King Phillip II. was playing at chess in the Escurial Palace. His
opponent was Ruy Lopez, a humble priest, but a chess player of great
skill. Being the King's particular favourite, the great player was
permitted to kneel upon a brocaded cushion, whilst the courtiers grouped
about the King were forced to remain standing in constrained and painful
attitudes.
It was a magnificent morning. The air was perfumed with the orange
groves, and the violet curtains of the splendid hall hardly softened the
burning rays which streamed in through the windows. The blaze of living
light seemed scarcely in harmony with the King's gloomy countenance. His
brow was black as night, and from time to time he bent his eyes
impatiently upon the door. The nobles stood in silence, darting meaning
glances at each other. It was easily to be discerned that some event of
great importance weighed upon the spirits of the assembly. No one paid
any attention to the chess-board except Ruy Lopez, who, as he moved the
pieces, hesitated between the temptation of checkmating his opponent and
the deference due to his King. The silence was unbroken except by the
sound made by the players moving their pieces.
Suddenly the door opened, and a man of rude and savage aspect advanced
into the hall, and, presenting himself before the King, stood waiting
his commands to speak. This man's appearance was anything but
prepossessing, and on his entrance the nobles, as if animated with one
thought, shrank back with contempt and loathing, as if some unclean
animal had entered into their midst. His massive, herculean figure was
clad in a doublet of black leather, and his face, in which could be seen
no trace of intelligence, expressed, on the contrary, nothing but
vileness and villainy; a great scar, running right across his face and
losing itself in a bushy beard, added still further to the natural
brutality of his countenance.
An electric thrill ran through the assembly. The new comer was Fernando
Calavar, high executioner of Spain.
"Is he dead?" asked the King, in an imperious tone.
"No, sire," replied Calavar, bowing low.
The King frowned.
"Great Sovereign of Spain," Calavar continued, "the prisoner has claimed
his privileges, and I cannot take proceedings against a man whose blood
belongs to the noblest in Spain, without having a more imperative order
from your Majesty," and he bowed again.
The nobles, who had listened with great attention to these words, broke
into a murmur of approbation as the man finished speaking. The proud
Castilian blood rushed like a stream of lava through their veins, and
dyed their faces crimson. The manifestation became general. Young Alonza
D'Ossuna openly asserted his opinion by putting on his plumed cap. His
bold example was followed by the majority of the nobles, and their lofty
nodding crests seemed to proclaim with defiance that their masters
protested in favour of the privilege, which the hidalgos of Spain have
always enjoyed, of covering their heads before their Sovereign.
The King gave a furious start, and striking his fist violently upon the
chess-board, scattered the chessmen in all directions.
"He has been judged by our Royal Court of Justice," he cried, "and
condemned to death. What does the traitor demand?"
"Sire!" replied the executioner, "he asks permission to die upon the
block, and also to pass the three last hours of his life with a priest."
"Ah, that is granted!" replied Philip, in a tone of relief. "Is not our
confessor in the prison according to our orders?"
"Yes, sire!" said Calavar, "the holy man is there; but the Duke refuses
to see St. Diaz de Silva. He says he cannot receive absolution from
anyone below the dignity of a Bishop. Such is the privilege of a noble
condemned to death for high treason."
"Yes, these are our rights!" boldly interrupted the fiery D'Ossuna; "and
we claim from the King our cousin's privileges."
This demand acted as a signal.
"Our rights and the King's justice are inseparable," cried Don Diego de
Tarraxas, Count of Valence, an old man of gigantic stature, clothed in
armour, holding in his hands the bâton of Great Constable of Spain, and
leaning upon his long Toledo blade.
"Our rights and our privileges!" cried the nobles, repeating the words
like an echo. Their audacity made the King start with fury from his
ebony throne.
"By the bones of Campeador!" he cried. "By the soul of St. Jago! I have
sworn neither to eat nor sleep until the bleeding head of Don Gusman
lies before me. As I have sworn, so shall it be. But Don Tarraxas has
said well, 'The King's justice confirms his subjects' rights.' My Lord
Constable, where does the nearest Bishop reside?"
"Sire, I have more to do with camp than with the Church," the Constable
replied, somewhat abruptly. "Your Majesty's chaplain, Don Silvas, is
present: he can tell you better than I."
Don Silvas began to speak in trepidation.
[Illustration: "WHAT DOES THE TRAITOR DEMAND?"]
"Sire," he said, humbly, "the Bishop of Segovia is an official of the
King, but he who filled the duty died last week, and the parchment which
names his successor is still upon the Council table, and is yet to be
submitted to the Pope's seal."
At these words a joyous smile hovered about D'Ossuna's lips. This joy
was but natural, for the young man was of the blood of the Gusmans, and
his cousin, the condemned prisoner, was his dearest friend. The King
perceived the smile, and his eye shot forth lightning.
"We are the King!" he said, gravely, with the calm which presages a
storm; "our Royal person must be no butt for raillery. This sceptre
appears light, my lords, but he who ridicules it shall be crushed
thereby as with a block of iron. I believe that our holy father the Pope
is somewhat indebted to us, so that we do not fear his displeasure at
the step which we are about to take. Since the King of Spain can make a
Prince, he can also make a Bishop. Rise, then, Don Ruy Lopez. I create
you Bishop of Segovia. Rise, I command you, and take your rank in the
Church."
The courtiers stood dumfounded.
Don Ruy Lopez rose mechanically. His head was whirling, and he stammered
as he strove to speak.
"If your Majesty pleases----" he began.
"Silence, my Lord Bishop!" replied the King. "Obey your Sovereign. The
formalities of your installation shall be performed another day; our
subjects will not fail to acknowledge our wishes in this affair. Bishop
of Segovia, go with Calavar to the condemned man's cell. Give absolution
to his soul, and in three hours leave his body to the executioner's axe.
As for you, Calavar, I will await you here; you will bring us the
traitor's head. Let justice be accomplished."
Then Philip turned to Ruy Lopez.
"I give you my signet ring," he said, "to show the Duke as a token of
the truth of your story."
The executioner left the chamber, followed by Ruy Lopez.
"Well, gentlemen," said the King, turning to the others, "do you still
doubt the King's justice?"
But the nobles answered not a word.
The King, having taken his seat, made a sign to one of his favourites to
place himself before the chess-board, and Don Ramirez, Count of Biscay,
accordingly knelt down upon the velvet cushion.
"With a game of chess, gentlemen," said the King, smiling, "and your
company, I cannot fail to make the time pass agreeably. Let no one leave
the chamber until Calavar's return. We cannot spare a single one of
you."
With these ironical words, Philip commenced a game with Don Ramirez,
whilst the nobles, almost dropping with fatigue, resumed the positions
about their august master which they had occupied at the beginning of
this story.