Don Pedro and Maria de Padilla
The inner _patio_, on the left hand, as you enter the Alcazar, where
trees of magnolia and pomegranate wave together among hedges of red
roses, has always been called the _Patio de Maria Padilla_.
It is known that her royal lover raised rooms on the flat, Moorish roof,
and decorated them magnificently for her use.
Charles V. took his chapel from them, and his comfortable bed-rooms
where he could at least, with convenient surroundings, encounter his
formidable attacks of gout.
Maria’s tiring-room, with its long range of _miradores_ (windows),
immediately over Don Pedro’s gorgeous portal, is not only a capital post
of observation, but a wonder to behold. The walls, a snowy mass of
lace-work cut in stone, are relieved by encrusted tiles of a deep and
ruddy colour. Beneath the golden cupola of fretted stalactites, a
perfumed fountain sheds clouds of spray, and banks of flowers and myrtle
scent the air.
On each of the four sides are recesses for divans, on which lie piled up
cushions wrought in the looms of Granada, the walls covered with Eastern
stuffs, stiff with gold and tissue, Gothic characters wrought into
borders and tessellated edgings, each recess supported by pillars, round
which twist serpents of gold and enamel, with eyes of enormous emeralds
giving a life-like glare. Behind screens of golden trellis, woven with
the brilliant blossoms of fresh flowers, are the heavy draperies which
shroud the doorways, bearing the royal monogram and _nodo_, and in one
corner a hidden entrance leading into the apartments of Don Pedro. But
one step of her light feet, and Maria is in the presence of the king!
So lived for years this terrible beauty--a fan her sceptre, and love’s
seat her throne!
Some are born queens; others achieve greatness. There are peasant
princesses and baseborn empresses; sultanas of the buskin, and _kadines_
of the lute; modest violets, born in the purple, and imperial beauties
like the rose, unapproachable and supreme; but if ever a woman was
created to reign, it was this haughty and cynical tyrant who, under the
most enticing form, concealed a will of steel, remorseless, fearless,
merciless, and cold.
Maria has been called a witch, and her power over Don Pedro attributed
to magic, but she dealt in no charms save those that nature had bestowed
on her, and an intelligence far above her age.
Now she sits desolate, the pillared _miradores_ are closed, the heavy
curtains drawn. Not that it is night, for the summer sun blazes over the
city, and such as are abroad in the streets seek the narrow Moorish
alleys and the shadow of deep _patio_ gates to breathe.
But the lady of love is sorrowful. A heavy presentiment of evil is in
her soul. She has long known through her spies, that Albuquerque is
engaged in a conspiracy against her. What it exactly is she has been
long in finding out. Like Damocles’ sword it hung over her head, and now
she knows it! And a mad fury possesses her which she no longer cares to
control.
Not only has she overwhelmed Albuquerque with accusations, but she has
branded him as a traitor and renegade against the king.
Up to this time outward observances of courtesy have been observed
between them, especially in the presence of Don Pedro, but now words of
direct menace have passed, received on the part of Albuquerque in
dignified silence, as the paltry onslaught of an enemy he disdains.
It is war to the knife between the cool-headed minister and a passionate
woman, blinded by a sense of wrong to herself and the children she has
borne the king. Many weeks have passed since she has seen Don Pedro, who
left her in displeasure anent the burning question of his marriage. He
was going to hunt, he told her, in the mountains of Segovia, in obvious
subterfuge, for he had not been there at all, nor can she learn for
certain whether he is at Burgos or Valladolid, nor when he will return.
And this treatment from a lover, whom she has hitherto swayed with
absolute power!
As the name of Pedro rises to her lips, she raises herself and sits
upright.
“He dared to talk to me of marriage,” she cries, clenching her hands
until the henna-tipped fingers mark the palm. “Alliance with France!
Before, it was I who was to wear the crown; I, whose beauty he said was
to work miracles upon the people; I, whose craft was to sway his
councils; I, Maria de Padilla, to crush out rebellion, and now he would
bring in a stranger to put me to open shame--me and the son I have borne
him! Oh, Pedro! Pedro! Was it for this you lured me to you? No, no! This
wrong does not come from you, but from that crafty knave, Albuquerque,
who has been bribed to ruin me!”
As she spoke, all her tears seemed in an instant to dry up. Her face
grew dark, as she put back the long black hair that veiled her cheeks,
and gathered herself together where she lay.
