Cloister, Valladolid.--Castle of Talavera
All sleep, save that within a most lovely cloister of Gothic arches,
over which the clustering branches of many vines tremble in the night
air, comes the sound of voices, now near, now far, as the speakers pass
and repass from opposite sides along the marble floor, and the echo of a
harsh, discordant laugh breaks the silence.
“_Por Cristo!_ I will go!” cries a loud voice, desecrating the fair
night by its rough accent, as three muffled figures emerge for a moment
into the light, where a lofty portal opens into the centre of the
cloister, filled with the graves of monks, who even in death cling to
the sacred precincts.
“I will go, and no man shall hinder me! With me shall come my trusty Don
Juan and our brother Garcia. Ha! ha! Mañara,” addressing the tallest of
the three figures, “you are always ready. How many ladies expect you in
Seville at the Calle near the Lonja? See how sober a man is your
sovereign. One lady love is all I claim. One, ineffable, divine! Now, I
ask in all fairness, and I appeal to you, Mañara, can Albuquerque here
(who has limed me like a falcon) reproach me if I fly back to the nest
of love, after I have seen the baby-faced traitress he has chosen?
_Sangre de Dio!_ The thought of Maria makes me mad.”
His speech was succeeded by a dead silence. Don Juan did not answer.
There was a brutal coarseness of expression in the king which, as a
knight and a caballero, he disapproved. Not so the third figure, Don
Garcia de Padilla, standing a little aloof, as waiting to be addressed,
who bowed to the ground, then further retreated into the gloom cast by
the shadow of the clustered columns.
Then the grave voice of Albuquerque responds: “My lord, you have no just
cause of suspicion against the queen. She is very young, and could be
moulded like wax in your hand.”
“That is my affair!” answers the king, whose choleric temper is rising.
“As facile as a dancing-girl. Nay, more so, for aught I know--for those
devils of _gitañas_ have a code of honour of their own. I have proved
her. Even in my presence she could not conceal her love for the cursed
bastard. I never wanted a wife; you forced her on me. But such a one as
this is not worthy to mate with our jester. We will duly dispose of her,
were she a thousand times cousin to the King of France.”
“Beware, my lord, what you do,” interposes Albuquerque, with the
unhesitating frankness he alone dared use.
But Don Pedro continues without heeding him: “There is a prophecy about
me, you say, of which you think much, ‘_I must kill or be killed._’
Excellent reasoning! We will see to it by-and-by. For the present, the
Lady Blanche shall spend her honeymoon in the strong castle of Talavera,
and the Grand Master may find the air of exile favourable to his
health.”
To all this, spoken in a hard, grating voice, with the incessant and
uneasy movement which always marked Don Pedro’s bursts of fury,
Albuquerque, his arms folded under his mantle, listened in silence.
Whether Don Pedro had expected some violent reproaches and was angered
that they did not come, or whether, knowing the madness of what he was
about to do, he had laid himself out to combat argument and reason, the
effect of enraging him was all the same. He trembled with passion, and
struck upon the pavement with his heel.
At length, unfolding his arms, Albuquerque speaks: “My liege, I have
guided the councils of your kingdom in the time of your father, called
‘the Wise,’ and in the regency of your mother, called ‘the Good’; I have
been your own pilot in many a stormy sea. Now I resign these gracious
powers with which you have invested me into your hands, much worthier
than mine. But before taking my leave, allow me to remind your Highness
that the truce with Aragon is expired; that by divers hostile acts you
have angered your old ally, the King of Granada, and that Enrique de
Trastamare, with his army, is marching on Toledo, where he has many and
powerful partisans. His alliance with His Most Christian Majesty was
known to me, and therefore I wrought on your Grace to espouse the Lady
Blanche, which would have traversed this scheme, and brought France to
your aid; but as----”
“Have you done?” thunders the king, so loud as to send a flight of night
birds scudding across the sky.
“No, my lord, I have not done. Behind all this is His Holiness the
Pope--long angered by the favour you show Mussulmen and Jews--seeking a
cause to place you and Castile under an interdict; the Lady Blanche of
Bourbon will serve him well for this. And as to your Castilian subjects,
I warn your Highness to proffer no offers of advancement to Cerda,
husband of Doña Maria Coronel. To my certain knowledge he is engaged in
treasonable practices with Don Enrique; and the lady, my lord--here a
cold smile for an instant lit up Albuquerque’s face--_will never
yield_!”
“To hell with them and you,” roars Don Pedro, beside himself with rage.
“You too, as report says, hold your papers in the hands of my brother,
and will meet other traitors at his camp. Cursed hypocrite and
treacherous counsellor, begone from my presence! Tread not Castilian
soil again, I warn you.”
