that the king, Don Fernando, gives away the bride. But, father, are you ill?” noting his blanched aspect as his father leaned heavily upon him.

“Rodrigo,” he whispers, and with an unutterable expression of despair he looks into his eyes, “are you brave?”

“Sir!” answers Rodrigo, drawing back his arm, “any other but you should feel it on the instant.”

“Oh, blessed anger!” replies Don Diego, watching the deep flush mounting on his face, “you are indeed my son. My blood flows in your veins. I was like that once. Prompt, ready, dexterous. Rodrigo, will you avenge me?”

“For what?” asks Rodrigo, more and more perplexed.

“For that,” returns Don Diego – and as he speaks his voice gathers strength and he draws himself back, and stands upright before him – “which touches your honour as nearly as my own. A blow, a cruel blow! Had I been of your age, his blood would have wiped it out. But it is not with swords such an outrage is avenged. Go – die – or slay him. But I warn you, he is a hero. I have seen him in the front of a hundred battles, making a rampart of his body against the foe. He is – ”

“Tell me, father, tell me!” exclaims Don Rodrigo, breathlessly following his father’s words.

“The father of Ximena.”

“The – ”

No sound came to his white lips. As if struck by a mortal blow, Rodrigo staggered back against the sculptured pilasters of the Ayuntamiento.

“Speak not, my son,” says Don Diego, laying his hand upon him. “I know how much you love her. But he who accepts infamy is unworthy to live. I have told you vengeance is in your hand, for me, for you. Be worthy of your father, who was once a valiant knight. Go, I say, – rush – fly, – as though the earth burned under your footsteps! Nor let me behold you until you have washed out the stain!”

The chronicles say that, insolent as he was, the Conde de Gormez had already repented of his furious act. Certain of the wrath of the king, who greatly esteemed Don Diego Laynez, and shrinking from the reproaches of his daughter, he was preparing to leave the city when he came upon the Cid.

They met beside the banks of the Arlanzon, which still presents the sandy emptiness of an ill-fed river, under a screen of plane-trees whispering to the summer wind, the space without thronged with hidalgos and cheerful citizens in ample cloaks and capas muffled up to the eyes, spite of the heat, in true Castilian fashion.

As Don Rodrigo, with lofty stride, approached, the Conde stood still, guessing his errand.

Of all the knights of Castile, Don Gormez was a palm higher than the rest. A dark defiant head was firmly set on massive shoulders, youthful in aspect for his period of middle age, an approved and complete warrior at all points, and full to the brim, as one may say, of the chivalric traditions of the time.

Rodrigo beside him looked a slender youth; the down was on his cheek, the lustre of boyhood in his eyes, now dilated with fury as he drew near.

“Sir Conde,” he says shortly, as he doffs his cap, to which the other responds with a haughty smile, “I ask two words of you.”

“Speak!” is the Conde’s answer, twirling his moustache.

“Tell me, do you know Don Diego, my father?”

“Yes,” in a loud tone. “Why ask?”

“Speak lower. Listen. Do you know that in his time he was the honour of the land, brave as yourself? You know it?”

Nearer and nearer Rodrigo came as he spoke, until their faces almost touched.

“I care not,” is the answer, with a sneer.

“Stand back in the shade of that thicket and I will teach you,” roars the Cid, his rage bursting in all bounds.

“Presumptuous boy!” exclaims the Conde with ineffable scorn; yet, spite of his affected contempt, the words have stung him, and he turns crimson.

“I am young, it is true,” answers Rodrigo, “but once so were you. Valour goes not by the number of our years.”

“You —you dare to measure yourself with me!” cries he, losing all control in the climax of his rage.

“I do. I well know your prowess. You have always prevailed, but to him who fights for his father nothing is impossible. Come on, Sir Conde,” drawing his sword.

“Seek not so vainly to end your days,” answers Gormez, laying his hand on the hilt of his weapon. “Your death will be no credit to my sword.”

“Mock me not by this insulting pity,” answers Rodrigo, “or by God I shall think it is you who are tired of living, not I.” And as he speaks he strikes the Conde de Gormez with the flat of his sword.

The attack, on both sides is furious. Rodrigo grows cold with the thirst of vengeance; the Conde burns to cut off a life which rivals with his own.

But the sure aim of Rodrigo and his strength prevail. With one stroke of his good sword Tizona, he fells Gormez to the earth and plunges his weapon straight into his heart. Red with his life-blood he draws it out to bear it as a trophy to his father.

