Frandina and her Son Put to Death by Alabor
At this time a Mussulman Emir, named Alabor, ruled in Cordoba under the
Sultan Suleiman of Damascus. Alabor, who was a hard and zealous follower
of Mahomet, looked with suspicion on the Christian apostates, who
professed his faith simply to save their lives, but who in their hearts
regarded the Moslem invaders with the natural hatred of a conquered
race.
Of all those Gothic knights who bore arms under Tháryk, he most
misdoubted Julian. Certain movements of insurrection which took place
among the Christians in Pelayo’s possessions in the yet unconquered
district of the Asturias were not without suspicion of powerful
encouragement from the south.
Julian, on the death of Florinda, had resolved to send Frandina and his
little son back to Africa. Did this mean that he was preparing to play
false with his allies? “A traitor once, a traitor ever,” thought the
crafty Alabor. That he might decide his doubts in true Moslem fashion,
he called in one of those miserable impostors called fakirs, who wander
over the face of the land in the East, and profess to read the future by
the stars.
After listening to all the Emir had to say, the Fakir began his
incantation. First sand was sprinkled, then squares and circles and
diagrams were drawn upon the floor; then, while standing in the midst,
he affected to read the lines of fate from a parchment covered with
cabalistic characters. “O Emir,” he said, “your words of wisdom are
justified. Beware of the apostates.”
“Enough,” replied the Emir. “They shall die.”
At that time Julian was still at Cordoba in great grief for the recent
death of Florinda. “Tell my lord,” he said, in reply to the earnest
invitation of Alabor, “I pray him to hold me excused from coming to
visit him. Such of my followers as can aid him in any warlike project I
freely send; but for myself I am unable.”
This was enough for Alabor; here was ample confirmation of the Fakir’s
prediction. So, not to be behindhand with the voice of fate, he at once
condemned to death that wily churchman and renegade, Archbishop Opas,
Frandina’s brother, who had turned the battle of the Guadalete against
Roderich, and with him the two sons of Witica, as possible pretenders to
the crown.
Still Julian escaped him by a rapid flight into Aragon. But his wife
Frandina and his only son could be reached.
The castle of Ceuta, which formed part of the Gothic (Iberian) African
possessions, then called Tingitana, stood on an extreme point, a cape of
rocky altitude, with bastions and mullioned walls; in the midst rose a
central tower or citadel, in which the governor had his abode. Few
casements there were, and those looking over the tossing billows of that
unquiet Strait which flows between the two continents, so that each
coming vessel could be noted long before it touched the quay; a place
wholly of defence, and which had therefore been chosen to shelter
Julian’s wife and son.
Frandina, a woman of masculine courage and keen understanding, had at
all times fanned the flame of her husband’s ambition. No longer young,
she still bore traces of that radiant beauty which had held her lord
faithful in the dissolute courts of Witica and Roderich.
On _her_ brow should have rested the pointed diadem worn by the Gothic
queens; not on a Moorish stranger who could never learn the customs of
the land. Ever hoping to attain the object of her desires she wilfully
worked on the evil passions of her lord, before the calamity which
befell Florinda came as a cause and a reason for treason.
No figure of that romantic period stands out in stronger relief than
that of Frandina, who moves and speaks before us in her habit as she
lived in spite of the long track of centuries.
Without news from Spain, knowing nothing of what has happened at
Cordoba to her brother Opas or to her lord, she eats out her heart in
ceaseless watching for some white-sailed felucca or swift-rowed
_trireme_ to bring her tidings. All day she has trod the battlements
looking north-ward, and strained her eyes in vain. Now she sits in her
chamber. An iron lamp casts a weird light on the tapestries which line
the walls, the wind moans without about the turrets, and the dashing
waves roll deep below.
Is it the hollow moan of the far-off tempest, or the screech of an owl
which makes her start from her seat and eagerly listen?
There is no fall of feet upon the winding stairs, but a well-known voice
comes to her so plainly that she rushes to the door. Ere she can reach
it, her brother Opas stands before her, habited as she last saw him in
the flowing vestments of an archbishop; not in aspect as he appeared in
life, but as a wan and shadowy spectre unfolding itself to her sight in
the darkness around. Before she can speak he waves her off. He is
ghastly pale, and drops of blood seem to fall from his head. With one
hand he points to the opposite wall where burns like orbs of fire the
word, BEWARE!
“Touch me not, sister,” a hollow voice utters; “I am come from the grave
to warn you. Guard well your son. The enemies of our house are near.”
Thus speaking all disappears. His coming and going are alike mysterious.
Brave as she is, a horror she never knew before comes over Frandina.
