Don Pedro--Maria de Padilla--Albuquerque
In the upper story of the Alcazar is Don Pedro’s retiring room,
overlooking the central Patio de las Doncellas below, the soft echo of
ever-bubbling fountains and runnels mingling with the songs of birds
hidden among the luxuriant foliage of palms and fragrant plants.
But little in keeping with the harmony without is the carved door by
which the apartment is entered, still hung with the heads of four unjust
judges placed there by the king as a warning to evil-doers. It is a
small and secluded room, cut off from the state apartments of the upper
story, appropriated to the use of Doña Maria del Padilla, panelled with
cedar, broken by coats of arms in red, blue, and gold shields, portraits
of kings of Castile and Moorish caliphs, emblems and badges, gilt
“castles” and rampant “lions”; the ceiling rich in carved rafters,
dividing into deep compartments, ornamented with bosses and lozenges in
the same bright hues, by which the effect of the dark wood is greatly
heightened; sconces for candles and circles for torches also on the
walls, showing that it is the habit of the king to use the room by night
as well as day. Little sun enters, and what does penetrate comes from
lofty casements darkened by panes of painted glass, reflecting in turn
on the deeply tinted _azulejo_ tiles of the floor, always so noticeable
a detail in Moorish chambers.
In a dark corner a secret stair descends to the caliph’s bedroom on the
ground floor, an arrangement suited to the erratic habits of Don Pedro,
who constantly comes and goes at all hours of the day and night and can
thus enter without being observed.
He is seated on a high-backed chair with his back to the light, a mere
youth in appearance--his stormy life ended before he was thirty--in
which one seeks in vain for the murderous epithet of _El Cruel_. But as
his face turns towards the light, the fair locks about his shoulders
darken into a dull red and the blue eyes assume a strangely sinister
expression. Opposite to him stands his great minister, Albuquerque.
During two troubled reigns he has guided the helm of state through
troubled periods of rebellion, Moorish wars, and conspiracies. At the
death of King Alfonso he skilfully maintained Mary of Portugal--his
first protectress--as regent for her son; a difficult task, for as long
as he lived Alfonso treated his mistress, Eleanor de Guzman, as a queen.
Astute and ready-witted Albuquerque has long understood the inherent
cruelty of the young king, as well as his obstinacy. He fostered his
boyish fancy for his kinswoman, Maria de Padilla, the better to rule
him, until it ripened into such an overwhelming passion that his own
influence was undermined. With good cause he curses the day he brought
her to Seville, especially since she has borne the king a son, and her
enmity to him has grown into an open attack upon his authority. Now,
with the knowledge of the queen mother, he has come with a proposition
calculated greatly to curb if not to end her power.
Albuquerque is barely past the prime of life, but his thin, deeply lined
face gives him a look of age. His black Spanish eyes are turned full on
his master. Too cunning to betray the intense anxiety he feels, only a
slight flush on his cheek tells of his emotion. Well he knows the
perverse disposition of the royal youth before him, and that the very
fact of a too great insistency will only rouse him to violent
opposition, especially on a subject touching him so nearly as that which
he has come to discuss. Still he feels that what he has to say is of
such paramount importance to the state that, spite of himself, the tones
of his voice deepen and his manner acquires a solemn earnestness.
“A disputed succession, my lord,” he urges, watching the effect of his
bold words; “Maria de Padilla’s children conspiring in every corner of
the kingdom, as do now the bastards of your father, Enrique de
Trastamare, and his brothers Don Fadique and Don Telmo. Have they not
read us a lesson in rebellion? God alone knows what an arduous task was
mine to prevent his naming his favourite, Don Enrique, to the
succession, and shutting you, my lord, up in a monastery for life. Is
Castile again to endure the same evil from which I have freed it? Invoke
not Nemesis again, my Lord. You have suffered enough from the same cause
to know its bitterness. Think what blood has flowed from that
infatuation of your father’s, and the death of Doña Eleanor still to be
avenged by the great house of Guzman.”