“If it is a duel between us two, I accept it. One must fall. It shall
not be Maria de Padilla. To dare to bring a wife to Pedro. A wife! ha!
ha! Blanche of Bourbon! She shall never reign in Castile! I will prevent
it! Alliance, indeed, and marriage! I will light up such a war that they
shall curse the day they named her. What? Come into Spain to rob me of
my Pedro? Never! No, not if I call Beelzebub himself to help me!”
As she sits there, her widely opened eyes fixed on the shadowed
splendour of the walls, the gold, and the panels, the waving filagree
work, and the arches, she looks like a beautiful demon.
Then a flood of tender recollections comes to her. She thinks of the
first days when she came a young girl to her kinsman’s house in Seville,
how Albuquerque threw her in the king’s path as a humble flower he was
invited to pick up. The glory of his love, the triumph of her power,
almost a queen--more than a sultana--the crown within her grasp--and
now, fallen so low that he has left her without a word. Yes! He has
sacrificed her to his ambition; what more has she to hope? By this act
Albuquerque’s ascendancy is proclaimed. This royal marriage is a proof
of it. Pedro has many enemies--Aragon, Navarre, France, brothers and
ambitious nobles. Slowly the truth comes to her, and again she flings
herself back in an agony of despair. Again the fountain of her tears is
poured out. “Pedro! oh, Pedro!” is all she can utter.
As the king’s name passes her lips, a mailed hand puts back the arras
which hangs before the door, and he himself stands before her, the dark
steel helmet on his head, and the loose auburn locks worn long making
his naturally pallid face look whiter. Save for his breastplate, he is
in complete armour, travel-stained and mud-besplashed as one who had
ridden long and furiously. Nor does his countenance denote a mind at
ease. Every feature in his face betrays an anxiety and care seldom seen
there. Instead of that upright, masterful bearing which strikes fear
into his enemies, his manner of entering is hurried and agitated.
“You called me, Maria,” he says tenderly, gathering her prostrate form
into his arms, “and I am here.”
But ere the words have passed his lips, Maria has sprung to her feet.
“What, my lord!” she cries, with a mocking laugh, “so soon from
Valladolid? Where is the Lady Blanche? Have you tired of her already? Is
Albuquerque with you, listening behind the arras? If _he_ is a traitor
to me, _you_ are a greater.”
Then her mood changes, and tearing herself away from his outstretched
arms she flings herself back upon the divan. “Oh, you are cruel, cruel!”
she sobs. “For years you have enjoyed the treasure of my love--all I
could give you. Who swore to make me his queen before the Church? to
name my child his successor? And now you have wedded, stealthily,
secretly, treacherously, and Albuquerque has helped you! Oh, Pedro, you
have broken my heart! Go to your white-faced princess. She will deceive
you, as you have me. Let me go!” she shrieks, as the king endeavours to
draw her closer to him, and the sound of her voice echoes in the painted
vestibules as she struggles to free herself. “Touch me not. Not with a
finger. You shall not stay me; I will die as proudly as I have lived in
this palace where I have triumphed. Here, on this pavement our feet have
pressed so long together; within these halls where you have so often
dallied with me!”
Then, by a sudden movement flinging back the curtains, she rushes
forward into the open gallery of the _mirador_, but in an instant the
strong arms of Pedro are round her.
All that tenderness could devise he essays to calm her. Slowly and sadly
she yields to his touch, and listens to his entreaties for forgiveness.
No one could have recognised the cruel Pedro in this impassioned youth.
Truly it might be said she had bewitched him!
“Maria,” he whispers, covering her with kisses, as she lies faint and
exhausted in his arms, “believe me, if I am married, it is for your
good.”
“‘_My good_,’ false one? What good can come to me by losing you?”
“By making you greater than the queen!” answers, Pedro, looking down
with glowing eyes upon the lines of her exquisite figure, and that royal
contour of neck and brow that marks her supreme among women.
“But I _am_ queen,” she answers, looking up at him, as the colour
returns slowly to her cheeks. “YOUR queen. There is no other. Why did
you listen to Albuquerque and put that woman between us?”
“Ah! sweet love, why?” sighs the love-sick Pedro, his whole soul melting
as he gazes at the enchantress.
Who is like her? Who? By heaven, this black-browed Andalusian would put
the pale daughters of the north to shame, were she but a beggar!
