Don Roderich’s Perfidy
The court life shifts from the green Sierras of Cordoba to the old city
of Toledo. Again we are in the corn-bearing plains, the outlines of the
domes, pinnacles, and turrets of the Alcazar before us gay and jocund
with the security of two hundred years of Gothic rule. What footsteps
have echoed through those courts! What regal presences haunt them!
Iberian, Roman, and Gothic; Recaredo, Wamba, Witica, and comely
Roderich; to be followed by Moors, and Castilian kings; El Caballero, El
Emplazado, El Valente, El Impotente; a red haired bastard of Trastamare
succeeding his brother Don Pedro el Cruel, a swaggering Alfonso,
Velasque’s, Philip, the staid dowager-queen Berenguela, fair Isabel the
Catholic, the widow of Philip the Fourth, the mother of Charles el Soco,
Johana el Loca, not to forget the Cid, first Christian alcaide and
governor; a palace in old times marking the utmost limits of the known
world, beyond which the East looked into the hyperborean darkness of the
West; the geographical centre of all Spain--supremely regal, its
foundations laid in legend, and its ramparts raised in the glamour of
Oriental song; a refuge from Moorish invasion for the defenceless Goth,
and the superb residence of later kings. In a hollow beneath rise the
towers of the cathedral, and the outline of many ancient synagogues, for
the Jews were always powerful in Toledo--El Transito and El Blanco are
the principal ones, and hospitals for the chosen race. If Toledo was the
Gothic capital, it was also long before known under the name of
“Toledoth,” where the Jews came in great numbers after the sack of
Jerusalem by Nebuchadnezzar. “The Jews fled to Tarshish,” says the
Bible, and Tarshish is the scriptural name for Southern Spain.
Other churches and oratories there were, for the Goths were a pious
people, also the house of Wamba over the Tagus, and the mystic tower of
Hercules, rising on a rock, the entrance guarded by an inscription
setting forth “that whenever a king passes the threshold, the empire of
Spain shall fall”; a warning much respected by the Gothic kings--Wamba,
Ervig, Eric, and Witica, who each in turn ordered fresh locks and chains
to be added to make it fast. Baths there were also, and on the hills
summer houses and _huertas_ moistened by fountains and streams, the dark
Tagus making, as it were, a defence and barrier about the walls.
One plaisance there was, particularly noted, on a terrace overhanging
the river, where the spires and domes of many-painted pavilions uprose,
with tile-paved _patios_, and arcades and _miradores_ open to the sky,
which Roderich had formed for Egilona, from the pattern of a Moorish
retreat she loved at Algiers. Here soft fluffy plane-trees whispered to
the breeze, violets blossomed in low damp trenches, and the blue-green
fronds of the palms cut against the sky. A garden, indeed, most
cunningly adapted to intoxicate the senses, where every tree and branch
was vocal with nightingale and thrush, the soft rhythm of _zambras_ and
flutes thrilling through the boughs from invisible orchestras; a place
in itself so lovely and so lonely that life passed by in an atmosphere
of delight, akin to the houri-haunted paradise prepared for the brave
Moslems who fall in battle. Hither came Egilona, as into the solitude of
an Eastern harem, shut out from the foot of man. Even Roderich rarely
entered to disturb her hours of innocent delight, surrounded by a band
of fair damsels, who, like Florinda, had been committed to her care.
* * * * *
It was a delicious evening after a day of fiery heat. So oppressive had
been the sun, that even the orange leaves flagged on their stems and the
song-birds were mute. In the broad plains without, the rarefied air
trembled; nothing but the sharp note of the cicala broke the silence of
mid-day.
Now the air was cool in these leafy gardens, over-hanging the river,
from which delicate
[Illustration: THE EXTERIOR OF THE GREAT MOSQUE AT CORDOVA.]
rippling gusts rose up to fan the atmosphere. The dazzling pavilions
with open galleries lay in shadow, and only a transient ray from the
setting sun lit up some detail of lace-worked panel or gilded pinnacle
into a transient flame.
On a broad terrace, from which the roofs of the city are dimmed into
vague outlines, a merry party of the queen’s maidens emerge from one of
the galleries, amid peals of that shrill and joyous laughter heard only
among the young, and running swiftly along scare the peacocks, who drop
their tails and fly into the covered avenues beyond. Some of the maidens
ensconce themselves in verdant kiosks, others wander into the
bamboo-thickets to lie on flowery banks, or wade in the shallow streams
which flow around. One delicately limbed girl, oppressed by the heat,
divests herself of the light draperies she wears, and like a playful
Nereid plunges into a pool, scattering water on her laughing companions.
