THE DOOM OF JOHN CASTELL.
His evidence finished, the Marquis of Morella sat down, whereon, the
king and queen having whispered together, the head alcalde asked Betty
if she had any questions to put to him. She rose with much dignity, and
through her interpreter said in a quiet voice:
“Yes, a great many. Yet she would not debase herself by asking a single
one until the stain which he had cast upon her was washed away, which
she thought could only be done in blood. He had alleged that she was a
woman of no character, and he had further alleged that their marriage
was null and void. Being of the sex she was, she could not ask him to
make good his assertions at the sword’s point, therefore, as she
believed she had the right to do according to all the laws of honour,
she asked leave to seek a champion—if an unfriended woman could find
one in a strange land—to uphold her fair name against this base and
cruel slander.”
Now, in the silence that followed her speech, Peter rose and said:
“I ask the permission of your Majesties to be that champion. Your
Majesties will note that according to his own story I have suffered
from this marquis the bitterest wrong that one man can receive at the
hands of another. Also, he has lied in saying that I am not true to my
affianced lady, the Dona Margaret, and surely I have a right to avenge
the lie upon him. Lastly, I declare that I believe the Señora Betty to
be a good and upright woman, upon whom no shadow of shame has ever
fallen, and, as her countryman and relative, I desire to uphold her
good name before all the world. I am a foreigner here with few friends,
or none, yet I cannot believe that your Majesties will withhold from me
the right of battle which all over the world in such a case one
gentleman may demand of another. I challenge the Marquis of Morella to
mortal combat without mercy to the fallen, and here is the proof of
it.”
Then, stepping across the open space before the bar, he drew the
leathern gauntlet off his hand and threw it straight into Morella’s
face, thinking that after such an insult he could not choose but fight.
With an oath Morella snatched at his sword; but, before he could draw
it, officers of the court threw themselves on him, and the king’s stern
voice was heard commanding them to cease their brawling in the royal
presences.
“I ask your pardon, Sire,” gasped Morella, “but you have seen what this
Englishman did to me, a grandee of Spain.”
“Yes,” broke in the queen, “but we have also heard what you, a grandee
of Spain, did to this gentleman of England, and the charge you brought
against him, which, it seems, the Dona Margaret does not believe.”
“In truth, no, your Majesty,” said Margaret. “Let me be sworn also, and
I can explain much of what the marquis has told to you. I never wished
to marry him or any man, save this one,” and she touched Peter on the
arm, “and anything that he or I may have done, we did to escape the
evil net in which we were snared.”
“We believe it,” answered the queen with a smile, then fell to
consulting with the king and the alcaldes.
For a long time they debated in voices so low that none could hear what
they said, looking now at one and now at another of the parties to this
strange suit. Also, some priest was called into their council, which
Margaret thought a bad omen. At length they made up their minds, and in
a low, quiet voice and measured words her Majesty, as Queen of Castile,
gave the judgment of them all. Addressing herself first to Morella, she
said:
“My lord Marquis, you have brought very grave charges against the lady
who claims to be your wife, and the Englishman whose affianced bride
you admit you snatched away by fraud and force. This gentleman, on his
own behalf and on behalf of these ladies, has challenged you to a
combat to the death in a fashion that none can mistake. Do you accept
his challenge?”
“I would accept it readily enough, your Majesty,” answered Morella in
sullen tones, “since heretofore none have doubted my courage; but I
must remember that I am”—and he paused, then added—“what your Majesties
know me to be, a grandee of Spain, and something more, wherefore it is
scarcely lawful for me to cross swords with a Jew-merchant’s clerk, for
that was this man’s high rank and office in England.”
“You could cross them with me on your ship, the San Antonio,” exclaimed
Peter bitterly, “why then are you ashamed to finish what you were not
ashamed to begin? Moreover, I tell you that in love or war I hold
myself the equal of any woman-thief and bastard in this kingdom, who am
one of a name that has been honoured in my own.”
