_El Conde de Castila_
Castile formed no part of the new kingdom of Leon and was governed by
its own lord. And here we come on a noticeable history of how the lion
was added to the castle on the arms of Spain by the last Conde de
Castila, Fernan Goncalze, the founder of the line of the present
dynasty, as distinguished from that of the early Gothic kings, who died
out in the person of Bernardo the Third, the last descendant of Pelayo,
A.D. 999.
Now King Sancho the Fat, King of Leon, A.D. 955, noticeably a heavy and
lazy man, leaving much in the hands of his mother, Doña Teresa, is
jealous of the power of Castila, and has joined with her brother, the
King of Navarre, in a conspiracy to divide it between them, for which
purpose the count is invited to Leon to attend the Cortes, where vital
matters concerning that never-ending strife between the Christians and
the Moors are to be considered.
Fernan comes, but misdoubting Don Sancho’s good faith, brings with him
so numerous a retinue of knights and men-at-arms that no open attack on
him is possible. But the Queen Doña Teresa, like a wicked fairy, steps
in.
“What matters,” says she to the fat Sancho, speaking within the recesses
of the same Roman palace where Alonso prayed and fasted and Bernardo
raged--“what matters how many he brings? We must befool him, flatter,
deceive--thus you will take him. Make great show of favour to him, my
son, cover him with false words, and unsuspecting he will send his
people home.”
The Conde de Castila, say the ballads, was a very proper man, in the
full bloom of manhood, tall, slender, and gay; he wore his mailed armour
with a wondrous grace on a perfect form, the red plume on his casque
gave him a lordly air, and that he was brave and romantic his history
will show.
“Good, my kinsman,” says the king to him after many soft phrases, “you
have brought with you to Leon the most perfect steed that ever I set
eyes on. Methinks if I bestrode him in battle, I could laugh at the
Moors.”
“Greatly it pleases me,” answers the Conde, “that my mare should win
your praise; she is a noble animal; a cross with an Arab mare. I pray
you to accept Sila for your own.”
“Nay,” replies the wily king, “that is not fair. Had you come with that
intention, it might be otherwise; but, as I have induced you to so
generous an offer, let us fix a just price, especially as the hawk you
wear upon your wrist has greatly caught my fancy too. For horse and hawk
we will settle thus: If the sum fixed on between us be not paid by this
day year, it shall be _doubled_ every succeeding one.”
“As you will, King Don Sancho,” the Conde makes reply. “I would have
given them both freely to you; but so let it be.”
Showing in this most cunning answer that, great _hidalgo_ as he was, he
was not above accepting such moneys, as came in his way. Nor did the
King of Leon disdain to make a bargain to his mind, which gave him both
horse and hawk for nothing, seeing that he and his wicked mother did not
intend the Conde to live.
* * * * *
Here they are interrupted by Queen Doña Teresa entering the chamber,
preceded by her Jefe bearing a silver wand and followed by her dueña. A
stately and commanding figure, even in middle age, and splendid in her
apparel. The rings on her fingers are worth a king’s ransom; her widow’s
coif is sown with pearls, and the edges of her long robe trimmed with a
dark fur and jewels. A very imposing personage, Doña Teresa, who rules
both her son and in the palace with a rod of iron. As Regent, she
attempted to do the same with Castila, but the Gothic nobles and the
Gothic church resisted, and put her down.
“How now?” says she, seating herself on a ponderous chair, heavy with
carving, as the others rise and make low obeisance, her dueña, in a
stiff starched black robe and high head-dress, standing behind her.
“Your talk is of horses and of hawks, when such serious matter presses
in the Cortes? Have you no better entertainment,” turning to her son,
“for the Conde when Almanzor reigns at Cordoba, and harries us with his
troops? Hakim, the book-worm, was an easy man, and spent his time in
buying rare manuscripts and parchments; but this one is a fire-brand,
and his generals, Ghalid and the Prince of Zab, take from us much booty
and many towns. If God aid us not, we shall again become tributaries to
the Moors.”
“Doña Teresa the Queen,” answers the Conde, bowing with the lofty
courtesy natural to him, in reply to this somewhat rude and boisterous
speech, “you cannot address one more of your own mind than myself. If
Don Sancho and I discoursed on lighter matters, it is not that I am
unmindful of the growing power of the infidels. For this cause I am come
to the Cortes. By Santiago, do I not know that your royal brother, the
King of Navarre, was lately brought to his knees by this same swarthy
Almanzor, whom the devil blast! because one Moslem woman was harboured
in his land?”