One of these maidens, Zora, by name, who came from Barbary with Egilona,
is of a darker colouring than the rest. Zora can sing to the cither and
relate stories like a true Arab as she is. Now a circle of her
companions gather about her, and beg her to tell them a tale.
“But you have heard all my stories so often,” pleads poor Zora, whose
little feet are tingling with the desire of movement after the
confinement of the long hot day.
“Never mind, you must invent a new one, Zora.” A cloud passes over her
merry face. “_Invent_ a story! Well, I will try,” and after a few
minutes she seats herself on a porcelain bench under a clump of cedars,
and begins.
ZORA’S STORY
“There were once three sisters, I don’t know where, but they were
princesses. They had an ugly old father with one eye, who shut them up
in a tower high in a wall. They were never to go out, and had an old
slave to watch them; her name was Wenza, and there was a eunuch too, who
carried a scimitar; but he does not matter, for he stayed out of doors.
“Now the tower was very beautiful, only the sisters did not like it,
because they called it a prison. There was a _patio_ with an alabaster
fountain, which kept up a running murmur day and night; the walls were
wrought in a coloured net-work of flowers, and arches and angles were
worked beautifully to look like crystal caves. All around were the
sweetest little rooms for the sisters to sleep in, not forgetting Wenza,
who, they said, snored, so she was put in the farthest one. The walls
were hung with golden tapestry, and the divans worked with shells and
stones. So beautiful! Like a casket! There were curtains with monsters
and beasts embroidered in fine silk, hung at the doors to keep out
draughts, and so many singing-birds in golden cages, that there were
times when they could not hear themselves speak. A little kitchen, too,
lay in a corner, where Wenza cooked the food, but the sisters lived on
cakes and fruit quite in a fairy-like way, which often made Wenza say
she knew she would be starved, only the eunuch was kind and sometimes
handed in on his scimitar a piece of meat. High up in the walls were
barred casemates, but oh! so small, mere slits and the princesses often
tore their robes clambering up to look out. They could see the sky--a
passing cloud was a variety, but what delighted them most, and, indeed,
occupied the day, when they were not playing on lutes and cithers, or
teaching tricks to the birds, was a rocky valley, oh! so deep down! They
could just see it. The sun never shone there, and the rocks looked
always damp. A valley, and a stream with a strange echo like voices,
only what it said was past their power to know; and Wenza could not help
them, she only pulled them down from the windows and scolded them, and
threatened she would call in the eunuch with his drawn sword. But Wenza
liked to hear about it all the same, and asked often if the voices of
the stream had spoken more plainly.
“The only one who minded what Wenza said was the youngest princess,
Zeda. She was much more timid than her sisters, with cheeks as white as
a lily. She could touch the stops of a silver lute and sing Moorish
ballads. She was so gentle; she would nurse a sick bird in her warm hand
for hours and hours, and feed the little starlings that settled on the
window edge. All day she was in and out about the flowers, which stood
in pots round the fountain and lived on the spray.
“Zoda, the second, was very vain, and looked at herself in a steel
mirror twenty times a day, painting her eyes and trimming her hair, and
Lindaxara, the eldest, was proud, and would sometimes beat poor gentle
Zeda when she offended her.”
“And their clothes?” asked a little Gothic maiden interrupting her, “you
have told us nothing of their clothes.”
“Ah! that is true,” and Zora paused and thought a little. “Well! they
were all in tunics of white satin with gemmed waistbands and borders,
and trousers of Broussa gauze, lined with rose colour, little caps upon
their heads twinkling with coins, and necklaces of pearl. Very lovely
clothes, I assure you, and they looked lovely, too, standing with the
spray of the fountain behind them.
“Well,” continued Zora, growing eager herself as her tale went on, and
the eyes of all her companions riveted on her, “you may fancy what it
was, when Lindaxara, who was tall and slim, clamoured up one day to the
latticed window and saw _three Christian knights_ working among the
stones in the valley below. She was so astonished that she gave a loud
scream, which brought her sisters and Wenza, to the window. So there was
no secret about it, and they all strained their necks as far as the bars
would let them.
“Just to think of it! Three adorable knights in the flower of youth.
Eyes full of love, and the sweetest heads of hair, not cut and trimmed
like the Arabs’ under big turbans, but hanging loose in curls upon their
shoulders. Captives, alas! loaded with chains! The tears came into the
sisters’ eyes as they gazed. ‘The one in green,’ cried Lindaxara,
thrilling all over as she leaned out of the bars, ‘he is my knight. What
grace! What beauty!’