But here Albuquerque is arrested by such a sudden glance of fury from
the king, he wisely desists.
“Maria is my kinswoman,” he continues in another tone, skilfully
changing his line of attack. “_I_ brought her to Seville.”
Don Pedro listens in haughty silence. Dark passions gather on his brow
as the well-chosen words fall from the lips of the great minister. At
the mention of his children by Maria de Padilla he gives an indignant
start and seems about to interrupt his smoothly flowing periods. But
carried, spite of himself, by the weight of his arguments, he withholds
himself; and, with darkly glancing eyes, silently assents, especially as
the name of Enrique passes Albuquerque’s lips.
The concluding sentence as to the disinterestedness of Albuquerque in
regard to Maria de Padilla he treats with evident contempt. It is clear
that
[Illustration: A GATE OF THE COURT OF THE ORANGES, SEVILLE CATHEDRAL.]
sort of pretence does not touch him, for he well knows that it was
Maria’s determination to throw off her kinsman, not consideration of the
good of Castile, which led him to urge any measure which would weaken
her influence.
“Keep to the matter in hand,” he says sternly. “I understand you press
on me a royal marriage for reasons of State; you need not diverge from
that point. It is an act repugnant to me. Why not open war and an
alliance with England and the Black Prince?” he continues, passing his
hands slowly through the meshes of his long fair hair. “I know the
serpent’s trail is over Castile. I have crushed the mother and those
with her, but the rest of the brood I could not reach.”
“But you did well, my lord,” answers Albuquerque with a dark smile. “A
couple of Infantes more or less, ha! ha! Who cares whether they live or
die but their mother, and she was dead? To wring their necks and send
them spotless to paradise was a worthy deed. Would that their brothers
lay as low as they.”
“Do not give me all the credit,” breaks in the king, mollified by this
applause. “If ever minister acted for himself it was you. Who chose the
guards? Who bribed the captain-general? Who? But let it lie. We will not
quarrel over the spoil like low accomplices. The deed was done, and well
done;” and with a discordant laugh he joins in the ghastly jest with a
voice that freezes the blood by its merciless cruelty.
“Yes, my lord,” replies Albuquerque, “it is so. You will do well to rid
Castile of the other traitor too. For if Don Enrique de Trastamare dies
suddenly, or is _killed_” (here the astute minister pauses as if
weighing in his mind by what means the happy consummation of his death
could be accomplished), “there is his brother, the young Grand Master
Fadique, who would at once take his place, backed by the knighthood of
Santiago and Calatrava, and be upheld by all your enemies. It is the
same blood, my lord, the same ambition then as now. ‘The throne! the
throne!’ is the war-cry of the bastards, and France is ever ready to fan
the flame.”
“True,” answers Don Pedro, “I am surrounded by foes. If I am a devil,
they have made me so. From my birth, my life has been endangered by
their machinations, I and my mother also. Fadique is the best. He has a
soft face and winning ways. He says he hates his brother. He may be a
traitor,” he continues, rising from his chair and pacing up and down the
room with the uneasy step of a beast of prey. “What matter? I use him as
a tool; though,” and he suddenly stops and falls into a muse, “there was
a time, when my father was alive--we were boys then, playing in these
gardens together--that he did somewhat win my heart, and I showed it. I
was a fool then. But now, let us fight it out.” Then resuming his
restless pacing up and down: “Can I trust Fadique?” he mutters.
“Tush!” cries Albuquerque, moved out of his calmness by this unusual
sensibility; “he will stab you first and then succeed you. The treachery
of the race, their greed of power, is patent everywhere. The people
speak of it in the wine shops, the beggars make songs and sing them in
the streets, and the soldiers----”
“No, by God! Not my soldiers!” cries Pedro, quickly arresting him. “I
will not believe it. Not my soldiers! They are true! Fadique may or may
not be false, what matter? I tell you” (impatiently) “I use him as a
‘tool.’”