“Truly I have cause to remember it,” is her answer, and an evil twinkle
came into her eyes. “What say you, Conde, to a closer alliance among the
Christians with Navarre, a marriage for instance, as a tighter bond? The
Gothic nations can only hope to drive back our enemy by standing by
each other. King Garcia has a daughter, very fair, and of singular
courage and accomplishments. What say you, whom Nature has formed at all
points to please a lady’s eye”--(at this compliment the Conde again bows
low, and kisses the queen’s hand)--“to an alliance which will bind
together the powers of Leon, Navarre, and Castile?”
In the king’s face, turned somewhat aside, first came a look of blank
astonishment, succeeded by a smile so malignant that had Castila seen it
he would certainly not have consented.
“By my faith,” are the king’s words, suddenly assuming an aspect of the
most intense interest, “a very excellent proposal. Refuse it not, my
lord. Men say in Leon that I rule, but that Queen Doña Teresa holds the
reins of state. Who better? Follow my example. Her judgment is
excellent.”
But the Conde saw not the matter in that simple light. With much
misgiving he had come to Leon. Hostile to him, he knew, was the queen,
and Don Sancho was ruled by her.
“You hesitate,” exclaims Doña Teresa, her visage forming into a dark
frown; “better not to give good counsel than to have it cast in one’s
teeth.”
“Nay, Doña the Queen, I did but consider your words. The matter is too
important to be accepted offhand.”
“You bestow your own hand, I suppose, yourself?” she asks with a sneer.
Again the Conde bowed.
“Where else could you give it better? You are not already married, I
presume, from a weariness in your mind at having so many who would claim
the title.”
“It would not become me to say so,” put in Fernan, a genuine blush
rising on his cheek.
“This alliance would certainly knit the Christians together,” urges the
king, now speaking with a certain vehemence, “at a moment of great
danger to us all. Almanzor is a leader of renown, backed by great
riches.”
“Why not see the Infanta for yourself?” asks the queen. “Start from here
on this joyous pilgrimage of love.” Again that strange look came into
her eyes, as she fixed them on Fernan, and again the fat king showed his
contentment by a hidden glance.
“To see the lady would indeed be my desire,” the Conde answers, all the
same somewhat staggered by this insistence for his advantage in those he
had good cause to know bore him no goodwill. He had hitherto little
considered the subject of marriage. Still it was true; the alliance was
for the good of all.
“The idea pleases me,” he says at last--(perhaps these enemies had come
to a better mind). “Thank you, Doña the Queen, and my good kinsman, Don
Sancho. This occasion also assures me of your friendship, which I have
sometimes had in doubt.” Here deprecatory looks passed between the king
and his mother, as under protest at such an assertion. “Indeed, at Leon,
I am half-way on the road. I will go.”
* * * * *
Gaily Fernan set forth on his journey over the mountains to the Court of
Navarre. Not followed, as he came to Leon, with a warlike train, but
with gorgeously arrayed chamberlains, esquires, and pages, covered with
silk and embroidery, and showy heralds with nodding plumes flying the
pennon of Castile, all mounted on horses with fine and slender limbs,
accoutred with saddle-cloths, and trappings as richly decorated as their
riders.
He himself, as Doña Teresa truly said, “was formed by Nature to please a
lady’s eye,” graceful, athletic, with light-brown hair curling on his
neck and a short beard worn in the fashion of the day, partly concealing
his regular features, expressive of a singular sweetness; with a voice,
too, although well tuned to the tone of command, capable of modulating
into the gentlest tones of love.
Thus he rode over the plains of Northern Spain and through the gorges of
the mountains, up the rocky defiles where Roland’s blood was shed, to
the ancient Roman city of Narbonne, standing on a rock over the sea,
time-worn and rugged in aspect, as having borne many a siege, for the
small kingdom of Navarre was ever industrious in war.
Don Garcia, the king, feigned great joy at the Conde’s arrival. His
royal kinsfolk at Leon had put him on the track, but the redoubtable
courage of the Conde called for great caution.
And the Infanta, Doña Ava? From the first moment his heart was won.
Entering from her bower chamber into the old hall of the castle of
Navarre, where reigned an atmosphere of troubadours and song, he saw her
taking her place at a banquet held in his honour.
A very Queen of Hearts she seemed to him, blandly sweet, with tender
eyes of heavenly blue, under the curve of faultless eyebrows, a little
dimple in her cheek, the very home of love, and smiling lips, curved
like Cupid’s bow.
“By my faith!” muttered Fernan to himself, as he doffed his jewelled
cap, and advanced to kiss her hand; “but she is fair enough to move St.
