Kitabı oku: «Old Court Life in Spain; vol. 2», sayfa 12

CHAPTER XXI
Juan II. and Doña Isabel of Portugal – Execution of the Conde de Luna

BURGOS and Valladolid never were capitals in the modern acceptation of the word, but they were at this time the centre of court life.

The short lives of the illegitimate branch of the House of Castile, and their personal insignificance, intensified rather than detracted from the dramatic vicissitudes of their reigns.

Juan, son of Enrique de Trastamare (1390), died young by a fall from his horse. His son, El Enfermo, who ended his life at twenty-eight, inaugurated the romantic episode of the Regents. The infancy of Juan II. called forth the powerful personality of the Conde de Luna, and the vice and folly of Enrique IV. brought forward his sister Isabel, wife of Ferdinand the Catholic, into extraordinary prominence in the politics of Europe.

At this time Queen Catalina holds her court at Burgos – a fat, foolish dowager, by no means inheriting the fierce passions of her grandparents – Don Pedro el Cruel and Maria de Padilla. In close alliance with the highly cultivated Moors, as had been her husband El Enfermo, Catalina also favours the fine arts, and educates her son to love those elegant cancioneros sung by her husband with such art, the metre of which will never be surpassed.

Hundreds of these romances, current in that day, were softened and refined into real poetry, and as such have come down to us as absolute gems. Long stories in prose too, such as Amadis de Gaul, began now to be written, to be followed by the Romaunt of the Rose, as also many learned treatises on government and science, taken from the Arabic; and, wonder of wonders, Don Pedro Ayala actually translated Livy into Spanish!

In this literary movement the good Queen Catalina took part, and inducted her little son into an amount of learning remarkable in that age. He was fond of books and could speak and versify fluently in Latin. Courage he had, and knowledge he acquired, growing up under his mother’s care a gentle, indolent young prince like his father, but absolutely without will, which made him a prey to the first resolute spirit who gained his confidence.

Such a one was found in the person of Don Alvarez de Luna, Conde de Gormaz, the last representative of the ideal Knight of Spain. Bold, romantic, brave, his masterful individuality imposed itself on the artistic temperament of the young king much as an eagle might foster and protect a helpless dove.

As the descendant of a noble Biscayan family, whose ancestors had done good service to Enrique de Trastamare in his many sudden flights and rapid advances in the wild passes of the Pyrenees, Luna had claims on the young king. Ever the prominent figure in court and camp, Don Juan from his birth had been thrown into his companionship, whose handsome person and courtly manners charmed his boyish taste and resulted in an ascendancy so absolute as to absorb all the power of the state. Nor could remonstrance, conspiracy, or open acts of revolt for many years shake his position. Indeed, opposition only seemed to endear him to Don Juan, who rapidly advanced him to the high office of Constable of Castile and Leon and Grand Master of Santiago.

Possessed of the entire love and confidence of his master, the court was filled with his kindred and partisans; Don Juan saw with his eyes and regulated every action at his pleasure. Even in the matter of his marriage, instead of uniting himself to the French Princess Fredegonde, whom he preferred, at Luna’s desire he espoused his cousin, Doña Isabel of Portugal.

Such an excess of favour naturally raised an immense animosity against him. Every noble and ricohombre in Castile hated him on his own account. The Infante of Aragon headed a party to dethrone him. All this at length coming to the knowledge of Don Juan, caused him throes of extreme doubt as to his conduct, overruled for a time by the masterful will of Luna, but to bear fruit at length as the consequence of the inherent weakness of his nature.

Young as he still was, Don Juan had been twice married. The new queen, his cousin, was a dark-complexioned beauty, with a skin like a ripe peach and the keen black eyes of a Zingara. No sooner had she arrived at Burgos than she came to understand that she owed her position solely to the favour of Luna, and that Don Juan would have preferred the French princess. Nothing could be more galling to her pride, and Isabel was very proud. At once she resolved upon his ruin, and steadily carried out her plan. If Juan was to be governed by a favourite, it should be herself.

