Marriage at Valladolid
The ancient city of Valladolid lies on low ground and is watered by the
Pisuerga, a broad river for this waterless land.
Although so far in the north, Valladolid was at this time considered the
official capital of Castile, and therefore it was there that Blanche had
come to meet her much dreaded bridegroom.
A more uninviting city does not exist in Spain, as we see it now, and
although it suffered cruelly from the invasion of the French in the
Peninsular War, uninteresting it must always have been. No charm leads
one’s thoughts lovingly to Valladolid. The cathedral is hideous. Only
the front of San Pablo and the Collegiata de San Gregorio, a magnificent
gift of Cardinal Ximenes, dwell in the mind.
Of course, with the exception of San Pablo, these buildings were erected
centuries after Don Pedro’s reign, and one asks oneself what Valladolid
could have been then?
There are no environs. The river flows through flat banks with no
timber except long lines of thin poplars, the poorest of all trees, and
beyond, the eye wanders over endless plains towards Burgos and Salamanca
to the borders of Portugal.
But now, forgetting the present aspect of the city, we must go back to
the 3d of June, 1375, the day on which Don Pedro was to arrive to meet
the new queen, espoused in his name by his brother, the Grand Master of
Santiago, to be kept as a great festival, for which thousands had
assembled from all parts of the kingdom. For indeed, in those days of
perpetual warfare, a _fiesta_ was well esteemed, as they were very rare,
especially in the north, inhabited by a more serious and impassioned
race of hardy men than the lighthearted southerners of Andalusia.
Now this occasion had been seized as a gift from heaven, especially as
it was to take the form of a tournament, in which the Infante Don
Fadique was to take part, as well as the Infante of Aragon, and Don Juan
de Mañara, known in all ages as “Don Juan,” the favourite of the king,
gambler, reveller, and seducer, and that graceful but treacherous
knight, Don Garcia de Padilla, brother of Maria, both being in
attendance on the king. The queen-mother, Doña Maria of Portugal, had
also journeyed from Seville to welcome the young queen, and Albuquerque
followed her, full of alarm for the result of the alliance he had
brought about.
Much had been heard of the strange qualities of the young king, about
whom men’s minds were divided. Such mysterious crimes were attributed to
him, such unheard-of brutalities, that it was generally supposed he
acted under the influence of magic spells, wrought on him by his
mistress, Maria de Padilla, held by the populace as a witch accursed by
God and man.
Those who had not seen him, and they were many, and the women
especially, who had heard harrowing tales of his misdeeds, crowded into
Valladolid, where, accommodation not being easily obtained except for
the rich, the season being summer, had built themselves huts of branches
along the river, and camped out there, as near as possible to the green
_vega_ where the tournament was to be held.
And a wonderful sight it is, and almost beautiful to behold, under a
heaven one sheet of unbroken blue, golden lights resting on the gaudy
colours within the enclosed space, carpeted with grass; lofty gateways,
making the four entrances, adorned with coloured tiles in blue and gold;
tents of variegated rich stuffs, luxuriously fitted up for the
convenience of each knight about to take part in the tilt; galleries
hung with brocade and cloth of gold; turreted towers in silk striped
black and yellow, from which hang banners; fountains furnished with
bowls of silver to refresh the knights, over which court pages keep
guard; stands for the musicians, covered balconies for the ladies, where
the sparkle of dark eyes and rounded arms peep out of delicate
draperies; and in the centre, the gaudiest of all, the royal pavilion,
“as high as three lances,” blazing with cloth of gold, trimmed with
feathers and flowers, the flag of Castile and Leon floating overhead,
beside the emblazoned Nodo of Castile, and the French lilies impanelled
on the same shield--the interior protected from the sun by tinted
awnings, under which rise three crimson thrones, for the king, queen,
and queen-mother, “Matrique” to the bride, and all around the soft
whispering of leaves, the cooing of doves and pigeons, brought, Moorish
fashion, in cages, and the splash of abundant waters.
* * * * *
The time fixed for the tournament was at the setting of the sun, but
from the earliest dawn the populace had crowded into every available
space, and been entertained with _seguidillas_ and _zambras_ danced by
bronzed _gitanas_ to the clink of castanets, and there were races of
tame elephants with silken howdahs, jumpers and tossers of ball, and
Moorish jugglers whose tricks were wonderful and set all the peasants
agape with joy.
