Kitabı oxu: «Old Court Life in Spain; vol. 1», səhifə 14

CHAPTER XXIV
Marriage of Doña Ava and El Conde de Castila – Treachery of Doña Teresa

BURGOS was reached without further incident, and in a few days the marriage of the Conde and the Infanta was solemnised with great pomp in the church of Sant’ Agueda on the hill, under a mantle of delicate sculpture which lined the walls.¹

Now here it should be said, as in the fairy tales, “They married and lived happily ever after.” Not at all. We are only at the beginning of their troubles.

The rage of Don Sancho of Leon and King Garcia of Navarre, the father of Doña Ava, knew no bounds. Genuine rage, for they had both been caught in their own trap, a thing utterly unbearable to malignant natures, be they kings or commons.

As to the King of Navarre, who not only had lost a highly valuable marriageable daughter, but the half of the kingdom of Castile, he at once assembled a strong army, under the pretence that the Conde had feloniously carried off the Infanta – a curious accusation, considering that he himself had consented to their nuptials.

“Let us wait till he comes to a better mind,” urged Doña Ava, from her palace at Burgos, looking out over those rich plains which are the glory of Central Spain; “after all, I am his daughter, he cannot harm me.”

But this Christian point of view was not shared by the King of Navarre, who from his mountains executed such raids on Castile that Gonzales had no choice but to face him.

Near Ogroño was the battle, not far from Burgos, by the river Ebro, and hardly was it fought, and victory only gained by a clever feint, headed by the Conde in person. Don Garcia’s camp was seized and he himself taken prisoner.

Now face to face they stood within a tent, the father-in-law and son. The casque of the king battered, his armour bleared, his chief knights in a like plight, prisoners beside him – the Conde in front brandishing a blood-stained sword, with such a sense of wrong gnawing at his heart as for a time leaves him speechless.

Then the words of reproach came rushing to his lips. “False king, did I not come in peace to Narbonne, and you gave me the royal kiss of welcome? Did I not eat at your board? Sleep the sleep of peace under your roof? Ride with you? Jest with you? Live as man to man of the kinship we are to each other? Did you not” (and here his upraised voice breaks into a softer tone as he names her) “give me your daughter, the Infanta, as my wife, and, while her hand was clasped in mine, her kiss upon my cheek, did you not bind me, vile king, in chains, and hurl me into a dungeon, where but for her help, the angel of my life, I should have died unheeded?”

To all this Don Garcia, with eyes cast on the ground, answered not a word, his armed figure defined against the pattern of rich brocade which lined the tent under the light of torches.

“Now to Burgos with you, King of Navarre, and as you did by me, so be it done to you! That is bare justice!”

“Ah! good my lord,” came the soft voice of Doña Ava into his ear, as she went out to meet him with her ladies to the gate of Santa Maria, beside the river which flows by the walls of Burgos “remember, Don Garcia is my father.”

“Now prythee hold your peace, fair wife,” was his reply, “much as I love you he shall this time meet his due. Nor shall he return to Navarre until he pays me a full ransom.”

But like the gentle dropping of water (and drops, we know, wear even stones, much more the soft substance of which hearts are made) came the entreaties of the Infanta. After all they were married, and Don Garcia had suffered a grievous defeat, which had weakened him for mischief for many a day!

So at the end of a year the prison was unbarred and a great festival held in the old palace of Burgos, of which no trace remains; a throne glittering with cloth of gold was raised in the midst of carpets and screens and awnings of brocaded silk, a luxury borrowed from the Moors – from whom, much as they fought them, all refined tastes were acquired; and afterwards, at the board in royal robes, Don Garcia is seated side by side with Castile (Doña Ava, crowned with a royal diadem, between), as they quaff the generous wine of Valdepeñas in healths of eternal amity and alliance.

Again the Cortes were assembled in haste, in the northern city of Leon, to determine conclusions against the Moors.

