Don Diego Laynez and the Conde de Gormez
I wonder if Burgos looked then as it does now?--a well-washed, trim
little city, Dutch in its neatness, tinted, upon the principle of
Joseph’s coat of many colours, pink, blue, peach, and yellow; each house
totally unlike its neighbour in height and shape; the streets sprouting
out all over with balconies, _miradores_, and low arcades under flat
roofs, an unexpected Gothic tower or barbican breaking through; entered
by the ancient gate of Santa Maria beside the bridge with castellated
bartizans and statues of notables in flat square niches.
Of the Cathedral I say nothing, because the present one was built later
by Fernando el Santo, but the line of towers of the Gothic castle stood
out darkly prominent on the hill behind--Calle Alta, as it was
called--as old as 300; the fortress and residence of the Condes de
Castila, and the place where the bright-faced Fernan Gonzales lived his
merry life, shutting up his prisoners--Garcia, King of Navarre, Doña
Ava’s treacherous father, for a year, and other kings and queens too
numerous to mention,--with celebrations of royal births and marriages a
score; the old church of Sant’ Agueda, an “_Iglesia juradera_” (church
of purgation), on the brow of the hill, the family _posada_, or house of
the Cid, to be seen to this day, the ancestral shields hung outside on
pedestals forming part of the front, setting forth the quarterings of
Laynez Calvo, of ancient Castilian lineage, the father of the Cid; a
priceless old _Suelo_, on which you can still observe the measure of the
Cid’s arm, marked on marble; and the mouth of a mediæval passage through
which he could ride into the plains with his men without being seen by
the citizens in the streets below.
* * * * *
At this moment “the child of Burgos,” as the Cid is called, has thrown
aside his warlike accoutrements, having been present at a council at the
Ayuntamiento presided over by the king, and is now on his way to visit
his lady love, Doña Ximena, the daughter of the Conde de Gormez.
As he passes along the Calle, gay as a butterfly in the bright sunshine,
under the barbicans and towers which so nobly break the lines, it may be
said he has too much of a swagger in his gait, but he has reason to be
proud, for, young as he is, Doña Ximena loves him, and the good old King
Fernando has admitted him to his council because he is already strong in
arms and of _good custom_.
Just as Don Rodrigo has passed out of the Palace of Ayuntamiento (town
hall) in the great plaza, its front honeycombed with sculptured
cornices, badges, and devices on a warmly tinted stone, two _hidalgos_
appear under the arched doorway talking loud.
“I tell you the king does wrong,” the younger man is saying in a loud
voice--no other than the Conde Don Gormez, with flashing eyes, moving
with a haughty swagger, a tall olive-complexioned Castilian in cap and
plume, laced boots, and ample cloak, “very wrong in affronting the
Emperor of Germany and the Pope in a little state like Castile.”
“The king does right,” answers the other, very determinedly, but in a
feebler voice, for he is stricken in years. “What, Conde Don Gormez,
would you have Castile do? Become bounden to a foreign power, when we
have so lately gained our freedom from Leon?”
“I think the matter ill-considered,” is the reply; “but of course you
approve it, Don Diego Laynez. The king is old and foolish, and loves age
and infirmity about him. No one exceeds you now in arrogance, since your
young son Rodrigo sits by you at the council. He is reported of good
courage against the Moors, but his youth makes him incompetent to advise
the king.”
“Conde Gormez,” answers the other, reddening with anger, “your
indiscreet words prove that it is not age or experience which gives
judgment.”
“What do you mean, Don Diego?” asks the
[Illustration: THE GIRALDA. SEVILLE.]
Conde fiercely. “I allow no observations on my conduct.”
“I do not condescend to fathom it,” is the answer, with a contemptuous
glance. “Jealousy and thirst for power----”
“Take that, old fool,” cried the Conde, silencing him with a sounding
blow on the cheek, which made him reel backwards against the wall.
He could not speak, all his passion had vanished in the humiliation of
being struck. White and tottering he stood, while his trembling hand
sought the hilt of his sword.
“Mother of God!” he said at last, “you had better have finished me
altogether than put this insult on me. Is it that you deem my arm so
weak you mock me, Sir Count?” And as he spoke, with difficulty he drew
his sword.
“Perhaps it is,” replies the other with an insolent laugh. “Put up your
weapon, old man, or worse may come to you.”
“No, no,” returns Don Diego, the colour mounting to his cheek as his
fingers feel the temper of the blade; “as knight to knight, who have so
often stood side by side in battle, I demand a fair fight and no
quarter.”
“As you will,” he answers, and an evil fire comes into his eyes. “It is
a favour which, at your age, you have no right to demand. If you desire
to be spitted, I will oblige you all the same.”
And then and there he drew his rapier, and placed himself in a posture
of defence.
But the combat was too unequal. It lasted but a few minutes. The Conde
de Gormez was the first _espadero_ in Castile, in the flower of his age,
graceful, skilful, strong; Don Diego was old and weak. His blows fell
like water on his stalwart adversary, who treated him as one does a
wayward child.
“Mark you,” he said at last, throwing up Don Diego’s sword, “I spare
your life. Go home, you dotard, and teach your son to hold his tongue
before his betters and learn to be a wiser man.”
With that he sheathed his formidable weapon, turned his back, and with a
quick step disappeared.