“My Lord,” replies Albuquerque, lifting his deep-set eyes upon his
master, “although young, I perceive you are already skilled in
kingcraft. Nothing answers like diversion. You have dealt wisely in
setting up one brother against the other. In making Fadique Grand Master
of Santiago the jealous spleen of Don Enrique is fed and nourished. He
has no position in Castile. But about that prophecy, my lord,” continues
Albuquerque--seeking to return to the important matter on which his mind
is set, which Don Pedro is obviously seeking to avoid--“of which I spoke
to your Grace. Do you intend to verify it by the lack of rightful heirs?
Pardon me, my lord, I speak in the interest of Castile. As far as your
Highness’s pleasure is concerned, I have shown that I grudge not my own
kinswoman Maria.” At her name the king turns paler than was his wont and
reseats himself. “Were I ambitious, I might scheme for a crown on her
head and on her son’s. But I appeal to your Highness if I have not ever
preferred your honour to my own? But reasons of State and the unsettled
condition of the kingdom demand not only that you espouse a great
princess, but that her hand should bring a strong alliance.”
“And the princess is called?” asks Don Pedro, with a sarcastic smile.
“Doubtless her name is ready.”
“Yes, my lord, the Lady Blanche, daughter of the Duke of Bourbon, and
niece of the most Christian King of France. Repute says she is comely,
and her great youth and motherless condition under a warlike father
promises her submissive. What says your Highness?”
“And in my turn I desire to ask _you_ a question, Albuquerque,” replies
Don Pedro, who sits in deep thought as sentence after sentence falls
from the great minister. “When do you intend afterwards to return to
Seville?”
“I, to Seville, my lord? I do not catch your Grace’s meaning. Whenever
the service of your Highness permits me.”
“I would advise you,” replies the young king, sardonically, “for your
safety, to delay it as long as possible. If you affiance me to the Lady
Blanche, you will find a warm welcome from Maria at your return. What
her revenge may hatch, you best know. I warn you. You are a bold man,
Albuquerque. Better face a lioness robbed of her whelps than an
outraged woman.”
The grave Albuquerque laughs outright. “A woman’s fury is a small
matter, your Highness, and court report says that you yourself hold it
cheap. The welfare of my master is what I regard. If your Highness holds
the obstacles as light as I do, we will have the espousals at the
Alcazar, and Maria shall hold the new queen’s robe.”
“No, no, never!” cries Don Pedro, stung into real feeling by the
remembrance of her he loved and the insult to be put on her. “If this is
done at all, it must be distant and secret. _She_ shall be spared the
knowledge until all is over. I would rather lead a dozen campaigns
against the French and Du Guesclin into the bargain in open field, than
lend my hand to this matter. I a wife--a queen--a consort--what am I to
do with her? Will she replace that other who nestles in my breast?” and
a look of love comes into his eyes which softens them into real beauty.
No one can tell what that hard face can express until that one chord is
struck to which his whole being vibrates.
“The princess will bring France in her hand and peace in your councils.
Your Highness is not bound to separate from----”
“Yes, yes, I understand; but would Maria’s proud heart accept it? ‘Peace
in my councils and strife at my board!’ I cannot undertake it. An older
man might do it, but, Albuquerque, I am young, and though men call me
_El Cruel_, I am also _El Justiciar_. Now that is not justice. She has
borne me children. She is like no other woman--I love her.”
“Leave my kinswoman to me, sire; only consent and I will answer for her.
But, my lord, forgive me if I say that if you thus _half-hearted_ enter
into this scheme, you will bring more calamity on Castile, more war and
misery than we have now to battle with. Women, my liege, are but cheap
in your eyes as yet. But any wrong done to a royal princess such as the
Lady Blanche, any insult, _any dishonour_”--the king looks up
sharply--“would bring on us the whole power of France. Your Highness
knows it,” he adds deprecatingly, watching the king’s grave face. “If
done, it must be _well_ done, or let alone.”