The Caliph Almanzor, coming from Cordoba, had penetrated north as far as Santiago de Compostela, in Galicia, sacked the shrine, the very Mecca of Spain, where countless miracles were wrought by his bones; and, insult of insults, pulled down the bells and hung them (oh, horrors!) in the Mesquita of Cordoba, where they still remain! So that Fernan gladly hastened to obey Don Sancho’s summons, along with the kings of Aragon and Navarre. Years had passed, a son had been born to him, and many acts of courtesy exchanged, as between royal kinsfolk.

To recall the past was by no means in harmony with his forgiving temper. “Perhaps he will pay the debt he owes me,” was his thought, “for my horse Sila and the hawk he bought of me so long ago; the sum must by this time be a big one.”

It was night when the council ended, and the royal company assembled in the hall, having exchanged their heavier garments for fanciful doublets and mantles of tissues woven in Eastern looms, set off with fur and gems – graceful toques to correspond, replacing helmet and head-piece, a feather lying low on the shoulder, or peaked caps encircled with garlands of jewels, the badge of his house embroidered on each knight’s breast. As each guest took his place with that solemn demeanour common to Spaniards, a flourish of trumpets sounded, a side door opened, and Doña Teresa appeared, upright to stiffness, wearing her crown upon her head, her son Don Sancho advancing with respectful courtesy to place her on his right hand.

All eyes were fixed on Don Fernan Gonzales, the youngest of the princes. Happiness and loyalty looked out of his comely face, grace was in every movement, as he exchanged compliments with his royal kinsmen – Aragon, a broad-shouldered man, frank and true in nature; Navarre, dark and preponderant, his eyes bent significantly on his son-in-law; and his nephew of Leon, Don Sancho the Fat, grown so obese he moved in his royal robes with difficulty.

The feast, spread on oaken tables covered with scarlet cloths, blazed with the sheen of precious candelabra, cups inlaid with rubies, and silver figures trimmed with posies of flowers, aromatic herbs and green boughs from the wood, the walls hung with damascened draperies and a fair Moorish carpet on the floor. The fish, flesh, and fowl served in heavy silver platters were offered entire to each guest, who with his dagger cut his own portion, drinking from silver goblets placed at his side.

At the conclusion of the banquet, to the blare of trumpets, King Don Sancho rose to lead his mother to her retiring room, with the same state as she had entered.

Already the kings of Navarre and Aragon had passed on, and the Conde de Castile was preparing to follow when an armed hand was placed on his shoulder and a voice uttered in his ear: “You are my prisoner.”

“Your prisoner?” cried he, looking round to behold a circle of armed men, who had silently gathered behind his chair as he was in the act of making obeisance to the queen, “by my troth! this is an idle jest. You have mistaken your man, my masters. Look elsewhere.”

“Not at all,” cried Queen Doña Teresa, disengaging her hand from that of the king, the old malignant smile glittering in her black eyes. “Did you think, Sir Conde, we were as green as you, who come unarmed a second time among your foes? The bird that had flown is recaptured! Ha! ha!” and she gave a bitter laugh. “I think I can prophesy you will not escape this time! The dungeons of Leon are better guarded than those of Narbonne!”

“Queen Doña Teresa,” was his answer, his arms already bound by fetters, “I take no shame for my lack of suspicion. Rather is it for you, so royally born, to blush at such baseness. You,” and, spite of himself, his eyes flamed with rage as he realised that he had again fallen into the power of his remorseless kinsfolk, “you are a disgrace to the royal lineage you represent. See, even the king, your son, casts down his eyes. Don Sancho is ashamed of his mother!”

Stung by his reproaches the queen raised her hand as a signal to the guards to bear him away.

“What manner of man is this?” she said, turning to the king, who, though he had joined in the conspiracy, now stood irresolute and pale, a silent witness to his mother’s treachery. “He dares to jeer at me with the chains about his neck. But a long life passed in a Gothic dungeon will bring down his pride. Fear not, my son, what can he do? When the half of his kingdom is in your hands you will thank me.”

“But our kinswoman the Infanta will offer a large ransom. Can you refuse her?”