Anthony himself. Methinks I have been most unjust in doubting the good
faith of Doña Teresa in proposing to me so sweet a bride.”
And the Infanta loved him; and her treacherous father, Garcia Sanchez,
tempted by the prize to be attained, of half of the kingdom of Castile,
by all means encouraged their frequent meetings in bower and hall, in
hawking, falcon on wrist, when they rode together in the woods, or when
the troubadours tuned their lyres to sing _cancioneros_ when the
sea-winds were still.
How can words tell of the raptures of the Conde? His greatest enemies
had procured his greatest joy! He had only to stretch out his hand to
clasp
[Illustration: THE GATEWAY ON SITE OF ANCIENT PUERTA DE SERRANOS.
(Valencia.)]
a jewel without price. Tender delusions of youth! alas! why should fate
shatter them?
* * * * *
One moonlight night they had wandered together on the battlements of the
castle into a pleasaunce of ancient elms, interlacing in thick arches
overhead; the dueña, who never left them, disposing of herself apart at
a discreet distance.
Below the sea lay calm and still, wrapped in deep shadow, save where
wave followed wave, gently catching the moonbeams for an instant, then
falling back into an endless rotation.
“Oh, love, how fair is the night,” says the Infanta, with a happy sigh,
casting her eyes round on earth and heaven. “Methinks I have nothing
more to wish.”
But Fernan answers not. His gaze is fixed on her; the pale tresses of
her golden hair shining through the meshes of a jewelled veil, her eyes
melting with fondness, the soft outline of her face and that adorable
dimple--from the first sight of which he dates his present
transports--intoxicate his sense, and forgetting that she is an Infanta,
daughter of a king, in a moment of passion he clasps her in his arms.
“See, sweetheart,” says he, still holding her in his embrace, “how the
moonlight flickers on yonder trees.”
“Yes,” is her answer. “Yet, did I not know we were safe, I could almost
believe some one was watching behind the trees. Let us go back to the
castle.”
“I can see nothing but you,” he answers, looking down at her. “You are
the very goddess of the night!”
“But it is late,” she urges, rising to her feet; “if I stay longer I
shall have bad dreams. Let us go.”
“Oh, Ava, my Infanta!” he murmurs pressing her in his arms, “I could
stay here for ever! Tell me again you love me! Repeat it a thousand
times!”
The language of love is the same in all ages. This was said nearly a
thousand years ago, and has been repeated since, millions of times, but
what matter? When soul speaks to soul, however fervently, language has
limits, therefore there is a certain sameness in the expression.
While the hot words of love are on his lips, the branches of the trees
are parted by unseen hands, a group of dark, muffled figures rush out,
daggers glitter in the moonlight, and before he can draw his sword he is
mastered. Cords bind him hand and foot, a mask is placed upon his face,
and he is hurried below into the deep dungeon of the castle.
The treason is so vile, the act so base, for awhile it seems to him like
the glamour of a dream, but the weight of the heavy fetters pressing
into his flesh, the dark and narrow cell where light barely penetrates,
the damp cold that chills his blood, the shame, the loneliness, the
silence--these are no dreams!
“Ah, Ava! Ava! you never loved me!” he cries in his anguish. “Your
baneful charms served but as a bait. Now God forgive you, lady! my heart
will break, and by your act! The Moors will rejoice, as they pour over
the land, that my hand is shortened and I cannot strike! Alas! falseness
is in your blood! Who could guess that those heavenly eyes were but as
nets to lure me? Ah, King Don Garcia, is this the honour of a Christian
knight? Fool, madman that I was, I knew they were traitors, and for the
sake of a woman I am trapped, like a page seeking butterflies!”
Thus did the unhappy Conde complain, returning ever to the name of the
Infanta. Her treachery was the deepest wound of all.
Now it is that the _romanceros_ take up the tale of his captivity, and
thus they sing:
“They have carried him into Navarre, the great Conde de Castila, and
they have bound him sorely, hand and heel!
“The tidings up to the mountains go, and down among the valleys!
“To the rescue! to the rescue, ho!”
And the Infanta? Need I say that charming princess did not deserve his
accusations? But she was forced to dissemble, lest his life should be
taken by her father, as cruel and remorseless a parent as ever figured
in fairy tale or song. Such monsters were frequently met with in the
olden time, and the nature of their characters and motives are hard to
read by the light of modern times. It is possible indeed such may still
exist, but now they snare their daughters’ lovers by other means than
poison and iron chains, though, perchance, they leave them as husbands
as disconsolate as before.