“Die! Lord of Gormez,” are his words, wiping his brow, as he watches the blood slowly ooze from the wound to mix itself, a sinister stream, with the sand. “Alas! had your courtesy equalled your knighthood and your birth, you might have lived to see your child’s children mine. Farewell, oh my enemy”; and he stoops reverently to cover the face of the dead with his mantle, reading the while with horror in the still set features the softer lineaments of his Ximena. “Alas!” – and his countenance darkens and he heaves a great sigh – “I am but Ruy Diaz, your lover, the most wretched of men! Oh! that I could lie there dead, instead of him! Ximena, oh, my love, will you ever forgive me?”

And sorrowing thus he turns away by intricate windings to mount the hill to the Suelos where Don Diego awaits him, seated in the hall, the food lying on the table before him untouched.

“Behold!” cries he, unsheathing the bloody sword. “The tongue which insulted you, Don Diego, is no longer a tongue; the hand which struck you is no longer a hand. You are avenged, oh, my father, and I – ”

He could not continue.

With a loud laugh Don Diego rose up, taking in his hand the blood-stained sword and placing it beside him on the board below the salt; then turned to embrace Rodrigo.

He spoke never a word, but stood like one stupefied, his arms folded on his breast, his eyes fixed on the ground.

“Son of my heart,” says Don Diego, “I pray you turn and eat. Mourn not what you have done. My youth comes back to me in you. Greater than me shall you be, and win back broad lands from the Moors, and be rich like a king, when I am low in the dust. Take the head of the board, Rodrigo. Higher than myself is the place of the son who has brought the sword of Conde Gormez to his Suelos. The place of honour is yours, and I will pledge you with wine.” And as he speaks the old man rises, and taking Rodrigo by the hand places him above him, and with his own hand serves him with meat and drink.

Poetry and the drama in latter days have much dealt with the story of the Cid, and altogether altered it from its ancient simplicity.

Not so the chronicles, which depict the facts in the language of the time very straightforwardly, specially the chronicle of King Alfonso of Castile, surnamed El Sabio, written soon after the Cid’s death. If not penned by the hand of the king himself, at least it was largely dictated by him, and not at all partial, for as King of Castile he deeply resented the rebellion of the Cid against his father Alonso.

CHAPTER XXIX
Marriage of the Cid and Doña Ximena

THREE years had passed when King Fernando solemnly knighted Rodrigo.

It was in this manner. The king girded on him his sword Tizona, to become famous to all time, and gave him a kiss, but no blow; the queen gave him a horse, perhaps Babieca; and the Infanta Doña Urraca stooped to the earth and fastened on his spurs – an act of honour so exceptional even in those days of chivalry she would not have performed it unless Rodrigo was dearer to her than appeared. But if there was love on her side or on his, or on both, is not known, except that some words in the chronicles would lead one to suppose that the Cid honoured her beyond all women, and that the lady herself would never marry a meaner man.

From that day he was called the Cid Campeador. It was the Moors who gave him the title of “Said” (Cid) or “master,” so often had he beaten them, and Campeador, or “champion” in single combat, such as was Roland the Brave, slain by Bernardo del Carpio.

Especially he deserved these honours when he overcame five Moorish kings, who had presumptuously crossed the mountain of Oca, and were plundering the plains near Burgos. He took them captive, divided the booty with his knights, and brought them to his mother in the Suelos on the hill with great honour. “For it is not meet,” he said, “to keep kings prisoners, but to let them go freely home.”

Like a practical man, however, as he was, he demanded a large ransom.

Fernando, who loved Rodrigo, endeavoured to end the feud between the families of Gormez and Laynez. Nor was it difficult. Don Diego, full of years, slept the sleep of death. The lord of Gormez was slain, and Ximena was left, the youngest of three daughters.

The age was one of war, and knightly honour counted as the highest virtue in a man.

So when the king called her to him in the castle, Ximena answered, falling on her knees before him, according to the love she bore Rodrigo.

“Don King Fernando,” she said, “had you not sent for me, I would have craved as a boon that you would give me Rodrigo to be my husband. With him I shall hold myself well married, and greatly honoured. Certain I am that he will one day be greater than any man in the kingdom of Castile, and as his wife I truly pardon him for what he did.”

So King Fernando ordered letters to be sent to the Cid at Valencia, commanding him at once to return to Burgos upon an affair greatly for God’s service and his own.

He came mounted on his war-horse, attired in his fairest suit of chain armour, wearing that high steel cap in which we see him now; his rippling braids of hair hanging down on his shoulders in the ancient fashion of the Goths, and in his company were many knights, both his own and of his kindred and friends – in all two hundred peers – in festive guise, streamers in various colours flying from their shields, and scarfs upon their arms, each knight attended by a mounted squire bearing his lance and cognisance.

In the courtyard of the castle beside the keep the king received them sitting on his throne; the queen and her ladies and Doña Urraca, resting on raised estrades tented with silk, attired in brocade and tissue, lined with rare fur.