“Refuse!” retorted the queen, her tall figure drawn up to its full height; “there is no treasure in the world that shall buy off the Conde de Castila. His death alone will satisfy me.”

And with a menacing gesture in the direction by which he had disappeared, she swept out of the hall as she had come, followed by her retinue.

CHAPTER XXV
Doña Ava Outwits Don Sancho and Releases her Husband

TIME passed and a new element made itself felt in the struggle between the Christians and the Moors. The powerful tribe of the Berbers had fastened like leeches on the Gothic lands of the north, and Almanzor, by his constant attacks in the south, had paralysed the kings of Leon and Navarre into mere tributaries. But selfish and disloyal as they were, Doña Teresa and the kings of Leon and Navarre never lost sight of their determination to possess Castile, and instead of joining heartily against a common enemy they each summoned every lord and vassal they possessed to appear in arms to march against Burgos.

Don Sancho at least understood his real position, and would willingly have accepted the large ransom offered by the Infanta for her lord, but his mother was not to be persuaded. His dark-browed uncle of Navarre, too, was as violent and as short-sighted as she, so that Don Sancho could only offer up fervent prayers to Santiago, the patron of Spain, whose shrine at Compostela had, to his everlasting shame, been so ill-defended.

Would the celestial knight again appear on his milk-white charger clad in radiant mail and ensure a victory as when King Ramiro, his predecessor, refused to pay “the Maiden Tribute” exacted by the Caliph? Would he come? And never did sovereign put up more fervent Ora pro nobis Sancta Maria than the fat king, and invocations to all the calendar of saints.

In the midst of his devotions a scratch is heard at the door, the curtain is drawn aside, and the head of a jefe appears. At an impatient motion of the king, indicating that he would not be disturbed, the jefe bows low.

“Good, my lord,” are his words, “what am I to do? Here is a pious pilgrim bound for Compostela, earnestly desiring to see your Grace.”

“For Compostela,” answers the king. “Ah! he is welcome, admit him at once. He can tell me, on his return, in what precise condition the sanctuary is left. That last raid of the Moors lies heavy on my soul.”

In a few moments the pilgrim stands before him, his face concealed by a close-fitting cap, heavily charged with drapery, which he wears on his head.

“In what matter,” asks Don Sancho, with a gracious smile, “can the King of Leon advantage you, good pilgrim? If it is within my power, command me.”

“My lord,” answers the pilgrim, in tones which fell caressingly on the ear, “I humbly thank your Grace. I am bound for Compostela, to fulfil a vow concerning your prisoner, the Conde de Castila.”

“The Conde de Castila!” exclaims the king, half starting from his chair. “He is clean forgotten. As well talk of a dead man.”

“I crave your pardon if I have said aught amiss, but the Conde has caused deep sorrow to me. In my wrath I invoked a curse upon him, in the name of the blessed saint, and now I am bound to render thanks for his death.”

“Death!” ejaculates Don Sancho, turning pale, “who talks of his death?”

“I,” answers the pilgrim, with a singular decision. “I know that the death of the Conde is near!”

“By whose hand?” demands the king, greatly excited. (Did this holy person know of some secret conspiracy of Doña Teresa to assassinate him, and had he come to reveal it?)

“By mine,” whispers the pilgrim, mysteriously approaching him. “I have about me a subtle poison, the venom of snakes, given me by a Berber. It never fails; silently it extinguishes life. But it must be properly administered. Lead me to the prison – I will answer for the rest.”

Even Don Sancho is staggered by the proposal of this cold-blooded pilgrim, and replies with caution:

“Should this prove true, I shall not be unmindful of the saint’s claims on me. But, holy pilgrim, much as I honour your design and wish you success, in these warlike times I must demand some sign to assure me of your truth.”

“Signs shall not be wanting, O King,” answers the pilgrim, in whose voice an eager sweetness seems to penetrate. “The Holy Apostle has himself appeared to me in a vision and unfolded deep mysteries concerning Navarre and Leon. The time is not far off when Castile and Leon will be united under one crown, and that union will end the Mussulman rule in Spain.”