Next morning, in the fair sunlight, a swiftly rowing galley brings the
news of Opas’s death and Julian’s flight. Not a moment is to be lost!
There in the offing she descries the Moorish fleet, bearing the Emir
from Cordoba. The wind blows fair for Africa--before noon he will be off
the shore. Fifty Moors, who form part of the garrison, are put to death
with incredible cruelty for fear of treachery; the city gates are
closed.
Alabor, whose fury knows no bounds, for he has calculated on arriving
before the news has reached Frandina, orders the castle to be assaulted
on every side. The walls are carried. Frandina, shut up in the citadel
with a forlorn hope, has no thought but for the safety of her son. How
conceal him? A mother’s wit is keen. Among the living he is not safe,
but surely they will not seek him with the dead. Passing down long
flights of narrow steps she carries him below into a dark, damp chapel.
Scarcely a ray of light penetrates the gloom.
“Are you afraid of the darkness, my boy?” she asks, kissing his warm
cheek.
“No, mother. I shall fancy that it is night, and try to sleep.”
On one side of a narrow marble aisle, held up by clustered pillars, is
the freshly built tomb of Florinda, whose body has been carried here
from Cordoba.
“Do you fear your dead sister, my boy?” again Frandina asks.
“No, mother; the dead can do no harm. Why should I fear Florinda?”
Unbarring the entrance which leads into the vault, Frandina stands on
the threshold, her arms around her son.
“Listen,” she says, and her kisses rain upon his cheek as she strains
him to her bosom in an agony of fear. “The Moors from Spain have sailed
over to murder you. Stay here with your dead sister, dear child; her
spirit will guard you. Lie quiet for your life!”
The boy kissed his mother, and fearlessly descended the steps, to where
the marble coffin holding Florinda’s body lay on a still uncovered
stand. The faded wreaths cast on it gave out a stale perfume.
All that day and the next and the following night the brave boy lay
still.
Meanwhile, the troops of the Emir penetrated into the citadel, and
Alabor himself forced his way into the chamber of the countess.
“My lord,” she said, rising from the ponderous chair in which she was
seated, a sarcastic courtesy in her tone and in the low obeisance with
which she greeted him, “you are pleased to profit somewhat ungallantly
by the absence of my lord. Do you deem this a fitting way to enter the
stronghold of him to whom you owe the conquest of Spain?”
The Emir, surprised by the dignified calm of her demeanour, would have
withdrawn, but the Fakir who had followed him, pulled the sleeve of his
garment, and whispered in his ear: “Ask for her son.”
Low as the words were spoken, she heard them and turned pale. “My son,
great Alabor, is with the dead. Let him rest in peace.”
“Wife of Don Julian,” cried the Emir, “you trifle with me. Where is he?
Tell me, or torture shall make you.”
“Emir,” she spoke again, and her calm face showed no trace of fear, “if
I have not spoken the truth, may everlasting fire be my portion. He is
with the dead.”
Alabor was confounded by the composure of her answer. So great was her
courage and the dignity with which she faced him, that he was just about
to retire, when the Fakir again broke in:
“Let me deal with her, my lord,” he said. “The heart of the Emir is too
tender. I will find the boy. Soldiers, search the vaults of the castle.”
No trace upon the countenance of Frandina betrayed alarm. She herself
led the way to the different subterranean chambers within the citadel.
When the searchers and the grim old Fakir, hideous and naked, save for a
ragged cloth about his loins, but esteemed all the more holy from his
filth, descended the winding stairs leading to the chapel, Frandina did
not falter. In her presence every corner was ransacked by the aid of
torches. Nothing was found. But as all were leaving, and she stood
already under the arch of the door, to see them all file safely by, some
gleam of relief, some
[Illustration: THE INTERIOR OF SAN ISIDORA, WITH TOMBS OF KINGS.]
unconscious look of joy passed over her face. It was noted by the
horrible Fakir.
“She rejoices,” was his thought. “We are leaving the boy behind. Let
further search be made,” he commands, turning back the soldiers, whose
feet were already on the stairs.
“The boy is with the dead,” Frandina had said. Now the words came back
to him with a special meaning, for the walls were lined with tombs which
stood out conspicuous in the vivid glare of the torches, striking on the
marble panels. On one was the escutcheon of an ancient knight,
surmounted by a coronet; there a sculptured figure in armour lay at
rest; further on a deeply indented effigy in coloured stone, upon which
an inscription set forth the valour of the mouldering bones within. The
tomb of Florinda, white and glistening by the side of the others,
displayed her effigy in polished marble, a delicately chiselled
form--this at once attracted the attention of the Fakir.