Now again the king and queen spoke together of this question of rank—no
small one in that age and country. Then Isabella said:
“It is true that a grandee of Spain cannot be asked to meet a simple
foreign gentleman in single combat. Therefore, since he has thought fit
to raise it, we uphold the objection of the Marquis of Morella, and
declare that this challenge is not binding on his honour. Yet we note
his willingness to accept the same, and are prepared to do what we can
to make the matter easy, so that it may not be said that a Spaniard,
who has wrought wrong to an Englishman, and been asked openly to make
the amend of arms in the presence of his sovereigns, was debarred from
so doing by the accident of his rank. Señor Peter Brome, if you will
receive it at our hands, as others of your nation have been proud to
do, we propose, believing you to be a brave and loyal man of gentle
birth, to confer upon you the knighthood of the Order of St. James, and
thereby and therein the right to consort with as equal, or to fight as
equal, any noble of Spain, unless he should be of the right
blood-royal, to which place we think the most puissant and excellent
Marquis of Morella lays no claim.”
“I thank your Majesties,” said Peter, astonished, “for the honour that
you would do to me, which, had it not been for the fact that my father
chose the wrong side on Bosworth Field, being of a race somewhat
obstinate in the matter of loyalty, I should not have needed to accept
from your Majesties. As it is I am very grateful, since now the noble
marquis need not feel debased in settling our long quarrel as he would
desire to do.”
“Come hither and kneel down, Señor Peter Brome,” said the queen when he
had finished speaking.
He obeyed, and Isabella, borrowing his sword from the king, gave him
the accolade by striking him thrice upon the right shoulder and saying:
“Rise, Sir Peter Brome, Knight of the most noble Order of Saint Iago,
and by creation a Don of Spain.”
He rose, he bowed, retreating backwards as was the custom, and thereby
nearly falling off the dais, which some people thought a good omen for
Morella. As he went the king said:
“Our Marshal, Sir Peter, will arrange the time and manner of your
combat with the marquis as shall be most convenient to you both.
Meanwhile, we command you both that no unseemly word or deed should
pass between you, who must soon meet face to face to abide the judgment
of God in battle à l’outrance. Rather, since one of you must die so
shortly, do we entreat you to prepare your souls to appear before His
judgment-seat. We have spoken.”
Now the audience appeared to think that the court was ended, for many
of them began to rise; but the queen held up her hand and said:
“There remain other matters on which we must give judgment. The señora
here,” and she pointed to Betty, “asks that her marriage should be
declared valid, or so we understand, and the Marquis of Morella asks
that his marriage with the said señora should be declared void, or so
we understand. Now this is a question over which we claim no power, it
having to do with a sacrament of the Church. Therefore we leave it to
his Holiness the Pope in person, or by his legate, to decide according
to his wisdom in such manner as may seem best to him, if the parties
concerned should choose to lay their suit before him. Meanwhile, we
declare and decree that the señora, born Elizabeth Dene, shall
everywhere throughout our dominions, until or unless his Holiness the
Pope shall decide to the contrary, be received and acknowledged as the
Marchioness of Morella, and that during his lifetime her reputed
husband shall make due provision for her maintenance, and that after
his death, should no decision have been come to by the court of Rome
upon her suit, she shall inherit and enjoy that proportion of his lands
and property which belongs to a wife under the laws of this realm.”
Now, while Betty bowed her thanks to their Majesties till the jewels on
her bodice rattled, and Morella scowled till his face looked as black
as a thunder-cloud above the mountains, the audience, whispering to
each other, once more rose to disperse. Again the queen held up her
hand, for the judgment was not yet finished.
“We have a question to ask of the gallant Sir Peter Brome and the Dona
Margaret, his affianced. Is it still their desire to take each other in
marriage?”
Now Peter looked at Margaret, and Margaret looked at Peter, and there
was that in their eyes which both of them understood, for he answered
in a clear voice:
“Your Majesty, that is the dearest wish of both of us.”
The queen smiled a little, then asked: “And do you, Señor John Castell,
consent and allow your daughter’s marriage to this knight?”
“I do, indeed,” he answered gravely. “Had it not been for this man
here,” and he glanced with bitter hatred at Morella, “they would have
been united long ago, and to that end,” he added with meaning, “such
little property as I possessed has been made over to trustees in
England for their benefit and that of their children. Therefore I am
henceforward dependent upon their charity.”