“O great and holy seer!” ejaculates Sancho the Fat, folding his hands, greatly impressed by what appears the complete fulfilment of his utmost ambition, “much do I honour you. Disclose, if not bound by a vow, what is your name, that I may impart it to my mother, Doña Queen Teresa.”

To this request the pilgrim pays no heed.

“Perhaps you will tell me if the death of the Conde prefigures these events?”

“By the aid of Santiago, yes,” is the answer. “Such is the prophecy I have to impart.”

Now had Don Sancho been less eager to rid himself of Gonzales by every means, he would have noted the violent agitation which shook the pilgrim’s frame.

To poison a sovereign in prison – and a kinsman to boot – is a serious undertaking. Already the words of refusal are on Sancho’s lips when the curtains of the apartment fly open and Doña Teresa rushes in.

“What is this I hear?” cries this imperious woman, who has been listening outside, her cruel face darkened by anger. “Shame on your cowardice, Don Sancho; you are no son of mine. What! you would refuse the proposal of this worthy pilgrim? I understand and applaud him. To kill the Conde de Castila is a work of mercy, for by his death the lives of thousands will be spared on the battle-field.”

In the presence of his mother the fat king becomes mute. Against his better judgment he consents to the death of the Conde.

Again we come upon Fernan in prison, a very unlikely place for so brilliant a cavalier, but, alas! adverse destiny has again doomed him to pass many months in this second dungeon – much more rough and dismal than the prison of Narbonne, as the old city of Leon, with its Gothic traditions, was more uncouth and uncivilised than the capital of Navarre.

“Who are you?” he asks in great surprise as a pilgrim is ushered in. “Nor need I ask; coming from the vile king you can only be a foe.”

“I am your friend,” answers a voice that strikes like music on his ear, “your best, your only friend, my lord and husband,” and as the disguise falls to the ground the faithful Infanta stands before her lord.

We will pass over their transports. A decent veil must conceal the mysteries of married life. Naturally the first question he asked was how she came there? Together they laughed while she explained the murderous purpose of the wicked queen.

“But time speeds,” she says, tearing herself from his arms. “You must fly. The courage of our good Castilians is damped by your long absence. Not a moment must be lost.”

“What! in broad daylight?” asks he. “Is it so easy a thing to go?” and he gives a bitter laugh.

“No, love, most difficult, but we must change our clothes! I am you, and you are me. In that bed,” pointing to a straw pallet, “I stretch myself to die. I have swallowed the poison, and you, my noble husband, in the pilgrim’s dress, speed to Burgos. Once under the gateway, you are safe. Oh! greet them well, my dear ones,” and, spite of herself, as she thinks of her child, silent tears gather in her eyes.

“But, Ava,” he exclaims, “greatly as I honour your courage, your fortitude, your skill, ask me not to return to Castile by such means. My sweet wife, the stars in their courses must have willed that I should die; leave me to my fate.”

“Never!” cries the valiant woman. “Here,” and she plunges her hand into her bosom, “is the poison. If you do not fly, I will swallow it before your eyes.”

A gesture of horror is his reply.

“Besides,” she continues, her face lighting up. “What have I to fear? Danger to my life there is none! You cannot imagine my own aunt would murder me! Away, away, or some fatal accident may hinder!”

Meanwhile, what pen shall paint the anxiety of the king? How minute by minute he pictured each detail of the agonies of the expiring Conde. Truly the possession of Castile seemed to his guilty mind at that moment too small a boon to compensate for the throes of his guilty conscience. Had such tortures continued, Sancho would never have come down to posterity with the surname of “the Fat,” but rather have melted into a shadow in the land of dreams! At last, unable any longer to bear such suspense, he called a page, and commanded that the pilgrim should be brought before him.

“He is gone,” replies one of the officers of the prison, who has presented himself to reply.

“Gone!” shouts Sancho, “without my leave? What does this mean? Is the Conde safe?”

“Safe, indeed,” answers the officer; “but half an hour ago I carried him a meal, by special order, and a good one.”