All through his long reign she battled with his weakness, and was destined to suffer from a series of domestic mortifications caused by the helpless vacillation of his temper. In common with the kings his predecessors of the Trastamare line, he was too vacillating to be capable of much real feeling. But the young queen would tolerate no divided sway. Arrogant and ambitious by nature, she resolved to exercise an absolute control over his conduct. Now the Conde de Luna formed an insuperable barrier to her scheme. He must be removed, but his fall should be brought about by no violent action, lest Don Juan’s sensitive nature should take alarm. Her arms must be the wily weapons of her sex; she must work on the king’s admiration for her – as a poetic embodiment of his fancy – and his amiable desire to gratify her in all things.

So well did she act her part that he gradually grew cold towards his favourite. His advice, formerly so anxiously sought, was not asked; many acts were performed without his knowledge. Even his company, up to this time indispensable as the air he breathed, was dispensed with for days at a time. Such a change could not but be noted by the keen eyes of Luna, but his belief in his ascendancy and the necessity of his counsels was too absolute to give him as yet any serious uneasiness.

Don Juan, newly married to a princess selected by himself, whose person pleased his fickle taste, was preoccupied and in love. These changes were but as passing clouds – the horizon beyond was clear. He would soon tire, as he did of every one else, and return to him as before. Such was the belief on which he acted, leaving the queen to mature her plans unopposed.

The king is seated alone with the queen in the castle of Burgos at a table of inlaid marble, spread with wine. Books, too, are placed near at hand, for he is never without his favourite author, John de Menu. The room is small and lofty, a species of closet such as is found so often in royal palaces of that date, and was invariably chosen as a royal retiring-room. The walls are panelled in oak, pencilled with gold, on which is stretched rare tapestry, representing in all the flush of silken thread the encounters of the Christians against the Moors – Pelazzo in the cave of Cavadonga, and the triumph of the Cid. Steel mirrors, in richly carved frames of those massive patterns peculiar to Spain, fling back the brilliant sunshine. It is a blaze of light and colour. Velvet hangings heavy with gold shroud the low doors and shade the narrow windows, which are open. Bright in the pure air stream in the branches of fragrant limes, long walnut leaves and sycamores – within an enclosed garden, shrouded by a quaint old tower which forms part of the city walls.

Isabel, in the first flush of her radiant youth, looks a perfect picture for a poet, in a long white robe, brocaded with gold, her pointed shoes just appearing from under the folds, a row of large pearls binds her head, setting off the ebony blackness of her hair. Her sparkling eyes bent on the king entrance him more than his favourite ballads. She might be Egilona, or Doña Teresa, or Angelica moving before him. The day, the soft air, the silence, create a mesmerism about her which fires his sentimental nature and makes her for the moment paramount to all else.

Nor is she at all indifferent to the attentions of the young sovereign, her lord, who sits smoking opposite her, so daintily apparelled in a velvet surcoat sown with pearls and bound with dark fur, open sleeves hanging from the shoulder displaying his delicate hands, in the mode of the day; a white bonnet, set with a large jewel, resting on his flowing locks. No wonder that this graceful refinement of his nature has gained her heart, that delicate symmetry of face and form he inherits from his father and grandfather, El Rey Caballero.

Turning his large, inexpressive eyes towards her as she speaks, he bows, and, raising her hand to his lips, pledges her in a cup of Val de Peñas.

“How sweet is this solitude in your company,” he says, heaving a deep sigh of relief as he sinks back on the chair. “I would fain turn a few verses in honour of my beautiful consort, but the day is too hot.” Here he tries to conceal a yawn but does not quite succeed; then, looking round, “It is astonishing that for once we are left alone; but the constable has not interrupted us with affairs of state.”

“Why do you permit these unseemly liberties, my lord?” asks the queen sharply.

Don Juan does not reply, but kisses her jewelled hand, laying it caressingly on his own. What a solace to have to deal with this queenly creature instead of the imperious constable, always urging on him some imperative command, or to be plagued by those who call themselves “the friends of his dynasty,” constantly insisting with equal persistency on the necessity of his banishment! Between the two his life has become a burden, to say nothing of the freaks of his young son, the Prince of the Asturias (the first to bear that title), who passes his whole time in a succession of rebellions.

“It is not for me, my Reina,” he answers at last, “to abuse the constable, I leave that to my son Henry. But for Luna, I should never have possessed the treasure of this little hand.” Again he passes his long white fingers over hers, turning the rings she wears to the light and examining them one by one, as though he would fain find a pretext for retaining them in his own.