It was known that the king’s brother, the Grand Master, would break a
lance, and it was thought that the young king himself would run at the
ring in honour of his bride. But this was said only by those who did not
know, for in the first place Don Pedro, a young warrior full of conceit
and constantly risking his life in battles, disdained all these courtly
pageants; and in the second place, he had arrived at Valladolid in so
bad a temper that his attendants feared to approach him.
Never was a royal bridegroom so ill-disposed for mirth as Don Pedro
when, habited in a royal mantle draped over a crimson surcoat trimmed
with fur, and wearing a helmet encircled by a crown, _panached_ with
snowy feathers, he took his seat on his throne in the centre of the
pavilion, Albuquerque, his _padrino_ or god-father, behind him, to the
cry of “Castilla! Santiago! Santiago! _Viva el Rey Justiciar!_”
Beside him, on a less elevated seat, sat his mother, Queen Maria.
As the bride-queen, white as her name, and trembling in every limb,
advances to place herself on a chair of state on his right hand, the
king--who now sees her for the first time, having purposely delayed his
entrance into Valladolid until the last possible moment--rises to salute
her; when, at the aspect of terror depicted on her face, in evident
wrath he suddenly turns to address Albuquerque, pointing contemptuously
to the poor princess who sinks back into the arms of Claire.
“_Sangre de Dio!_ Signor Conte,” mutters the king, loud enough to be
heard, “a pretty consort you have chosen. I am not wont to be considered
an ogre in ladies’ eyes, but doubtless the Lady Blanche, spite of her
baby-face, has met some _damoisel_ at her father’s court whose
remembrance turns me to a monster in her eyes. By my Patron Saint (if I
have one), before the day is over I will assure myself who is the cuckoo
who has soiled my nest.”
“My lord, these are most unworthy suspicions,” returns Albuquerque, with
that calm dignity of manner before which the king’s petulant humour so
often yields. But not so now. Surrounded by those who have fostered his
evil passions, he knows that his every look and movement will be duly
reported by her brother, Don Garcia, to Maria de Padilla.
From this moment to the end of the pageant he hardly addresses himself
to Blanche or turns towards her, but with an angry scowl, his steely
eyes wander unceasingly over the crowd of brilliant knights who, singly
or together, gallop past the royal _estrado_ to salute him and the
queen.
Spite of herself, Blanche, revived by the strong essences Claire used to
restore her, begins to be attracted by the brilliant show. She is the
chief figure in this mimic war; the noblest dames of Castile are there
to do her homage; the queen-mother comforting her with gentle words, and
when Claire, who stands behind her chair, whispers into her ear, “Do you
see him, there under the flag-staff in the centre? He wears a long white
mantle over his armour, and your scarf upon his arm. Oh! is he not
charming?” a mist passes before her eyes, the tell-tale colour mounts to
her cheeks, and forgetting Don Pedro and all her fears past, present,
and to come, she leans forward, a wild look in her eyes, towards the
spot where Don Fadique has reined up his charger, to head the knights of
Santiago preparing to salute the king and the new queen. This passed in
an instant, but not before Don Pedro had noted it, and his naturally
pallid face grows white with rage.
“Madam,” says he, addressing Blanche for the first time, who, at the
sound of his harsh voice, starts back aghast, “it seems that the favour
you deny me, you accord to my brother. Happy youth! Doubtless he will
know how to profit by it.”
Utterly unable to reply, Blanche shrank back, as if about to faint, but
terror so far gave her strength that she found voice to reply that at
Narbonne it was her duty towards his Grace to receive his brother well.
“I doubt it not, madam,” answers Don Pedro with a bitter sneer. “Yes, at
Narbonne you made good use of your time, doubtless. I was a cursed fool
to send him there,” he mutters. Then, turning his back upon her, he
addresses himself to Don Juan, the big tears streaming slowly down poor
Blanche’s cheeks.
Alas! alas! This insult seems the last drop in her cup of misery. Poor
little queen! her heart is bursting, and nothing but her horror of the
king, whose cold eyes follow her wherever she turns, prevents her sobs
from being heard by all the court.