“‘No, the crimson one for me,’ said Zoda, arranging her hair. ‘I love
him already. He shall never be a slave.’
“Gentle little Zeda said nothing, but heaved a great sigh. ‘No one will
ever care for me,’ she whispered, ‘but it is that other one I like best.
He has such a heavenly smile.’
“After which, Wenza, suddenly remembering her duty, drove them all down,
and shut up the window. But too late, the harm was done; Wenza
protested, but she was the worst of all. The eunuch was bribed by her
with so much gold, he put up his scimitar, and did all that he was bid.
“The Christian knights were told that three beautiful princesses,
daughters of the one-eyed king, loved them. It made them very happy in
spite of their chains. They managed to talk together by signs and to
arrange their plans.
“One night, when the moon was sinking, and all was still, a whistle,
heard from below, struck on impatient ears. The bars had been sawn from
the window by the eunuch, who was strong, and Wenza had cut the sheets
into strips and tied them all together into a long rope; then one by
one they went down, at first trembling, but quite brave and glad at
last, as they fell into the arms of the Christian knights, Wenza into
the arms of the eunuch, who took care of her--all save poor little Zeda.
“When it came to her turn to descend, she had no courage to move, but
stood at the window clasping her hands, and casting down wistful glances
on her sisters. Now her fingers were on the cord, then she withdrew
them; she saw her Christian knight beckoning to her; listened, listened
as the stream called Zeda. Again she grasped the cord. In vain, her
heart failed her.
“‘Too late, too late, dear sisters,’ she cried. ‘Go forth and be happy.
Think sometimes of the poor little prisoner left behind.’ And so,”
concluded Zora, evidently at a loss how to finish her tale, “Ansa, the
one-eyed king, her father, coming to visit his daughters, found her
alone, and condemned her to die of hunger in the tower.
“Poor little Zeda! But she still lives in the spirit of the fountain,
when it boils and bubbles at night in the form of a Moslem princess,
flower-crowned, singing to a silver lute, ‘Ay de mi Zeda!’”
* * * * *
A great clapping of hands, and many thanks to Zora for the story,
greeted its conclusion. The little Gothic maiden, who was very fond of
Zora, cried at the fate of the poor princess starved to death. She is
sure none of them were comelier than Zora; and in this she speaks
truly. An African sun had dyed her skin to a ruddier colour, given
symmetry to her limbs, and a dark fire to her eyes. As a stranger Zora
is by turns laughed at and petted. And as the setting sun now catches
the swarthy ebony of her long hair, and blazes on the rich brown of her
cheek, the difference between her and the rest suddenly strikes a lively
little playmate, who is forming a pattern on the ground from the
coloured petals of roses.
“I should like to know,” says she, contemplating Zora, “which is
prettier, dark Zora with the flashing eyes, or pale Florinda with the
chestnut curls. In my opinion Zora is worth a whole bevy of us
white-faced Goths.”
“No, no, no,” echoes from all sides, while poor Zora, put to shame,
blushes under tawny skin and retreats to the farthest corner of the
garden.
“I will not give the palm of beauty to Zora,” cries another voice, “but
to Florinda. Where is she?” A general search is made for a long time in
vain, but at last she is discovered fast asleep under a palm. Slumber
has lent a lustre to her cheek, and her white bosom rises and falls
under the transparent tissue of her bodice.
“Look!” cry the maidens exultingly, “can you compare Zora with
Florinda?” And in their eagerness the giddy group tear asunder the
sheltering draperies which cling about her.
Alas! little did they know, these joyous maidens, that the fate of the
Gothic kingdom turned on the balance of their childish games, and that,
mere puppets in the hands of fate, they were destined to be the
instruments of destruction to their country!
In the gloom that precedes the setting of the sun, amid the dusky
shadows of huge-leaved plants and myrtle hedges which broke the space
into squares in every direction, Don Roderich had stolen from the
Alcazar to enjoy the evening freshness and to visit the queen. Hearing
from afar the bursts of girlish laughter, at the contest of beauty
between dark and fair, he looked out from the latticed _mirador_ of the
pavilion, and beheld the undraped form of Florinda before she could
escape from the hands of her companions.