A cloud passes over the glowing face of the queen. She suddenly remembers that she was imposed on him by the Conde de Luna as a reason of state.

This puts her in a rage whenever she thinks of it.

“Do you imagine, my lord, that that recommends him to me?” she answers, in a tone which betrays her feelings. “How do I know that you do not still prefer the French Princess Fredegonde to me?”

A blush and a faint denial is the reply, and a murmured assurance that such perfection as she possesses makes him the envy of all the sovereigns his neighbours. The timid Don Juan shrinks from any form of attack; he is so tormented that he scents trouble in the air.

The queen sees her advantage, and continues: “Believe me, I, at least, love you, if you care for that. Too much so, indeed, to bear to see you so overshadowed as you are. Your son, too, is drawing away your subjects from you. A great sacrifice must be made or you will never reign.”

“A sacrifice?” answers Don Juan vaguely. He affects not to understand her, but reddens with annoyance at this false note in the harmony of their interview.

“Oh, Juan, how can you pretend to mistake me!” she cries, clasping her hands; “is it the first time I have told you that while the constable lives I shall never have a happy hour?” Her countenance saddens with real or pretended distress; a deep sigh heaves her bosom, upon which rests a collar of jewels and strings of Orient pearls. With her kerchief she wipes away imaginary tears. Don Juan, who is vaguely contemplating her as a vision of beauty, is suddenly greatly distressed, and rises to comfort her. She puts him back with a pettish motion, and with a troubled air he resumes his seat.

“How do I know,” she continues, in a lower voice, “that the magic arts Luna exercises over you may not be employed against me?”

“Magic arts!” faintly ejaculates the king.

“Yes, my lord, all Spain knows it, and is weary of the wickedness of this presumptuous man. It is by infernal arts that he sways you. He will bring the kingdom to destruction. Did he not, like a traitor, turn back from the walls of Granada when the Zegrins were with you, and he should have led your victorious army into the walls of the Alhambra? Does he not conspire with the Infante of Aragon against your life?”

So vivid is the picture she calls up of the misdeeds of Luna, that real tears now course each other down her cheeks. She believes in what she says, and this gives conviction to her words. She believes him to be guilty of all of which he is accused, and she knows that he will cross her influence with Don Juan. Above all, she dreads the mysterious action of that occult power he is said to possess. Superstition and ignorance go together in her mind. A Portuguese princess of the fourteenth century is alive to all the prejudices of the time.

“What!” cries Don Juan, starting up from his chair in a burst of generous feeling, which he is quite incapable of sustaining, “can you, my queen, ask me seriously to dismiss from my councils and from my heart the hero who has so faithfully upheld the glory of Castile? The tales you accept as true are but the suggestions of envy. The constable has ever done his duty. What do I not owe him! Was it not he who rescued me as a boy from the strong fortress of Tordesillas, where a powerful league, headed by my treacherous cousin, the Infante of Aragon, would have shut me up for life? Who was it that, when the Moors, emboldened by the weakness of Castile, refused to pay the tribute, led on our armies against them and forced them to submission? And if he did not enter the city of Granada the fault was not in him, but in my seditious nobles, whose divided counsels forced him to retreat. Is this the man, the bulwark of my throne, who alone has stood by his king against the factious nobles, the conspiracies of his kindred, and the machinations of his own son? Would you have me deprive him of the honours he so well deserves? High Constable I have created him, and such, by the Holy Mother, he shall die.”

So unexpected an outburst completely overset all the queen’s calculations. Was her influence so small for the great task she had undertaken? she asked herself, as she gazed in wonder at the virile expression which sat on the king’s chiselled features, and gave such unwonted energy to his words.

She smiled, however, as she replied: “Aye, my liege, all this may be true, but why has Don Alvarez de Luna shown this great zeal for his king? Because, while he defended his cause he was forwarding that ambition for which he has sold his soul. The interests of Don Juan de Castile are his own. Believe me in this, my dear and honoured lord, though I risk your displeasure in saying so.”

