Kitabı oku: «Old Court Life in Spain; vol. 2», sayfa 6

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XI
A New King – Enrique de Trastamare

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“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.