As he entered the enclosure which was marked with gilded poles, the Cid dismounted, as did the other knights, to do obeisance to the king and queen, but he alone advanced to kiss the royal hand – a distinction which greatly offended his fellows, who were further angered by being dismissed while Rodrigo was invited to remain beside the king.

“I have called you, my good Rodrigo,” said King Fernando, with a voice lowered to reach his ear alone, “to question you respecting Doña Ximena de Gormez, whose sire you slew. She is too fair a flower to bloom alone.”

At these words Don Rodrigo reddened like a boy and hung his head.

So greatly was he moved who had never known fear that the power of speech left him suddenly, and for a time he stood like one distraught. Whether the eyes of Doña Urraca being upon him he was confused, or that the transport of love he felt for Ximena overcame him, who knows?

“Speak, noble Cid, I pray you,” said the king at last, weary of waiting.

“It is for you, my gracious lord and king, to question me,” was at last his answer. “Alas! her blood is on my hand.”

“In fair fight,” was the rejoinder, “as becomes a belted knight. But the lady already forgives you, and would rejoice to be your bride. I have it from herself. Nor shall my favour be wanting to you both in lands and gifts.”

Then Rodrigo raised his head proudly, and his face lit with joy. Whatever tokens had passed between him and Doña Urraca, it was clear he had not forgotten his love to Ximena, nor questioned the claim she had upon him.

“In this, as in all else, I will obey my lord the king,” he said again, making obeisance on bended knee. “Dear shall Ximena be to me as my own life, and my honoured mother shall tend and keep her in our house while I am away on my lord’s business against the Moors.”

King Don Fernando, greatly contented, rose from his throne, and bidding Don Rodrigo follow him, he passed into the great court of the castle followed by the queen and Doña Urraca, already of great courage, and casting glances at the Cid from under the silken coil which bound her head. Not so hidden but that some of the court observed her, and remembered it later at Zamora, when the Cid refused to bear arms against her.

Within the great hall of the castle the marriage feast is held. The whole city is hung with garlands and tapestry, banners, flags, and devices, as though each street is a separate tent; the people swarming on balconies and roofs, and the sandy plain outside dark with the companies of knights who come riding in. All the great names are there – Ordoñez, Gonzalez, Peranzurez, Vellidas, on fleet Arab steeds; some rich turbans also of the Moors to be distinguished in the crowd, for the parties are so strangely mixed that the Cid has many close friends among his enemies. Crowds of the common folk come, and retainers from the castle of Bivar, each one with some story to tell about the Cid. From Las Huelgas, the royal burying-ground and fortress, surrounded by walls, a mile out of the city, arrives the abbess, who takes rank as a Princess Palatine, attended by her female chapter, in the full dress of the order, all mounted on mules; monks from the Church of San Pedro de Cardeña, the burying place of the Laynez, and companies of the Ricoshombres from the adjacent cities, trotting over the hills – all disappearing into the huge gateway of Santa Maria to reach the Calle Alta, where the procession is to be formed.

The first to appear is the Bishop of Valencia on a mule. He is followed by the Cid, decked in his bridal state, under a trellis-work of green branches, held up by the lances and scimitars he has taken from the Moors, his own troop of true men with him, friends and kinsmen – all dressed in one colour, and shining in new armour.

As he passes, olive branches and rushes are laid upon the streets, ladies fling posies and wreaths, and bulls are led before with gilded horns, covered with rich housings. The court fool follows in cap and bells, his particoloured legs astride an ass. A harmless devil comes after, horned and hoofed, hired to frighten the women, and crowds of captive maidens dance to cymbals and flutes. The Queen Doña Sancha walks next, wearing her crown and a “fur pall,” attended by her ladies and dueñas, but the name of Doña Urraca nowhere occurs.

Then, hand in hand with the smiling king, comes Ximena; “the king always talking,” as the ballad says, but Ximena holding down her head. “It is better to be silent than meaningless,” she said.

Upon her fall showers of yellow wheat. Every shooter, young and old, makes her his mark. From her white shoulders and breast the king picks it off. “A fine thing to be a king,” laughs the fool, “but I would rather be a grain.”

In the Gothic Church of Sant’ Agueda, close on the hill, the nuptial knot is tied. After which the king does them great honour at the feast, conferring on them many noble gifts and adding to the lands of the Cid more than as much again.

To his own Suelos on the hill (for indeed all these great doings were confined to a very narrow space), the Cid conducts his bride, to place her under his mother’s keeping, and as his foot touches his own threshold, under the escutcheon of his race, he pauses and kisses her on the cheek. “By the love I bear you, dear Ximena, I swear that I will never set eyes on you again until I have won five pitched battles against the Moors.” Again he kisses her, drying her tears; then goes out to the frontier of Aragon, taking with him his trusty knights.