“Such indeed are the accusations of his enemies,” answered the king, already cooling down from his brief display of impetuosity; in fact, he was now turning over in a helpless confusion of ideas whether indeed the constable was in league with the devil, as Isabel represented, and if magic really gave him the extraordinary influence he exercised over him. “Surely you must allow, my queen, that it is rather Luna’s genius and courage which provoke the jealousy of my nobles?”

“Fatal have been those qualities to the kingdom!” cried the queen, at once seizing on the advantage his hesitation afforded her. “The whole nation is alarmed. No one more than I,” she added, her voice deepening into a delicious whisper as a blush overspread her face. She paused, the colour spreading over throat and neck. “What am I, to resist this universal charmer,” she added, “an untutored girl, when the queen, your Highness’s first consort, is said to have yielded to his blandishments?”

“That is a base calumny!” answered Don Juan, again galvanised into a momentary show of feeling. “I do not believe it; I never did. I had the word of the queen. Alvarez himself denied it on the sacraments. I pray you, Doña the Queen,” turning somewhat haughtily upon Isabel, whose fingers were playing with the pearls upon her neck, her eyes modestly turned down, “do not revive so painful a suspicion. The honour of a Queen of Castile is impregnable. It is treason to doubt it.”

“It is because I am true to you, Juan, that I tremble. The dread of this diabolical man haunts me. He may cast a spell on me also.”

Though her look was determined, she spoke in a soft voice, flashing a look on the king out of those dark orbs of hers which seemed to catch the rays of the outer sunshine and strike straight into his heart. Then she extended her hand with a smile so sweet in its dignity as altogether to melt his sensitive nature, always realising in her the heroine of his poetic dreams.

“What rapture to be thus loved!” he murmured. “Can I deny this exquisite creature anything she desires?” No one, he told himself, had ever been so sweet as she. Ought he not to guard her from any chance of peril? Might not the accusation she had recalled be true? He had never dared to examine too closely the relations between the constable and the late Queen Maria de Aragon. How different was Isabel! Her thoughts were all for him. What ought he to do?

An abyss of unfathomable doubt engulfed him. Was Luna indeed an agent of the Evil One as she said, or was he his devoted servant and friend? And all the time these clashing thoughts were chasing each other through his weary brain, Isabel, by a caressing movement, was drawing closer and closer to him as he listened to the soft tones of her voice, so different to the authoritative accents of the constable.

“Fie, fie, my dear lord,” she was saying, “is it meet that he make of you but a painted image? A phantom in the state? With sorrow and shame your nobles behold it. Can you wonder that the prince hates him? Resolve, by one bold act, to rid yourself of him for ever. Banish him, imprison him, execute him, so that you reign.”

The sound of her words still lingered like music in the warm air, when a silver bell sounded in the ante-room, the tapestry before the door was withdrawn, and a page entered, making a profound obeisance.

“Don Juan the King,” he said, “the most revered the Bishop of Avila waits without on urgent business of state. He comes as the messenger of the Conde de Luna; he has already conferred with the secretary, Don Diego de Bavena.”

At this announcement, the queen hastily left her seat, bowed low to Don Juan, who kissed her hand with the utmost ceremony and led her to the door, where she again saluted him before joining her dueñas-in-waiting.

But the words had been spoken, the impression made, and, however Isabel might resent the intrusion of the bishop, she had almost persuaded the king that the days of the haughty favourite were numbered.

Whatever were the faults or the misdeeds of the House of Trastamare, the courtesy of their manners was beyond dispute.

Nothing could have been more inopportune than the entrance of the Bishop of Avila, but Don Juan received him in so royal a fashion he could not for a moment have imagined he was not welcome.

“To what happy chance do I owe your presence?” asked the king.

“Nothing auspicious brings me to your Highness,” was the reply, “in place of the High Constable.”

“Is he not coming?” asked the king quickly, a look of relief spreading over his face.

“He is not; a most base calumny prevents him. The Conde de Luna is accused of having caused the assassination of Don Alfonso de Vivars. Until his sovereign publicly justifies him, he prefers to retire to his castle of Portello.”

“What! Vivars murdered!” cried Don Juan, evincing genuine emotion at the news. “How did this come about? I know he is a violent opponent of the constable, but what grounds are there for suspicion that he is concerned in his death?”

“None that I know of,” answered the bishop, “except public report, which is alien to the Conde de Luna.”