That glance is fatal. Forgetful of the sacred pledges given to her
father, forgetful of his honour as a knight and his gratitude as a king,
a mighty passion rises within his breast. But Florinda gives no
response; his fervid glances are met with downcast eyes, and a blush
rises on her cheek as she involuntarily approaches him. This does but
serve to fan his lawless love; and so great is his infatuation he cannot
persuade himself that she does not return it. His whole soul is as a
furnace, which consumes his life. Speak to her he must, and a wicked
hope whispers it will not be in vain!
Meeting her one day, a little later, by chance in the queen’s
antechamber, he called her to him, and presented to her his hand.
“Sweet one,” says he, in a voice he can scarcely command, every pulse
within him beating tumultuously, “a thorn has sorely pricked me, can
you draw it out?”
Florinda, who unconsciously has come rather to fear him, kneels at his
feet and takes his hand in hers. At the touch of her light fingers a
tremor runs through his frame. Is this slight girl to resist the
transports that shake his being to the core, as the fury of the tempest
shakes the light leaves?
As she kneels the tresses of her auburn hair fall as a veil around her,
and blush after blush flushes her cheeks. Vainly she seeks for the thorn
in Don Roderich’s hand. In her surprise she lifts her eyes to his, which
are bent on her with ill-controlled passion; then, starting to her feet
in confusion, “My lord,” she says, retreating from where he stands
leaning against a painted pillar, his jewelled cap pressed down upon his
brows, “there is no thorn.”
She turns to go, filled with an apprehension she cannot explain, but he
catches her hand, and presses it to his heart.
“Here, here is the thorn, Florinda; will you pluck _that_ out?”
“My lord, my lord,” cries the alarmed girl, “I do not catch your
meaning.”
“Then I will teach you,” he answers, fast losing command over himself.
“Do you love me?” and he draws her to him so near that his quick-coming
breath plays upon her cheek.
Ever farther and farther she strives to retreat; ever nearer and nearer
Don Roderich presses her, his glowing eyes resting on her like flames.
“My lord,” she says at last, trembling from head to foot, “my father
told me to revere you as himself. I was to be to you and to the queen as
a daughter. To your protection I look, may it never fail.”
A terrible fear possessed her of coming danger, as she shaped her words
to this appeal, and had a spark of loyalty remained in the heart of Don
Roderich, her reproof would have brought him to a better mind, but an
evil destiny had doomed him to work out his own ruin.
“Florinda,” he cries, seizing her by both hands so as to draw her to him
by force, “innocent as you are, you must understand me. It is not the
love for a father nor the submission to a king I ask of you. It is
_love_. Ah! tremble not, fair one, there is nothing to scare you. None
shall know it. Deep in our hearts it shall lie. Nor does the love of
your king degrade you like that of a common man. All the power of the
Gothic throne shall compass you with delights, and I will make your
father Julian greater than myself.”
At these base words the rising terror of Florinda gave place to
indignation. Her soft eyes kindled with a fire far different from that
which Don Roderich would have desired.
“I understand, my lord,” she answers, in a firm voice; “but none of my
race hold power by evil means. My father would rather die than accept
such dishonour. But,” and an ill-assured smile plays about her mouth, “I
believe you mean but to try me; you think me too stupid and childish to
serve the queen. I pray your pardon for taking a jest in such foolish
earnest.”
The blanched face of Florinda ill-corresponded with the words which her
quivering lips could scarcely articulate.
“May I die,” cries Don Roderich, “if I speak aught but truth. My heart,
my kingdom, are at your command. Be mine, fair angel, and the Goths
shall know no rule but yours.”
But now, the courage of Florinda, timid and girlish as she was, rises up
within her. “My lord, I am in your power,” are her words. “You may kill
me, but there you stop. My will you can never force.” Then, casting up
her arms with a gesture of despair, she flees, vanishing among the long
lines of pillars in the hall; and such was the power of her anger that
the king dares not follow her. And here we must leave her with a wonder
whether the assiduous worship paid her by Roderich was _always_ repulsed
with a like vigour, or if the opprobrious name of _La Cava_ with which
she came to be branded in the legends of the time was not undeserved.
That the king was so depraved by the indulgence of his life as not to be
haunted by the shame of what he had done is difficult to believe. That
he counted, however, on the secrecy of Florinda would seem certain from
the indifference he displayed to the consequences of his action as
affecting his relations with Julian, at that very time leading his army
against the Moorish hosts, commanded by the veteran general, Mousa, in
the neighbourhood of Ceuta.