“Except as a conqueror,” is the calm reply. “May your Highness raise the
glory of Castile as high as my desire, and you will win the world.” And
the great minister passed down the dark aisle as tranquil as on a gala
day, the shadow of the light vine-trellis clinging to the groined arches
striking upon his mantle--the sound of his footsteps growing fainter and
fainter, until finally they were lost in the murmurs of the night
breeze.
Spite of his passion a spell of silence sat upon the king. The voice of
his guardian angel rose within him, and on his lips was the cry,
“Return, return, Albuquerque;” but the good impulse promptly vanished,
and with a mocking laugh he turned to Don Juan. “Have the horses saddled
and the escort ready, I ride at break of day.” Then, striding down the
aisle, he disappeared.
* * * * *
Poor Blanche! Her dream is over. She awoke to find Don Pedro gone--Don
Fadique fled--and a bench of bishops appointed to consult upon her
supposed misdeeds. Proof there was none against her--not even of
witchcraft, which was the popular accusation at times when all others
failed. But, for all that, the bishops were much too terrified at the
king not to pronounce her guilty.
The Duke of Bourbon, her father, and the most Christian king, her
brother-in-law, by the mouth of a herald sent to Seville, storm and
threaten--but what could be said against the judgment of these holy men?
Both justice and knowledge in those days lay in the Church, and Don
Pedro had managed so cunningly, and Maria de Padilla had so carefully
spread abroad diabolical accusations, that Blanche was held to be guilty
of incest.
If the marriage by proxy common among kings and great princes were not
respected as a point of chivalrous honour, by the person selected by the
husband to represent him in the sacred rite, no crowned head would be
safe. It was usual for a man of mature years to be chosen on such
occasions, not a gay young _infante_ like Don Fadique; but, on the other
hand, his near relationship to the king was deemed sufficient guarantee
for his honour, and knightly honour in those days was much more
considered than either virtue or religion.
Thus this accusation against Blanche appealed to the most violent
prejudices of the time. She was supposed to have offended against that
unwritten code which is the safeguard of kings.
No one cared for details. Degraded into a criminal, laden with contempt,
she was sent under a strong escort to the castle of Talavera de la Reina
on the Tagus, not far distant from Toledo; and Don Fadique saved his
life by flight into Portugal.
Vainly did the queen-mother warn her son of the risk he ran in thus
offending a French princess, and endeavour to procure for Blanche some
gentler treatment. Don Pedro mocked at her as he had mocked at
Albuquerque. He told her plainly that if she importuned him she should
follow Blanche into a prison. “There were plenty of castles,” he said,
“in Castile for troublesome queens, as there were cords and daggers for
traitors!”
Had Claire not been left her, Blanche would have died. Her horror of the
king returned greater than ever. “He will kill me! He will kill me!” she
kept repeating, “with a Moorish bowstring. His cruel blue eyes pierce me
like a knife. Oh! Claire, I wish it were over!”
Then she raved of Navarre and Narbonne. Called on Don Fadique for help,
and implored Claire to carry her to the convent, and bury her out of
sight.
* * * * *
For two days they rode over the plains, avoiding the steep defiles of
the Guadarrama Mountains, expecting death at every halting-place. The
faint hope of a rescue haunted the mind of Claire, but she did not speak
of it to Blanche. Where were the Grand Master and all the noble knights
of Santiago? Surely they would not allow such a crime? But no
white-mantled horsemen came galloping over the plain; no flag of knight
or esquire fluttered in the grey atmosphere. The same dull lines seemed
endless.
At length they descended into the gorges of a deep treeless valley,
through which the broad Tagus flows by rocky boundaries, very different
from the laughing river which runs by the leafy groves of Aranjuez, and
reflects that bright and elegant palace of the Bourbons in its crystal
flood.
On a height, to the right, rose the castle of Talavera de la Reina,
built of small bricks faced with stone, an irregular fortress of Gothic
times.
As the portcullis was raised to admit Queen Blanche, Claire, whose eyes
were everywhere, was delighted to observe that it was in a ruinous
condition, having lately sustained a siege, and that it appeared
slenderly garrisoned for a royal fortress. A wild hope of escape
possessed her, especially when the governor, who advanced to hold the
queen’s bridle on bended knee, appeared in the person of a gracious
young cavalier, wearing on his breast the cross of Santiago.
Even Blanche roused herself to bestow on him a sweet smile, and
graciously replied to his words of welcome.
Conducted by him, and followed by serving-men and seneschals, Blanche
casting uneasy looks around, mounted the narrow turning stair, which led
to the dreary suite of rooms known as “the royal chambers.” At every
door stood a man-at-arms, halberd in hand, immovable as a statue.
“It seems I am considered a dangerous prisoner,” she said, turning with
a winning smile towards the governor, who walked at her left hand. “What
care two poor women require to keep fast locked up! A good watch-dog,
such as we have in Narvarre to guard the sheep, would be sufficient.”