“But I can give your Grace reasons,” cried a voice from within, “if you will listen to me, which you never do,” and the Prince of the Asturias stormed into the room.

“Peace! Infante, or speak with more respect,” said the king, the whole equilibrium of his gentle character overset by this turbulent onslaught.

Don Enrique was so violent and headstrong, that his father positively dreaded the sight of him when they met, which was not often. Not one jot, however, did this terrible son yield of his insolent bearing.

“Respect to whom respect is due, my lord,” were his words, his young face crimson with rage and defiance. “I presume that this holy ecclesiastic (that is the word, though it is nought in this case) is imparting to you the news of the new crime of your favourite. He is ready at getting rid of his enemies; but this time it is done so boldly in the broad face of day the whole nation cries shame. Will your Grace create him to some new honour to reward him?”

As he spoke, the prince looked so furious as he advanced close to his father that the bishop interposed, but in vain.

“It is of no use,” he continued, fronting the king almost with menace, “to give you proofs of the guilt of the constable in this atrocious vengeance on an enemy; you would not believe me if I did. But I do not intend to be silent. I shall address the nation, which has already judged him for what he is.”

All this time the king had stood silent, contemplating his son with an expression of contempt. He was used to his violence.

“Whatever you say will be undutiful,” he replied at last, “and unfitting for a father’s ear to hear.”

“Yes, if you call it so,” cried the prince, not at all impressed by this reproof, spoken with more gentleness than seemed possible. “Until you send that arch-impostor, Luna, to the scaffold, we shall never be friends.”

“Then let us remain enemies,” replied the king with dignity; “I will do no man’s bidding.”

But this forbearance only angered the prince all the more.

“The traitor who sold victory over the Moors for a bribe in a basket of figs is then to be let off? Under the walls of Granada he did it, the villain!”

“Be silent, Infante!” cried the king; “you know that story is a lie!”

“By Santiago, I hold it for the truth,” quickly replied the prince. “How comes he by such revenues if he takes no bribes? Not this alone, but many. What need has he of twenty thousand freedmen at his heels when he travels – more than your Highness requires? Has he told you, or have you, my lord bishop, his confidant, that the King of Navarre is advancing on Pamplona? By the living God, my father, if you do not banish this upstart I will join with him against you! Think well of it, my lord. I am brave in the field. I stay not at home, toying with a new wife, singing ballads and romanceros, nor have I poets to amuse me, or Latin books to peruse. But the people will follow me. You and your favourite will be alone, and I shall reign over Navarre, Aragon, Leon, and Castile before you die! Ha! ha!”

With these wild words on his lips, the Prince of the Asturias retired as noisily as he had come, leaving the king, his father, in a state of the deepest dejection. No suffering to him was so great as anger and dispute. Almost rather would he have resigned the crown to his son than endure his sneers. But Luna had always combated this idea vigorously; and now he had married a new queen, and he would like to reign, if only to display her beauty by his side. A feeling of relief came over him that at least she and the prince were not joined together against him, although both were working for the same end – the fall of the constable.

With a deep sigh he sank upon a chair; such violence unhinged him. He could not at once collect his ideas sufficiently to resume his conversation. Then he remembered the murder and the invasion of Navarre.

“Is what the Infante says about Navarre true?” he asked the bishop, who stood respectfully aloof.

“Yes, my lord, they are in force before Pamplona.”

“And he will join them,” muttered the king; “he will disgrace me.” Then aloud, “I pray you, reverend father, to furnish me with the details of this assassination. Am I to understand that the constable is still at Portello?”

“Yes, my lord, he is awaiting judgment.”

“Now who will command my armies?” cried Don Juan, driven to despair by all this accumulation of trouble. “Little do they know what the constable is, who seek his destruction! I pray you, good bishop, to retire for to-day. I am indisposed. Go to Portello and take the constable’s orders as to the disposal of the troops against the King of Navarre. Summon the constable to hasten to me at once.”

“No, my lord, he cannot come before his trial.”

“By the holy Santiago! was ever a man so tormented as I?” exclaimed Don Juan, wringing his hands. “I shall have to lead the troops against my own son, if he carries out his rebellious intention. Adieu, my lord bishop. Salute Luna for me. I never missed him so much as now.”