* * * * *
“Those whom the gods forsake, they blind,” says the Pagan proverb. It is
certainly impossible to explain the inactivity of the once valiant
Roderich by any rational course of reasoning. Not only had the rumour of
approaching battle come from the African shores, but swift messengers
had brought to Toledo the news that the rock of Calpe (Gibraltar) in
Spain bristled with scimitars, led by the ferocious old Berber, Tháryk,
with his single eye.
“Tell Roderich the Goth,” ran the message, “that Tháryk has crossed the
Straits to conquer his kingdom, and that he will not return until he has
made the Goth lick the dust before him.”
Whatever blindness had fallen on Roderich, the consciousness of her
disgrace soon forced itself on the mind of Florinda. Guilty or not,
despair at last took possession of her. For a time she was silent, but
unable to endure her shame, and horrified at her treason towards the
queen, who ever tenderly cherished her, in a paroxysm of remorseful
grief she caught up a pen and wrote to Julian:
“Would to God, my father, that the earth had swallowed me ere I came to
Toledo! What am I to tell you of that which it is meet to conceal?
Alas! my father, your lamb has been entrusted to the wolf. She were
better dead than dishonoured. Hasten to rescue your unhappy Florinda.
Come quickly.”
Tying this brief missive in a square of silk, and fastening it with a
ribbon, she called to her a young page, bred at her father’s court, who
had been especially appointed to her service.
“Adolfo,” said she, and sobs were in her voice, “saddle the swiftest
steed you can lay hands on, and if ever, dear _niño_, you aspire to the
honours of a belted knight in the service of my father, or hope for
lady’s grace in the tourney; if ever--” here she burst into a flood of
tears, moved by her own vehemence. “Oh, sweet Adolfo, dear little page,
reared up in my home, for the love of Christ, ride day and night until
you reach the sea. Then, at the price of gold, which I give you,” and
she placed in his hands a heavy purse, “take the best boat and the
swiftest rowers, and with flowing sail speed to my father at Ceuta, nor
eat nor drink until you have placed this writing in his hand.”
Before the eager Florinda, whose every feature spoke the deadly anxiety
she felt, the page, cap in hand, bowed low.
“Trust me, noble daughter of my honoured lord. I will truly execute your
trust. Swiftly will I ride, nor turn aside for aught but death, either
by land or sea.”
Placing the letter in the bosom of his gaudy vest, he kissed her hand
and sped his way, mounted a fast horse he found in the _patio_ of the
Palace, galloped down the declivity, through the Golden Gate, and so on
into the eternal plains which gird about Toledo, until clouds of dust
concealed him from Florinda’s anxious gaze.
Meanwhile, Julian, fighting valiantly in Africa, had just repulsed an
attack of Mousa on the castle of Ceuta, standing on a cape which juts
out into the Straits, the nearest point to the Spanish mainland. It was
a desperate struggle; the Moors, under the command of the famous Arabs,
rallying again and again.
The news of such a success spread round not only in Africa but over all
the breadth of Spain. The landing of the Moors in Andalusia was a
constant subject of terror on the mainland. Men knew that the Gothic
nation no longer held together as under the early kings, and that each
chief looked to himself alone, caring but little what became of his
neighbours. The castles were dismantled by the selfish policy of Witica
and Roderich, and the army was sunk into the same luxurious ease as the
rest of the nation.
The name of Julian was soon on every lip. He was hailed as a saviour,
and blessings invoked on him as the bulwark of the Cross.
With the sound of this homage ringing in his ears, the page arrives at
Ceuta, bearing the letter from Florinda. Julian at once summons him to
his tent, as perchance the bearer of some signal
[Illustration: THE GATE OF THE MOSQUE OF CORDOVA.]
honour bestowed upon him by the king, or of some royal recompense for
his services.
“What tidings from Don Roderich?” he asks.
“None, my lord,” is the answer. “I rode in haste away, without seeing
the king. What I bear is a letter from the Lady Florinda.”
“Florinda--how fares she?”
“Well, my lord,” answers the page, as he takes the silken packet from
his bosom.
Cutting the ribbon that binds it with his dagger, Julian reads the
miserable lines; word after word brings a terrible certainty to his
mind; he stands in speechless anguish, then, flinging the parchment from
him, he folds his arms, while one by one the burning remembrance of each
act of devotion to Roderich stings him to the soul. It is a terrible
reckoning; a dark and malignant fury enters into his soul, not only
against Roderich, but against all Spain, the scene of his dishonour, the
home of his disgrace.
“And this,” cries he, when words come to his lips, “is my reward for
serving a villain! This is the return he makes me for the hostage of my
child! May I die a slave if I rest until I have given him full measure
in return!”