At this moment, amid the blare of trumpets, the roll of drums and clash
of cymbals, the chimes of all the bells of the city clashing, and the
frantic shouts of the mob, pressing forward at every point where they
can find standing room along the barriers, a gallant company of knights,
attended by their esquires, galloped into the centre of the field in a
general _mêlée_; the Knight of the Dragon, Don Juan de Cerda--who, could
he have foreseen the future, would then and there have forfeited his
fealty to a recreant king; the Knight of the White Rose, Don Diego de
Guzman; the unknown knight, his turban protected by chains of finest
steel interwoven with the folds of dazzling white, and white his tunic
and mantle, on his left arm a shield, in his right hand a slender lance,
mounted on a raven-black charger, and attended by two slaves in Moorish
dress, black from casque to toe, his visor down--said to be the Moorish
king of Granada, Ben Hade, come in disguise, to break a lance with the
Christians; the two Medinas, Celi and Sidonia, a tribe of Aguilars,
every man of the name a hero in the track of war, the de Cuevas,
Cipuntes, Cabras, Perez del Pulgar, and the great southern noble, Ponce
de Leon, arrived from the plains of Xeres, where he ruled more powerful
than the king; the judges of the lists, stranger knights, marshals,
swordsmen, bowmen; pages, gorgeous in silk and samite, heralds in gold
and embroidered tabards; and last, and chiefest, in splendid armour,
the Lord of the Tournament, the Grand Master de Santiago, attended by
the knights of his order in the absence of the king.
Small of stature, but light and elegant, his heavy accoutrements can not
conceal the grace of every movement, or the mastery with which he
manages his horse, a fiery chestnut, curveting and prancing, as he takes
his place in the centre of the lists amid cries of “_Plaza! Plaza por
los Infante! Santiago! Santiago!_”
Conscious that Blanche’s eyes are upon him, and knowing nothing of what
has just passed between her and Don Pedro, and that her poor little
heart is melting in fear, he takes advantage of every opportunity to
place himself before the royal pavilion, thirsting for one look of her
sweet eyes, a gesture, a sign, to feel the assurance of her love; but he
looks in vain.
Many tilts are run. The stranger knight unhorses several riders. When
called on by the herald to raise his visor he courteously declines,
rides three times round the field, displaying his colours, the Moorish
cognisance of yellow on a black ground, then vanishes through the open
gates, his black slaves after him. Many sharp blows are then exchanged
and wounds inflicted in this mimic warfare, to the delight of the king,
who rises to his feet loudly laughing and clapping his hands as the
vanquished knights are carried from the field.
[Illustration: A STREET IN TOLEDO.
From an etching by Charles A. Platt.]
Then, to the cries of _Dios y España_, four cavaliers ride forth, with
violet surcoats over their coats of mail, and run a Moorish tilt with
reeds instead of lances, an elegant pastime of Granada worthy of the
courtly Moslems with whom Don Pedro is so much in league, while stringed
instruments strike up a joyful measure, and castanets are played by the
_gitanos_ who dance a _seguidilla_ before the king.
Many of the great nobles, offended at the insolent bearing of Don Pedro,
have not, as yet, taken their lances out of rest, but have only ridden
round at the opening of the lists, at which great wonder is expressed
among the spectators, and much discontent amid their followers.
Now, all are in honour bound to break a lance, in the _Grande Mêlée_,
with Don Fadique, who takes his place in the centre of the field.
Whether it is out of courtesy to his youth and royal rank, or that, by a
kind of miracle, his lady-love being present, his arm is strengthened to
do wonders in her eyes, many a famous noble has the worst of it, at
which wild cries are again heard of “_Santiago!_ _Viva el Gran Maestro!_
_Viva el Infante!_”
A grand procession ends the tournament, around the golden pole set up in
the centre, from which depends a laurel crown woven with pearls, which,
according to the rules, ought to be presented to the victor by the young
queen. But Don Pedro, in savage mood (for the success of his brother has
deeply angered him), has willed it otherwise.
With his large eyes fixed in a disdainful stare he gives no heed to the
tilting, and scarcely responds to the salutations of the noble knights
who gather under the pavilion.
When Don Fadique stations himself in front to salute him and the two
queens, Don Pedro--who at that moment is talking eagerly with the Lord
of Monteney, from time to time turning towards Albuquerque, as if to
inform him of some important fact--turns and fixes his eyes upon him
with such a glare of rage that Don Fadique never advances at all to
claim the guerdon he was to receive, and retreats to his tent, the king
at the same time suddenly rising, and signalling to the gaudy herald,
displaying his particoloured costume in the last rays of the sunset
which light up the west, to the delight of the townsfolk, to approach.
Like all the world the herald dreads the king, and comes riding as fast
as his horse can carry him.
“Vain knave!” says Don Pedro surveying his brilliant garb, “can you find
nothing better with which to fill your time, than serving as a popinjay
to the people? Break up the lists. I have had enough of it; and see you
do it quickly.”
* * * * *
And now, slowly, as the day falls, along the river bank under the shade
of the poplar avenues, passes the procession, winding into the deep and
narrow streets of Burgos.
