King Alonso
Bernardo hastily passed the court with swift, straight strides, his form
in shadow defined against the light. A heavy peal of thunder sounded
overhead as he turned to the right, where a marble stair, with a
sculptured balustrade, guarded by soldiers, led to the royal apartments
on the first floor, under a flat roof.
“‘Tis indeed a foul shame,” said Don Favila, looking after him, as he
and his companions took shelter under the arcade from the now thickly
falling rain, “that our king, who loves him well, does not grant him the
honours of his birth and name him his successor. He guesses not who he
is. You noted his words?” turning to Ricardo, who nodded.
“What! a bastard!” exclaimed the aged chamberlain; “a braggart and a
bastard, instead of the victorious Charlemagne? Good gentlemen, you are
distraught. Would you have a sovereign, the pureness of whose life will
pass as an example in all time, forget so far his principles as to
countenance his sister’s shame? The king, my master, has done right to
protect his kingdom from such reproach.”
Meanwhile Bernardo passes the alguazils who knew him well, his mailed
feet resounding on the marble floor as step by step he reaches a door
before which a heavy panel of tapestry is displayed, bearing a royal
crown, and beneath, the arms of Leon and Oviedo, bound by an inscription
in old Gothic letters.
The first chamber, lined with wooden wainscot and a groined oaken roof,
is bare of other furniture, save some rudely carved benches, on which
meanly attired attendants sit or lounge.
These Bernardo passes with a hasty salute, which they respectfully
return, then on into another and another chamber floored with coloured
Moorish tiles, into the last, a hugely proportioned hall, the carved
roof supported by lofty pillars. This hall, through the window of which
the lightning plays, though void of furniture, is far more ornate than
the rest, seeing that at the farther end, on a raised platform,
surmounted by a dusty canopy, is a throne, on which a royal chair is
placed, used on such rare occasions as when Alonso receives his
_compañeros_ and knights in state.
Nothing can exceed the neglect of this primitive apartment, now seen in
the deep shadow of the coming storm. Trophies of early Gothic armour are
fixed on hangings of once embroidered damask; but so little care has
been taken that the nails have given way, the tapestry has fallen, and
the mortar which knit together the solid blocks of stone is visible.
Before the throne stands a long wooden table, on which rests a rich
enamelled crucifix, set with jewels, and huge candelabra of silver,
holding waxen torches such as are used in churches to light up the
shrines of saints, a rude attempt at splendour which leaves the rest
more bare. Seats there are with time-stained leather coverings, and a
royal chair inlaid with ivory, as was also the curiously formed
footstool. Two low doors open in a recess behind the throne into two
opposite turrets, one leading to the private apartments of the king, who
lives alone--Queen Berta being relegated to a distant part of the
palace, which formed three sides of a square, fronting the cathedral,
where there is an array of delicately carved saints and martyrs niched
round the deep curves of three arched portals under two turreted
towers;--the other door opening into a small chapel, where King Alonso,
kneeling on the bare stones, passes a great part of the day and often of
the night, in ecstatic prayer and meditation.
Not for a moment did Bernardo hesitate. As he knocked on the oaken
panels interspersed with heavy nails, which opened to the chapel, the
latch yielded to his hand, and he entered as a blinding flash of
lightning gleamed bright and strong and the thunder broke loudly
overhead. An instant after, all had darkened into so profound a gloom
[Illustration: The Generalife, Granada.]
[Illustration]
that at first nothing was visible, except the dim outline of a gilt
_retablo_ behind the altar, on which a light burned day and night before
the ever-present host and such sacred bones and relics as had been saved
from desecration by the Moors.
“Who dares to break in on my devotions?” cried a harsh voice, speaking
as it were from the depths of sudden night before a shrine concealed in
the sunken curvings of the wall. “Begone! leave me to commune with the
saints.”
“It is in their name I come, O King, to defend the land they love,”
answered Bernardo, bending his knee, in a voice so young and fresh, life
and youth seemed to waft with it into the gloom.
There was a moment of silence.
“Not now, Bernardo, not now, my boy. Leave me. I have vowed a _novena_
to the Virgin of Saragossa, whose favour I specially implore, with that
of the Holy Santiago and Saint Isidore our patrons, on a great project I
have in hand. Not now.”
“Yes, _now_,” in a stern voice came from Bernardo, fronting the king,
who had turned reluctantly towards him. “What I have to say brooks not a
moment’s delay.” Another crash from without interrupts him, and a wild
whirl of hail and rain rattle outside on the casement. “Oh, my lord,” he
continues, “are there no valiant knights in Leon that you should betray
your kingdom into the hands of a strange king?”
“Betray? you dare to say _betray_, after the long and prosperous reign
heaven has vouchsafed me?” cried Alonso, rising up from where he was
kneeling as a subdued ray of light lit the sunken features of his
emaciated face, with long white hair and beard, the natural fairness of
his skin turned by time into a yellow tinge; his eyes full and grey,
with thin imperceptible eyebrows, and cheeks deeply lined with wrinkles
which collected on his high forehead under a silken cap. A noble face,
once full of manly beauty, but with an expression of coldness and
fickleness in the wandering eye, and weakness in the thin-lined mouth
which marred it. Then in a louder tone he continued: “It ill becomes
your slender years, Bernardo, and your lack of experience, to question
the wisdom of your sovereign.”
“But to sell us to a foreigner, my lord, to give us over into the hands
of the Frankish wolf! This can never be. A courage equal to
Charlemagne’s beats in a thousand Spanish breasts, and I, Bernardo, will
lead them. Not secretly and treacherously, but in the light of day.
Therefore I am come to warn you against yourself. For by no unbiassed
will of your own have you done this thing.”
“Silence, rash boy,” answered Alonso, roused into unwonted passion by
these stinging words, “you presume upon my constant favour to insult
me.”
“Never, oh never! All that I know of kindness is from you,” and Bernardo
cast himself at Alonso’s feet and seized his hands. “You are my king
and master. I forget none of your bounties to a friendless boy” (at this
word Alonso started, and laid his hand tenderly on Bernardo’s head, but
presently withdrew it with a sigh); “but neither the crown you wear nor
your bounties, had they been ten times greater, would make me a traitor
to the land.”