Marriage of Doña Ava and El Conde de Castila--Treachery of Doña Teresa
Burgos was reached without further incident, and in a few days the
marriage of the Conde and the Infanta was solemnised with great pomp in
the church of Sant’ Agueda on the hill, under a mantle of delicate
sculpture which lined the walls.[1]
[1] The beautiful cathedral at Burgos was built later by Fernando El
Santo, King of Castile.
Now here it should be said, as in the fairy tales, “They married and
lived happily ever after.” Not at all. We are only at the beginning of
their troubles.
The rage of Don Sancho of Leon and King Garcia of Navarre, the father of
Doña Ava, knew no bounds. Genuine rage, for they had both been caught in
their own trap, a thing utterly unbearable to malignant natures, be they
kings or commons.
As to the King of Navarre, who not only had lost a highly valuable
marriageable daughter, but the half of the kingdom of Castile, he at
once assembled a strong army, under the pretence that the Conde had
feloniously carried off the Infanta--a curious accusation, considering
that he himself had consented to their nuptials.
“Let us wait till he comes to a better mind,” urged Doña Ava, from her
palace at Burgos, looking out over those rich plains which are the glory
of Central Spain; “after all, I _am_ his daughter, he cannot harm _me_.”
But this Christian point of view was not shared by the King of Navarre,
who from his mountains executed such raids on Castile that Gonzales had
no choice but to face him.
Near Ogroño was the battle, not far from Burgos, by the river Ebro, and
hardly was it fought, and victory only gained by a clever feint, headed
by the Conde in person. Don Garcia’s camp was seized and he himself
taken prisoner.
Now face to face they stood within a tent, the father-in-law and son.
The casque of the king battered, his armour bleared, his chief knights
in a like plight, prisoners beside him--the Conde in front brandishing a
blood-stained sword, with such a sense of wrong gnawing at his heart as
for a time leaves him speechless.
Then the words of reproach came rushing to his lips. “False king, did I
not come in peace to Narbonne, and you gave me the royal kiss of
welcome? Did I not eat at your board? Sleep the sleep of peace under
your roof? Ride with you? Jest with you? Live as man to man of the
kinship we are to each other? Did you not” (and here his upraised voice
breaks into a softer tone as he names her) “give me your daughter, the
Infanta, as my wife, and, while her hand was clasped in mine, her kiss
upon my cheek, did you not bind me, vile king, in chains, and hurl me
into a dungeon, where but for her help, the angel of my life, I should
have died unheeded?”
To all this Don Garcia, with eyes cast on the ground, answered not a
word, his armed figure defined against the pattern of rich brocade which
lined the tent under the light of torches.
“Now to Burgos with you, King of Navarre, and as you did by me, so be it
done to you! That is bare justice!”
“Ah! good my lord,” came the soft voice of Doña Ava into his ear, as she
went out to meet him with her ladies to the gate of Santa Maria, beside
the river which flows by the walls of Burgos “remember, Don Garcia is my
father.”
“Now prythee hold your peace, fair wife,” was his reply, “much as I love
you he shall this time meet his due. Nor shall he return to Navarre
until he pays me a full ransom.”
But like the gentle dropping of water (and drops, we know, wear even
stones, much more the soft substance of which hearts are made) came the
entreaties of the Infanta. After all they were married, and Don Garcia
had suffered a grievous defeat, which had weakened him for mischief for
many a day!
So at the end of a year the prison was unbarred and a great festival
held in the old palace of Burgos, of which no trace remains; a throne
glittering with cloth of gold was raised in the midst of carpets and
screens and awnings of brocaded silk, a luxury borrowed from the
Moors--from whom, much as they fought them, all refined tastes were
acquired; and afterwards, at the board in royal robes, Don Garcia is
seated side by side with Castile (Doña Ava, crowned with a royal diadem,
between), as they quaff the generous wine of Valdepeñas in healths of
eternal amity and alliance.
* * * * *
Again the Cortes were assembled in haste, in the northern city of Leon,
to determine conclusions against the Moors.
The Caliph Almanzor, coming from Cordoba, had penetrated north as far as
Santiago de Compostela, in Galicia, sacked the shrine, the very Mecca of
Spain, where countless miracles were wrought by his bones; and, insult
of insults, pulled down the bells and hung them (oh, horrors!) in the
Mesquita of Cordoba, where they still remain! So that Fernan gladly
hastened to obey Don Sancho’s summons, along with the kings of Aragon
and Navarre. Years had passed, a son had been born to him, and many acts
of courtesy exchanged, as between royal kinsfolk.