“A meal?” quoth the king, utterly amazed. “Could he eat?”

“Surely,” is the answer, “and glad he seemed to get it.”

“Did he not appear to suffer? Was he – well – did nothing ail him?”

“Nothing, my liege. I never saw a prisoner more débonnaire, but he seems grown strangely short to my eyes; he certainly has dwindled.”

“You are a fool!” cries the irritated king; “I must look into this matter myself. Bring him to my presence.”

“By the rood, but he does seem strangely altered,” mutters the king, as the prisoner stands before him. “Surely” – and a suspicion shoots through his mind, to be dismissed at once as ridiculous, as they approach each other.

“Well, Sir Conde, are the prisons of Leon better guarded than those of Narbonne?” he asks, with a sneer.

“Much better, Sir King, one can escape more easily. For a sovereign so versed in plots and conspiracies —murder even” – (at this word the king gives a great start) – “you are marvellously at ease.”

King Sancho became so bewildered, his head was going round. Was he bewitched? Was this the Conde or not? And if not, who?

Then Doña Ava, speaking in her own natural voice, broke out into peals of laughter.

“Surely, Don Sancho, a bachelor like you cannot be so ungallant as to imprison a lady.”

“A lady! A woman! God’s mercy! what does this mean? Who has dared to deceive me?”

“I,” answered the Infanta. “Shower your wrath on me, your kinswoman. May I not be a deceiver when so many of my blood excel? The queen, for instance? Now look at me, Sancho, and let this folly end.”

And the king did look, and into a most towering passion he fell, using more bad language than I care to repeat.

“A curse upon you!” are his first intelligible words. “Where is that villain, your husband?”

“In Castile,” she answers, “or far on the way. Never fear, he will soon return to settle accounts with you.”

“False woman,” and the king, fuming with a sense of intolerable wrong at having been made such a fool of, lifts his hand as if to strike her, “learn to fear my vengeance!”

“Not I,” is her answer, laughing again. “You dare do nothing to me, and my loved lord is free, skimming like a fleet bird over the plains. I fear you not, you dastard king!”

Consigning the Infanta into the hands of the palace guards, Don Sancho rushed off to the apartments of the queen. For once that wicked woman was powerless. No one dared harm Doña Ava, especially as rapid news soon spread of the wild joy with which Fernan had been received in Burgos, and that, at the head of his army, he was marching on Leon.

On the other hand, the dark King of Navarre, hard pressed by the Moors, executing forays into the north, as the safety of his daughter was at stake, refused to use his troops for her capture; thus the King of Leon was left alone to bear the brunt of the attack, pillaging, demolishing, and burning in true mediæval style.

But Queen Doña Teresa still held good.

“Keep her close. She shall not go, without the ransom of half his kingdom,” were her words.

“Now, by Santiago!” exclaims the exasperated king, “ransom or no ransom, she shall go. You ruined the kingdom in my father’s time, but, by heaven! you shall not play the same game with me!”

For once the fat king insists. The Condesa de Castila is to be restored to her husband, on condition of the withdrawal of his troops. All seems accommodated when an unexpected difficulty arises.

That little account for the horse and the hawk, which had so pleased the King of Leon on his cousin’s first visit, accepted on the condition of making payment in a year or of doubling the price, had never been settled, and it had grown so enormous that King Sancho found himself at a loss to find the money. Convenient Jews did not exist in those days as we read of later in the time of the Cid. Now, even a royal debtor looks round in vain for help.

It was in vain that King Sancho cursed the horse and cursed the hawk, then cursed them both together; that did no good, the debt remained unpaid. In this world from little causes spring great events. That horse and hawk, so innocently purchased from the bright-faced Conde, were finally the cause of the independence of Castile. Not able to discharge the debt, King Don Sancho agreed to free Castile from all vassalage to Leon. And the Conde and the Infanta rode back in triumph to Burgos, as the founders of that dynasty which became the most powerful and glorious of the Peninsula, to merge at last in the royal crown of Spain.