“And who says _no_?” answers the inscrutable young sovereign. “Who says
that I shall not become, under the Lily of France, the most adoring of
husbands; a very Hercules to his Omphale? Methinks the scene rises
before me in the _patio_ below--the daughter of France and I seated
under the palms, Nubian slaves waving feather fans over us, lest any fly
or insect touch her soft cheek, while your kinswoman Maria"--(here the
king gives a discordant laugh)--“watches behind a screen, subdued and
gentle.”
Albuquerque frowned. To this, then, had come all his wise reasonings,
his statecraft, his far-seeing policy; a jest, worse than a jest, a
scoff in the mouth of that sardonic youth whose service he held. Well he
knew him, and that once in that mocking mood no more was to be done with
him.
Raising his eyes to the cynical young face which faced him, a low laugh
still on his lips, somewhat of the contempt he felt looked out, spite of
himself, and Don Pedro marked it and for a moment yielded to the
influence of his powerful mind.
“Albuquerque, I will consider your reasons and give you my decision,” he
says, with a natural majesty of manner he knows well how to assume.
“Until then, let this matter rest. As soon as I can ride I shall order
my further progress towards Burgos. There we will hold a council as to
the threatened rising of Enrique de Trastamare. He has many followers at
Toledo and will endeavour to take the city and garrison. But my friends
the Jews, headed by Samuel Levi, will take care of my interests.”
The haughty bearing of the young king strangely jarred upon the feelings
of Albuquerque.
After all, the discussion of the marriage might be called (seeing his
relationship to Maria de Padilla) almost a _personal_ question, and that
he had been and was acting magnanimously in the matter he felt to his
heart’s core. The ill-concealed contempt of the king wounded and
offended him as it had never done before. He reddened under the mocking
glance of Don Pedro, his eyes half in jest, half in anger, fixed on him
as if reading the embarrassment of his thoughts.
At length, with a silent dignity no ridicule could reach, he slowly
gathered up his papers, and bowing low craved leave to depart. “God
preserve your Highness,” were his words. “You need not to be told I hold
your commands absolute, but, sire, as your servant, I once more crave
you to remember the prophecy of which I spoke--‘_To be stabbed and
succeeded by his brother._’ The Gitano died for these traitorous words
against your Grace, but still dying he persisted in repeating them.”
“An excellent joke, a capital pleasantry! Adieu, good Albuquerque, God
have you in His holy keeping till we next meet and you bring me some new
command,” are the king’s laughing words, to all appearance as
light-hearted as a bird.
And as Albuquerque disappears under the shadow of the Moorish arches
beyond the door, he laughs still louder.
“That parting shaft of his about the prophecy was not so bad,” he
mutters. “All the same, I wonder if it will come true. A man can but die
once, and that his worst enemy should kill him is but natural and just.
Still, most noble bastard, Don Enrique, we will have a tussle for it ere
it comes to that, and if the Lady Blanche strengthens my arm, why then,
_por Dios_, we will marry her!”
How Albuquerque’s project prospered will now appear; the present upshot
being that it was secretly arranged between the king and himself to
despatch his half-brother, the Infante Fadique, “the Grand Master” as he
was called, to Narbonne to ask the hand in marriage of the Lady Blanche,
niece of the King of France.
A mission which prospered marvellously, seeing that within a month Don
Fadique acted as his brother’s proxy at their solemn espousals in the
Gothic Cathedral of St. Just, the darkly painted figures of saints and
angels in the flamboyant windows of the choir casting down mystic
shadows on the form of a pale young girl in the very bud of youth,
kneeling at the altar beside a royal youth with the sweetest and softest
eyes, his elegant figure set off by the magnificent robes of the Grand
Master of Santiago, so stiff with gold embroidery and jewels, on mantle
and _justaucorps_, that they stood up of themselves.