To recall the past was by no means in harmony
[Illustration: THE PUERTA DI SANTA MARIA, BURGOS.]
with his forgiving temper. “Perhaps he will pay the debt he owes me,”
was his thought, “for my horse Sila and the hawk he bought of me so long
ago; the sum must by this time be a big one.”
It was night when the council ended, and the royal company assembled in
the hall, having exchanged their heavier garments for fanciful doublets
and mantles of tissues woven in Eastern looms, set off with fur and
gems--graceful _toques_ to correspond, replacing helmet and head-piece,
a feather lying low on the shoulder, or peaked caps encircled with
garlands of jewels, the badge of his house embroidered on each knight’s
breast. As each guest took his place with that solemn demeanour common
to Spaniards, a flourish of trumpets sounded, a side door opened, and
Doña Teresa appeared, upright to stiffness, wearing her crown upon her
head, her son Don Sancho advancing with respectful courtesy to place her
on his right hand.
All eyes were fixed on Don Fernan Gonzales, the youngest of the princes.
Happiness and loyalty looked out of his comely face, grace was in every
movement, as he exchanged compliments with his royal kinsmen--Aragon, a
broad-shouldered man, frank and true in nature; Navarre, dark and
preponderant, his eyes bent significantly on his son-in-law; and his
nephew of Leon, Don Sancho the Fat, grown so obese he moved in his royal
robes with difficulty.
The feast, spread on oaken tables covered with scarlet cloths, blazed
with the sheen of precious candelabra, cups inlaid with rubies, and
silver figures trimmed with posies of flowers, aromatic herbs and green
boughs from the wood, the walls hung with damascened draperies and a
fair Moorish carpet on the floor. The fish, flesh, and fowl served in
heavy silver platters were offered entire to each guest, who with his
dagger cut his own portion, drinking from silver goblets placed at his
side.
At the conclusion of the banquet, to the blare of trumpets, King Don
Sancho rose to lead his mother to her retiring room, with the same state
as she had entered.
Already the kings of Navarre and Aragon had passed on, and the Conde de
Castile was preparing to follow when an armed hand was placed on his
shoulder and a voice uttered in his ear: “You are my prisoner.”
“Your prisoner?” cried he, looking round to behold a circle of armed
men, who had silently gathered behind his chair as he was in the act of
making obeisance to the queen, “by my troth! this is an idle jest. You
have mistaken your man, my masters. Look elsewhere.”
“Not at all,” cried Queen Doña Teresa, disengaging her hand from that of
the king, the old malignant smile glittering in her black eyes. “Did you
think, Sir Conde, we were as green as you, who come unarmed a second
time among your foes? The bird that had flown is recaptured! Ha! ha!”
and she gave a bitter laugh. “I think I can prophesy you will not escape
this time! The dungeons of Leon are better guarded than those of
Narbonne!”
“Queen Doña Teresa,” was his answer, his arms already bound by fetters,
“_I_ take no shame for _my_ lack of suspicion. Rather is it for _you_,
so royally born, to blush at such baseness. _You_,” and, spite of
himself, his eyes flamed with rage as he realised that he had again
fallen into the power of his remorseless kinsfolk, “you are a disgrace
to the royal lineage you represent. See, even the king, your son, casts
down his eyes. Don Sancho is ashamed of his mother!”
Stung by his reproaches the queen raised her hand as a signal to the
guards to bear him away.
“What manner of man is this?” she said, turning to the king, who, though
he had joined in the conspiracy, now stood irresolute and pale, a silent
witness to his mother’s treachery. “He dares to jeer at me with the
chains about his neck. But a long life passed in a Gothic dungeon will
bring down his pride. Fear not, my son, what can he do? When the half of
his kingdom is in your hands you will thank me.”
“But our kinswoman the Infanta will offer a large ransom. Can you refuse
_her_?”
“Refuse!” retorted the queen, her tall figure drawn up to its full
height; “there is no treasure in the world that shall buy off the Conde
de Castila. His death alone will satisfy me.”
And with a menacing gesture in the direction by which he had
disappeared, she swept out of the hall as she had come, followed by her
retinue.