Before the cathedral, public tables are spread with highly flavoured
viands such as Spaniards love, to be washed down by strong Xeres wine
served out of great earthen jars, so big it seems as if thousands could
be satisfied.
Don Pedro would have ridden alone into the city, but for the
remonstrances of Albuquerque and of his mother, who, with tears implored
him not to rouse the suspicions of his subjects by such a disregard of
royal custom as to allow his bride to return alone.
Thus while all the citizens wait beside the tables (none caring to fall
to until the king’s return) a flourish of clarions and trumpets suddenly
announces his presence, preceded by a troop of men-at-arms in the low
cap and close-setting jerkin of that warlike time. Don Pedro himself
mounted on a coal-black war-horse, the jewelled reins held by two great
nobles, the Lord of Bertrayo and the Sevillian Don Enrique de la Cerda,
husband of Doña Maria de Coronel.
Beside him, but somewhat in the rear, rides the queen, her bridal veil
enveloping her like a shroud, and it is well so, for her ashen cheeks
and sunken eyes would tell a tale of suffering no words could express.
Following after her comes the queen-mother, mounted on a white mule shod
with gold, her eyes cast down, and with a visage full of sorrow.
As the young queen passes, the word goes round that she is an unwilling
bride. “And no wonder, poor soul,” answers a richer burgher, who has
pushed himself forward and looks into her white face, “if she knows the
sort of husband she is espousing. He kills all who come to him.”
“An ill-omened couple,” whispers a fat countrywoman into his ear. “Look
at the king, he never turns his eyes on the poor young thing, but rides
straight on, and so fast her horse cannot keep pace with him. Why does
he marry her? It is plain to see he hates her. I wonder how the young
queen will like his _harem_? They say he lives like a Moor, and keeps a
whole bevy of slaves shut up in the castle of Carmona.”
“Poor soul, I would not be in her shoes, and have to face his mistress,
Maria de Padilla,” says another woman; “and after all, why should the
king flout her if he likes a pretty face?”
“Belike some one has cast a spell on him,” observes a little man in a
black _capa_ and mantle, the city _medico_.
“Aye,” is the reply, “a jealous woman has overlooked her.”
And so it came to be understood among the crowd that the king had been
bewitched and never would care for his girl queen.
“God grant he may not murder her,” are the last words of the fat
countrywoman as they all move on to where the tables are spread.
The king meanwhile is hurrying in the most unseemly fashion, indifferent
to the discomfort he causes to those behind, especially to the Lady
Blanche, who with her two royal rein-holders, the Grand Master Don
Fadique and the Infante of Aragon, not daring to look up, is now
separated from him, which greatly mars the effect of the pageant.
The knights, having changed their armour while Queen Blanche was in her
retiring room, reappear in fanciful suits of many-coloured silk and
brocade, their helmets replaced by graceful caps, ornamented with gems
and pearls, in readiness for the nuptial banquet.
Don Juan de Mañara is most conspicuously attired in the excess of the
mode, of no great beauty, but with so bold an eye, it is said of him he
fears neither the living nor the dead. In all his wildest excesses Don
Juan is the king’s companion, but never for murder, injustice, or spoil.
No wantonness is too great for him where women are concerned, and woe to
the wife or maid who takes his fancy.
No one can rival Don Juan in the jewels he wears except the southern
lord, Ponce de Leon, whose robe of pale silver tissue is covered with
uncut stones, and his head encircled by a wreath of orient pearls taken
from a Moorish emir whom he has slain.
Don Enrique de la Cerda, the king’s favourite before Don Juan, but so
much better than he that the people of Seville call him jeeringly _El
Santo_, is attired in a dark velvet suit quite at variance with his
usual magnificence. It is rumoured that he is out of favour on account
of his beautiful wife, Doña Maria de Coronel, upon whom the king has
cast eyes of love, a distinction which, contrary to fealty and
allegiance as understood in those times, Cerda has not appreciated, and
has not only shut her up in his castle of Cerda, but is inclined to
listen to the overtures of Enrique of Trastamare and forsake the king
altogether.
* * * * *
The board blazes with flowers, Moresque porcelain, and glittering plate;
precious candelabras of sculptured silver shed a soft light, and
jewelled vases and golden cups give it back in intensest colours, as the
king and queen enter to the sound of trumpets and take their place in
the centre, beside them the royal princes and the Infante of Aragon, the
ministers of state, and such ambassadors and envoys as have been invited
to the tournament.