“Yes, Maria, I hate Blanche of Bourbon as much as you! She shrank from
me with loathing. Not a smile, not a word--all were for Fadique, the
treacherous boy. _Por Dios!_ he shall be stripped of his honours, and
your brother Garcia shall take his place as Grand Master of Santiago. By
this time Fadique is on his way to Portugal. I have rooted out the
viper, and scorned the royal _demoiselle_. Mark that, Maria, _scorned
her_, and left her. Your voice called me and I am here. And I am glad of
it. Come what may. Let Du Guesclin and the French avenge her. Kings,
queens, and powers--though the whole world stands before me, I will have
none of her, I have sworn it on the Gospel.” And in a passion of newly
awakened love, he strains Maria to him in a wild embrace.
“But how can I trust you,” she whispers, her eyes meeting his. “You have
deceived me once, you may again.”
“But you are not the only one, Maria. I am also deceived, cajoled. _Por
Dios!_ my vengeance shall fall on more than her. Don Fadique--” He
paused.
“Away with these half-words,” cries Maria, the feeling of power coming
to her again as, eagerly seizing the king’s hands, she draws him to her
and brings her glowing face close to his. “What of Fadique? How could
you trust him?”
“Yes,” answers Pedro slowly. “The Judas! It was Albuquerque who insisted
on sending him as my proxy, ‘devoted to _me_,’ he said. Ha! ha!” and he
burst into a harsh laugh. “He met her at Narbonne, and passed the
nuptial ring on her finger. Let God judge the hand that smites her, for
smitten she shall be for her treason, and that speedily.”
“What?” cried Maria, her dark eyes kindling with light. “Do you really
mean----?”
“I mean what I say,” answers the king, sullenly. “The Queen of Castile
and Leon is not as a trump in a hand of cards to be passed from brother
to brother. It is a foul crime on my throne and person. At Valladolid I
saw it at a glance. So I took horse, and I am here. At least one woman
is true to me, and that is you, Maria.” And again he clasps her to his
breast. “Lie there, sweetheart, it is your home.”
“And Don Fadique?” asks Maria, her face hardening as she remembers how
the handsome Grand Master has always treated her with scant courtesy.
“Is he long to taste the bliss provided for him? Methinks that the sons
of Eleanor de Guzman live but to play tricks upon your Grace.”
“Would that they had but one neck,” roars Don Pedro, “that I could
finish them at a blow! Maria, I know you have a grudge against Fadique;
console yourself. A choice revenge awaits him and the Lady Blanche shall
pay for _all_!”
A gleam of hate passed into his eyes, and was reflected in those of
Maria, who, breathlessly listening, drank in every word.
“Some day, who knows? Life is short. A draught of Xeres wine--a silken
thread--even the too heavy pressure of a scarf. All these kill well
(accidentally of course) and may send the soul of Blanche to heaven! God
rest her soul! Do you say _Amen_, Maria? Ha! ha!”--how hollow and
mocking is his laugh!--“Are you happy now?” he asks, twisting her long
fingers in his own, and gazing at her with his full merciless eyes. “All
your enemies have fallen Maria; I wait but to strike sure.”
“And shall Blanche really die?” again whispers Maria, her eyes
glittering like a snake. “Die by some swift death? Swear it to me,
Pedro.”
He did not speak, but smiling down on her as he held her in one arm,
with his right hand, he unsheathed the jewelled dagger he wore beneath
his girdle, until the steel, catching a ray of sunlight imprisoned in
the dark room, flashes with a dangerous reflex.
“This shall settle all, love,” he answers. “Now let me go to the bath to
refresh me. See how the dust lies on me for I rode hard. I have done
sixty miles without drawing rein, with relays of
[Illustration: CHARLES V.--1519.]
horses, to come to you. Let me go,” as she clings to him as though
terrified to lose him. “We will meet anon in the gardens, and the
Moorish slaves from Granada shall dance to us.”
One more embrace, and he had picked up his plumed helmet and placed it
on his head, and down the narrow steps of the private stair his mailed
feet clanked.
Maria stood erect before the fountain which seemed to sing in the marble
basin to a wild rhythm as the spray fell, and such a murderous look came
upon her face as would have turned to stone all who were in her power.
Then, sounding a golden whistle, her slaves came running in, and with a
gesture she commanded that the curtains before the _mirador_ should be
withdrawn.
Like a conqueror, the setting sun comes blazing in, engulfing all the
gorgeous tints of wall, dome, draperies, and pavement in its rays, while
cythers, flutes, and viols make harmony without--she, moving to her
toilette, as one whose thoughts are far away, while the long locks of
her ebon hair are delicately smoothed with golden combs before a silver
mirror, ere she descends to the garden to join the king.