“Madam, I grieve in aught to displease your Highness,” is the reply;
“but I act under strict command, as the king’s officer. The presence of
armed troops near Toledo gives some alarm----”
“Armed troops!” interrupts Claire, arresting Blanche’s progress with her
hand; “and who commands them?”
The governor hesitated. Claire’s eyes, a pair of brilliant orbs with
glancing Gallic fire, were turned full upon him.
“Oh, tell me, is it the Grand Master of Santiago?” cries Blanche,
thinking that Don Fadique might be near. “You are not bidden to imprison
our souls.”
“Madam,” answers the young governor, bowing to the ground, “I dare not
refuse the command of the Queen of Castile. The armed bands I speak of
are the skirmishers of Don Enrique de Trastamare, who is advancing from
the north on the city of Toledo. It is said that some French mercenaries
are with him.”
“Oh! thank the blessed Virgin for that,” ejaculates poor Blanche,
clasping her hands and uttering a silent prayer. “They have thought of
me at last. Oh, the dear French; it seems to me I could embrace the
roughest of the soldiers! Oh, that I were with them, and had never left
that pleasant land! Are they far off? Can I see them pass? Is there no
tower or battlement from which I could wave a greeting to them? Oh,
say----?”
“Madam,” answers the governor, gravely--Claire finds him extremely
sympathetic, with his dark moustache and pointed beard, small
aristocratic head, and dark black eyes, capable of saying so many
things--“I have already overstepped my duty. Your Grace must be
merciful, and press me no further. Believe me, madam, did it depend on
me, not only this wish of yours, but all others, would be met even
before expressed. I, too, come of French blood. My mother was from
Bayonne.”
“Your name?” asks Blanche. “The king is happy in possessing so loyal an
officer.”
“Alvarez de Varga,” is the reply. “As a boy, I was reared at Seville, as
one of the pages of the queen.”
“What queen?” asks Claire, hastily. “Not----”
“No, madam; my gracious mistress was Mary of Portugal. I was chosen
among many as the companion of Don Pedro.”
“Oh! the Saints protect me! then you love him?” exclaims Blanche,
shrinking back against the wall.
“Not more than is set down in my duty, madam,” is his quick reply. “In
my hands you are as safe as in the palace of Narbonne. Rather would I
sever limb from limb, than that harm should come to your Highness under
my charge.”
“Thank heaven!” was all that Blanche could murmur, for her lips had
turned bloodless from terror.
“Tell me, Don Alvarez,” asks Claire, who never let a propitious occasion
slip, “did you know Don Fadique, the Grand Master, at the Court?”
“Right well; he is my master. We were playmates together, until the
death of his mother scattered the Infantes far and wide. Don Fadique,”
he adds, reading the breathless interest expressed in both the fair
ladies’ eyes, now riveted upon him, “is of a temper to attach all who
approach him. Even the queen, with so many causes of displeasure against
the children of Doña Eleanor de Guzman, who led away the fancy of her
consort, always cherished him.”
“Tell me,” says Claire, in her eagerness placing her hand upon his arm,
“does Don Fadique ride with his brother, Don Enrique, against the king?
Will he join in the siege of Toledo?”
“Noble _demoiselle_, whom I account French from her accent,” answers Don
Alvarez, again bowing low, a great admiration breaking into his face as
his eyes wander over Claire’s tall and supple form, “your zeal for your
royal mistress touches me to the soul. But, by my faith, I do not know
where the Grand Master is; but if I did, it is not my place to tell.”
“Oh, say not so, Sir Governor,” answers Claire, “you are our only
friend. We are of all ladies the most dejected. Do not treat us
prisoners who as have done ill, but as innocent sufferers consigned to
your care.”
“Such is my conviction, fair lady,” is Don Alvarez’s answer, “but
prisoners you are. In all that I can, count on me as your slave. Will it
please your Grace"--addressing Blanche--“to pass up to the second
storey, and view the apartments which have been prepared for you?”
With a deep sigh, Blanche followed him. Her arms fell to her side. To be
so near rescue, yet bound within these walls!
As to Claire, the affairs of state did not affect her at all. She was
fully occupied in considering what advantage she could take of the
evident admiration of the governor.
Discreet as he meant to be, he could not control his eyes; one look had
betrayed him to the astute pupil of the nuns, whose zeal for Blanche
wanted no stimulating.
“I will make the governor love me, and free the queen,” was her thought,
and as, step by step, she followed Blanche up the stairs, passing by
narrow lancet windows that let in the light, the whole project
simplified itself so marvellously in her brain that already they were
careering forth upon the plains on two fleet Spanish barbs, accompanied
by Don Alvarez, to the outposts of Don Enrique de Trastamare.
[Illustration: Patio de los Leones, the Court of the Lions,
Alhambra.]