“Who lies there?” he asked, turning his twinkling eyes, overshadowed by
hairy eyebrows, on the shrinking figure of Frandina, who, trembling from
head to foot, sought to hide her face in the deep shadow of a pillared
vault, beside the gate of entrance; “this tomb seems the newest.”
“It is my daughter’s tomb,” replied Frandina; but with all her
fortitude, she was conscious of a trembling in her voice, and her dry
lips could scarcely articulate the words, “She is but lately dead.”
The Fakir eyed her with a devilish glance. Then, turning to the Moorish
soldier, whose eyes rolled under the high turban with a wicked
satisfaction at the discomfiting of the Christian,--
“Search within,” he orders, his gaze bent on her. Alas! it was soon
done. The entrance of the recently entered monument was partly open;
within lay what death had spared of Florinda, the bier covered with a
fine cloth of Eastern tissue, the hands covered with precious stones.
At first, the Nubian guard, staggered at the strange sight, fall back,
but soon recalled by the stern voice of the Fakir, they lifted the pall.
The boy lay underneath! He was asleep, his soft cheek turned upwards,
cradled on his arm.
Like a figure carved in stone stood Frandina, but when she saw her son
her mother’s heart gave way. With a shriek, so piercing that it woke the
echoes in the prisons underneath, she dashed forward and cast herself
upon the child.
“Mercy, O Emir! if you have ever known a mother’s care! Mercy! mercy!
This is my only child--the joy of my life--my little son! Take me for
him!” and raising herself on her knees with frantic passion, the boy
clinging round her neck, she tries to grasp his hands.
Wrenching himself from her as if she were some noxious animal, Alabor
thunders to the guards: “Take this woman’s son from her, and bear her
hence to the deepest dungeon.”
The boy stood alone before the Emir, big tears rolling down his face,
not from fear, but for the sake of his mother, whose frantic screams
were heard long after they had dragged her away.
If Alabor had but a spark of human pity, he would have melted to the
pretty boy, who faced him so bravely, but he had sworn the destruction
of Don Julian’s race, and his heart hardened within him as he gazed on
the innocent eyes. With a keen searching glance he measured the slight
figure of the child, and smiled to see how frail he was and small.
“Yusa,” he said to the Fakir, “be you the keeper of Julian’s son. Guard
him as you love me.” And so he and his guards departed, leaving them
alone.
“I pray you,” said the boy, undaunted by the looks of his grim
companion, who stood holding a torch and watching him under his
overhanging eyebrows, “to give me air. I have lain three days in this
close tomb, and I am faint.”
Without a word they mount the winding stair, until they reach the
platform of the keep. Through the high turrets was a wondrous view
across the Straits, lined by broad currents of varying blues and greens,
to where, dim in the distance, lay the lowlands of Spain. Round and
round flew the seagulls, below the waves beat, thundering on the rocks
which guard the harbour, cresting back in foam. As the child stood near
the battlements, the sea wind raising his curly hair, he gave a cry of
joy and clapped his hands.
“Do you know what land that is opposite?” asks the Fakir, pointing to
the dim coast line, an evil leer upon his lips.
“It is my country,” is the answer, “we come from Spain; my mother told
me.”
“Then bless it, my boy; stretch forth your arms.”
As the boy loosened his hold of the parapet, the cunning Fakir seized
him by the waist, and, with a sudden motion, flung him over the
battlements. Every bone in his delicate body was broken ere it reached
the rock where he lay, a little lifeless heap.
“How fares it with Julian’s son?” asks the voice of Alabor, as he
appears on the platform of the keep.
“Well,” is the brief answer.
“Is he safe?” he asks again, looking round.
“He is safe,” answered Yusa; “behold!”
And the Emir looked over and saw the battered form, like a slight speck
below, around it the seagulls and vultures already circling.
The following morning, at the break of day, in the great court of the
castle, from which all the issues to the different towers open, Frandina
is led out for execution.
That she knows her son is dead, is written in her eyes. No word passes
her lips. Like a queen she moves, command in every gesture. With her the
Christians of the garrison are brought forth to suffer. As the dismal
procession passes round the court, the voice of the insatiable Alabor is
heard:
“Behold, O men of Spain, the wife of your commander. See the ruin to
which her treason would have brought you. Let every man take a stone and
fling it at her till she dies. He that refuses shall have his head
struck off. In the hand of God is vengeance. Not on our heads be her
blood.”
* * * * *
How or where Julian himself died is not certain. Some chronicles say he
perished in the mountains of Navarre, where he had taken refuge; others
that he met his death in the castle of Marmello, near Huesca, in Aragon.
A violent death of some sort came to the great Kingmaker of Spain.
On his name a perpetual curse rests, and to this day, in Spain “Julian”
is synonymous with _traitor_.