Wonderful to relate, Blanche is wreathed in smiles. This is Claire’s
doing. She has contrived to convey to her a message from the Grand
Master, promising an interview for the morrow, when the king rides to
Segovia. As the brother of the king, Don Fadique sits at her side. For
an instant their hands meet, and such a thrill of pleasure shoots
through her little heart as gives her courage to face every mishap.
Child as she is, she clings to happiness. The future is an unveiled
mystery. Why despair?
From Don Fadique her eyes wander to Don Pedro, placed on her other side.
He has the same smooth face as his brother, but sterner and loftier,
and a majesty of expression all his own. He is not frowning now, and the
change is marvellous. No one could compare the two brothers.
“Who knows,” Blanche begins to ask herself, peeping at him from under
her long eyelashes, “if he really is such a monster as report gives out?
Can anything be more perfect? His long wavy hair hanging in heavy
curls.” At this moment he is leaning over her in conversation with Don
Fadique. No shade of displeasure is on his face, as he casts on her such
a glance as brings blushes to her cheek. Alas! alas! could she but read
the treachery of his heart as he plays with the lace tissue of her robe,
and lowers his voice to a soft whisper as he addresses her, she would
flee from the hall, the city, and the land.
Little did the light-hearted daughter of Navarre understand the
passions, deep down and fierce, of the Spaniards. Not voluble and
capricious like the French, but sullen, silent, sinister, hiding all
emotion under a mask. This she did not understand, nor that she had
mortally offended Don Pedro, who but dissembled his revenge, storing up
each word and look she thoughtlessly addressed to Don Fadique.
Poor Blanche!--her bright little head, encircled with the regal
diadem--let her enjoy her brief moment of triumph. Little by little her
heart is yielding to the fascinations of Don Pedro, the most brilliant
cavalier she could have conjured up even in her dreams, and she feels
that if he would but take her to his arms, she would tell him all her
tale; how every one has frightened her, and that now she is ready to
love him for ever and aye. It is all right now, and she feels so happy,
she talks incessantly to Don Fadique in the pauses, telling him all she
feels, which makes him inexpressibly wretched, and he casts on her the
most longing glances, as a precious treasure he has lost, and heaves
great sighs as he raises his eyes to her laughing face--at which she is
really grieved, trying by all possible means to console him.
Don Pedro looks on with a strange, fixed smile. Now and then he even
joins in the conversation with a loud harsh laugh, which, to say the
truth, frightens Blanche, but, delighted at the change in his bearing
towards herself, she interprets it all as “men’s ways,” and hopes in
time to grow accustomed to him. Every one could not be so gentle as the
Grand Master, who, after all, was half a priest, so Claire said; and of
the two, ignorant Blanche said in her heart, how much more she admired
the rough blunt ways of the king.
Once indeed, when talking with Don Fadique, she turned round quickly to
address Don Pedro, and met his eyes riveted on her with such a cruel
stare, she grew cold all over. And it was strange that when he gave the
signal for the company to separate, instead of leading her to the bridal
chamber, as she had been told he would, he made her a low bow and
retired attended by Don Juan de Mañara and Don Garcia de Padilla.
“I wonder if I have offended him,” she whispers to Claire, who is in
waiting behind her chair. “I am afraid something must be wrong. Surely
he ought not to have left me on our wedding night? What have I done? In
the morning he was wroth without a cause, to-night he is gracious with
still less reason.”
“You might have spoken less with the Grand Master,” is Claire’s reply.
“I cannot abide Don Pedro,” Claire says, when they have reached the
solitude of the queen’s apartment. “I am sure he has some secret chamber
where he hangs up those who do not please him, like Blue Beard in his
castle. For the sake of your life be on your guard, my queen. You may
depend on the Grand Master, but the king is _not_ to be trusted.”
“Oh, dear Claire, I am sure you are mistaken! Now I am as unhappy as
ever, just when I thought all was coming right! Why did not the
queen-mother come to the banquet? She is kind and gracious. I could have
taken courage to consult her. I have no friend but Fadique, and now I am
afraid even of him.”
And once again the tell-tale tears gather in her eyes, as she buries
herself in Claire’s arms.
“Mind, Claire, we must not meet Fadique to-morrow. It might anger the
king. And oh! he is so charming, I would do anything to please him.”
“Who?” asks Claire, leaning down to where the queen’s curly head rests
on her arm.
“Why, Don Pedro, of course,” is the answer. “No one can compare to him!
Terrible but beautiful! Oh! if he would but love me! Alas! why did he
go?” So, murmuring to each other, the queen calls in her tiring women,
and prepares for rest.
[Illustration: ALCANTARA.]