“Good,” said the queen. “Then one question remains to be put, and only
one. Is it your wish, both of you, that you should be wed before the
single combat between the Marquis of Morella and Sir Peter Brome?
Remember, Dona Margaret, before you answer, that in this event you may
soon be made a widow, and that if you postpone the ceremony you may
never be a wife.”
Now Margaret and Peter spoke a few words together, then the former
answered for them both.
“Should my lord fall,” she said in her sweet voice that trembled as she
uttered the words, “in either case my heart will be widowed and broken.
Let me live out my days, therefore, bearing his name, that, knowing my
deathless grief, none may thenceforth trouble me with their love, who
desire to remain his bride in heaven.”
“Well spoken,” said the queen. “We decree that here in our cathedral of
Seville you twain shall be wed on the same day, but before the Marquis
of Morella and you, Sir Peter Brome, meet in single combat. Further,
lest harm should be attempted against either of you,” and she looked
sideways at Morella, “you, Señora Margaret, shall be my guest until you
leave my care to become a bride, and you, Sir Peter, shall return to
lodge in the prison whence you came, but with liberty to see whom you
will, and to go when and where you will, but under our protection, lest
some attempt should be made on you.”
She ceased, whereon suddenly the king began speaking in his sharp, thin
voice.
“Having settled these matters of chivalry and marriage,” he said,
“there remains another, which I will not leave to the gentle lips of
our sovereign Lady, that has to do with something higher than either of
them—namely, the eternal welfare of men’s souls, and of the Church of
Christ on earth. It has been declared to us that the man yonder, John
Castell, merchant of London, is that accursed thing, a Jew, who for the
sake of gain has all his life feigned to be a Christian, and, as such,
deceived a Christian woman into marriage; that he is, moreover, of our
subjects, having been born in Spain, and therefore amenable to the
civil and spiritual jurisdiction of this realm.”
He paused, while Margaret and Peter stared at each other affrighted.
Only Castell stood silent and unmoved, though he guessed what must
follow better than either of them.
“We judge him not,” went on the king, “who claim no authority in such
high matters, but we do what we must do—we commit him to the Holy
Inquisition, there to take his trial!”
Now Margaret cried aloud. Peter stared about him as though for help,
which he knew could never come, feeling more afraid than ever he had
been in all his life, and for the first time that day Morella smiled.
At least he would be rid of one enemy. But Castell went to Margaret and
kissed her tenderly. Then he shook Peter by the hand, saying:
“Kill that thief,” and he looked at Morella, “as I know you will, and
would if there were ten as bad at his back. And be a good husband to my
girl, as I know you will also, for I shall ask an account of you of
these matters when we meet where there is neither Jew nor Christian,
priest nor king. Now be silent, and bear what must be borne as I do,
for I have a word to say before I leave you and the world.
“Your Majesties, I make no plea for myself, and when I am questioned
before your Inquisition the task will be easy, for I desire to hide
nothing, and will tell the truth, though not from fear or because I
shrink from pain. Your Majesties, you have told us that these two, who,
at least, are good enough Christians from their birth, shall be wed. I
would ask you if any spiritual crime, or supposed crime, of mine will
be allowed to work their separation, or to their detriment in any way
whatsoever.”
“On that point,” answered the queen quickly, as though she wished to
get in her words before the king or any one else could speak, “you have
our royal word, John Castell. Your case is apart from their case, and
nothing of which you may be convicted shall affect them in person or,”
she added slowly, “in property.”
“A large promise,” muttered the king.
“It is my promise,” she answered decidedly, “and it shall be kept at
any cost. These two shall marry, and if Sir Peter lives through the
fray they shall depart from Spain unharmed, nor shall any fresh charge
be brought against them in any court of the realm, nor shall they be
persecuted or proceeded against in any other realm or on the high seas
at our instance or that of our officers. Let my words be written down,
and one copy of them signed and filed and another copy given to the
Dona Margaret.”
“Your Majesty,” said Castell, “I thank you, and now, if die I must, I
shall die happy. Yet I make bold to tell you that had you not spoken
them it was my purpose to kill myself, here before your eyes, since
that is a sin for which none can be asked to suffer save the sinner.