Whether the Conde de Luna was really guilty of the crimes imputed to him will ever remain an historic problem. He offered no defence now or before. Either he was too conscious of his innocence, or too proud to justify himself.

At length, pressed on all sides, the half-imbecile king signed the order for his arrest, glad at any price to rid himself of importunity. A body of troops under Zuñiga were secretly despatched to surround the castle of Portello, where he had remained since his accusation.

All these preparations could not altogether escape the knowledge of Luna, but, with a fatality common to great ministers, he despised his enemies too much to take any measures against them.

Within a darkened chamber the constable sits in the castle of Portello; no other guards or alguazils man the walls but such as habitually attend on his person. The magnificence of his household has been greatly reduced, as if in deference to the accusations against him. Until lately the cynosure of all eyes, the dispenser of all honours at court and in the camp, he has come to lead a solitary life.

Lost in deep thought he rests his head upon his hand, sitting at a table covered with piles of parchments and papers, under which lies a naked sword.

The night is gathering around. All the noises of the little town have died out. The bells of the churches have long since been silent; the couvre-feu has tolled; the sharp click of the sereno’s metal stick has ceased to strike on the pavement, and the voices of some late revellers have died away in the night wind.

Still the constable sits on. That the thoughts which so absorb him are painful the furrows upon his forehead show, and the deep sighs which occasionally escape him. At all times indifferent to the accessories of dress, now in the middle of life, the plainness of his attire presents a remarkable contrast to the splendour of the court. His mantle and vest are of black cloth of simplest fashion, and he wears none of those jewels which constitute the habitual insignia of rank.

The beauty of his countenance is remarkable. Long black hair, bright and glossy, curls back from his lofty brow, his features aquiline and pointed, of the true Spanish type, give great expression to his eyes, of a somewhat mystic expression, and the deep olive of his skin brings into prominence the rich jet of his pointed beard and moustache. The lightness of his figure and his slender make, not only impart to him height, but make him appear much younger than he really is.

Nor is there any indication about him as he sits so motionless at the table, under the light of a massive silver candelabra, of that supercilious arrogance which has so greatly incensed his enemies.

Altogether he looks born to command men and to fascinate women. Skilled in every accomplishment of the age, fabulously brave, a type of manly beauty, no wonder that Mary of Aragon succumbed to his power and beauty, in contrast to the feebleness of her husband; nor that Isabel, her successor, believing him to exercise magic arts, shrinks from his contact. But the magic of which they accuse him is in the man himself. Luna is the magician, and his commanding intellect, as of a Titan among minnows, has brought his name down from a remote period as one of the most remarkable characters recorded in history.

The low oaken door within the keep in which the chamber of the constable is situated opens suddenly, and an aged jefe stands before him; behind him is his page, Morales.

Resenting any intrusion on his solitude, he looks up sharply, and his eyes fix themselves on them with a menacing expression.

“How dare you enter uncalled for?” he asks in a stern voice, addressing his devoted servant, Gotor, whose white face and trembling limbs announce some extraordinary agitation. “Why are you shaking so, old man?”

“Oh, my lord! my lord! Listen! The royal troops have arrived after dark; they surround the town.”

“Well! What of that?”

“You are in danger, my dear master!” cries Gotor, clasping his hands and approaching nearer to the table at which Luna is seated. “You must instantly conceal yourself until you can escape. I have a disguise ready without.”

“Escape!” cries the constable, rising from his chair. “Never! I have lived in danger of my life for the last twenty years. I care not for the petty plots of traitors whom I will soon hang up as high as Haman.”

“But the king, my lord! The king – he has forsaken you. He sends these troops. I know it,” put in Morales, coming to the front in spite of the terror with which the constable inspires him. “Hearing the movement in the town, I have been down among the alguazils who accompany the troops. They say that their mission is to seize the High Constable and carry him to Valladolid a prisoner. Fly, my dear master! Let us die for you!” More eager than Gotor, the tears stream from Morales’s eyes as he dares to advance and touch the Conde on the arm.

“No,” answers Luna, shaking him off, and with a stately step turning to pace up and down the chamber. “It is false that Don Juan has himself sent for me. He may be foolish, weak, deceived; but he will never betray his faithful friend.”