Also, I say that this Inquisition which you have set up shall eat out
the heart of Spain and bring her greatness to the dust of death. The
torture and the misery of those Jews, than whom you have no better or
more faithful subjects, shall be avenged on the heads of your
children’s children for so long as their blood endures.”
He finished speaking, and, while something that sounded like a gasp of
fear rose from that crowded court as the meaning of Castell’s bold
words came home to his auditors, the crowd behind him separated, and
there appeared, walking two by two, a file of masked and hooded monks
and a guard of soldiers, all of whom doubtless were in waiting. They
came to John Castell, they touched him on the shoulder, they closed
around him, hiding him as it were from the world, and in the midst of
them he vanished away.
Peter’s memories of that strange day in the Alcazar at Seville always
remained somewhat dim and blurred. It was not wonderful. Within the
space of a few hours he had been tried for his life and acquitted. He
had seen Betty, transformed from a humble companion into a magnificent
and glittering marchioness, as a chrysalis is transformed into a
butterfly, urge her strange suit against the husband who had tricked
her, and whom she had tricked, and, for the while at any rate, more
than hold her own, thanks to her ready wit and native strength of
character.
As her champion, and that of Margaret, he had challenged Morella to a
single combat, and when his defiance was refused on the ground of his
lack of rank, by the favour of the great Isabella, who wished to use
him as her instrument, doubtless because of those secret ambitions of
Morella’s which Margaret had revealed to her, he had been suddenly
advanced to the high station of a Knight of the Order of St. James of
Spain, to which, although he cared little for it, otherwise he might
vainly have striven to come.
More, and better far, the desire of his heart would at length be
attained, for now it was granted to him to meet his enemy, the man whom
he hated with just cause, upon a fair field, without favour shown to
one or the other, and to fight him to the death. He had been promised,
further, that within some few days Margaret should be given to him as
wife, although it well might be that she would keep that name but for a
single hour, and that until then they both should dwell safe from
Morella’s violence and treachery; also that, whatever chanced, no suit
should lie against them in any land for aught that they did or had done
in Spain.
Lastly, when all seemed safe save for that chance of war, whereof,
having been bred to such things, he took but little count; when his
cup, emptied at length of mire and sand, was brimming full with the
good red wine of battle and of love, when it was at his very lips
indeed, Fate had turned it to poison and to gall. Castell, his bride’s
father, and the man he loved, had been haled to the vaults of the
Inquisition, whence he knew well he would come forth but once more,
dressed in a yellow robe “relaxed to the civil arm,” to perish slowly
in the fires of the Quemadero, the place of burning of heretics.
What would his conquest over Morella avail if Heaven should give him
power to conquer? What kind of a bridal would that be which was sealed
and consecrated by the death of the bride’s father in the torturing
fires of the Inquisition? How would they ever get the smell of the
smoke of that sacrifice out of their nostrils? Castell was a brave man;
no torments would make him recant. It was doubtful even if he would be
at the pains to deny his faith, he who had only been baptized a
Christian by his father for the sake of policy, and suffered the fraud
to continue for the purposes of his business, and that he might win and
keep a Christian wife. No, Castell was doomed, and he could no more
protect him from priest and king than a dove can protect its nest from
a pair of hungry peregrines.
Oh that last scene! Never could Peter forget it while he lived—the
vast, fretted hall with its painted arches and marble columns; the rays
of the afternoon sun piercing the window-places, and streaming like
blood on to the black robes of the monks as, with their prey, they
vanished back into the arcade where they had lurked; Margaret’s wild
cry and ashen face as her father was torn away from her, and she sank
fainting on to Betty’s bejewelled bosom; the cruel sneer on Morella’s
lips; the king’s hard smile; the pity in the queen’s eye; the excited
murmurings of the crowd; the quick, brief comments of the lawyers; the
scratching of the clerk’s quill as, careless of everything save his
work, he recorded the various decrees; and above it all as it were,
upright, defiant, unmoved, Castell, surrounded by the ministers of
death, vanishing into the blackness of the arcade, vanishing into the
jaws of the tomb.