Don Pedro--Alcazar--The Queen-Mother--Maria de Padilla
The Hall of the Ambassadors, literally a blaze of iris hues and gold, is
crowned by a lofty dome, and sheeted with a Moorish mosaic of
mother-of-pearl and crystal.
Around range the medallions of the ancient Gothic kings, over four
golden-barred balconies breaking the richness of the wall, dividing
triply-grouped arches, light as dreams, resting on pillars of green and
red porphyry, so tall and slender it seems as if a breath would shatter
them.
From an open portal is disclosed a palace garden flushed with roses, and
bordered by blossoming orange-trees, set in large porcelain pots.
Butterflies flutter round delicate fountains banked up with tropical
plants exquisite in perfume, and long vistas of bowery walks exclude the
sun.
A warm and genial air beats in from without, and permeates around. Nor
is the fairness of the earth less than the brightness of the
sky--intensely blue, not a cloud visible; and although the Alcazar
stands in the midst of a noisy city, the silence and solitude are
complete.
Everything in this apartment is disposed for the king. He is greatly
changed. A mortal illness has seized him, and he has barely escaped with
his life. As he moves feebly along the marble floor, he is supported on
either side by Don Juan de Mañara and Garcia de Padilla, then sinks
exhausted upon a pile of eastern cushions prepared for him on an
_estrado_. Naturally the two favourites, who tend him with anxious care,
hate each other with the deadly bitterness of rivals, ever on the watch
to turn every word and action against each other; especially Garcia de
Padilla, a coarse likeness of his beautiful sister, always on the
lookout for his own interests, and ready to pander to the basest vices
of the king.
It would really seem as if the prayers and litanies offered up for Don
Pedro’s life (especially by his Jewish subjects, whom he greatly
favours) have been efficacious in saving his life.
Pale and feeble as he now appears, the steely hardness of his blue eyes
is even more remarkable than in health, and the harsh intonation of his
voice comes with a strange vigour from one so weak.
As he sinks exhausted on a divan, a waft of music comes from the _patio_
without, a twanging of guitars deftly handled, and the silver tone of
viols, with the clapping of hands of the Nubian slaves who swarm in the
palace; the music ever and anon broken by the soft tones of a lute,
played with infinite skill by a Moorish captive, whose nimble fingers
mark and accentuate the rhythm.
“What do the fools mean?” demands Don Pedro, as burst after burst of
music penetrates into the hall.
“Rejoicing, my lord,” answers Garcia, “at your Highness’s happy
recovery.”
“Recovery--_por Dios!_ and it was time, unless I was to chant the rest
of my life in purgatory. Is it true that, counting on the report of my
death, the bastard Enrique has had himself crowned at Toledo, and struts
at the Alcazar like any peacock? Can it be possible my brain is weak? or
was it a dream in my delirium?”
A silence follows, which neither the supple Garcia nor the politic Don
Juan cares to break. Absolute quiet has been enjoined. Yet it is as much
as their heads are worth not to reply.
“If you do not find your tongues quickly, my friends, the axe shall
silence them for ever. Ho! slave,” and with a loud sound, he strikes
with a handle of iron on a plate of steel.
In an instant the music ceases, and a gigantic Nubian, perfectly
unclothed, appears armed with a marble-hilted javelin.
Something in the sudden apparition of this grotesque figure, as if the
earth had opened to cast him forth, so strikes the fancy of the king
that he laughs aloud.
“Begone, Hassan,” he says, “I did but jest; the necks of my loving
companions are precious. But, _amigos mios_, I counsel you, trifle not
with me. I am patient at no time, and now that my reason is scarcely
settled from the disturbance it has had, I am dangerous to play with.”
“Play with!” replies Don Juan, who cares little for threats of any kind.
“God forbid! Your Grace knows I fear nought. You shall judge of my
faithfulness, for I am here ready to answer all you please to ask.”
“How _here_?” asks Don Pedro, reddening with a sudden flush. “Where else
should you be?”
“Why, with the new king at Toledo,” promptly answers Mañara, nettled at
the mention of the axe. “The new king, who is crowned by right and
authority of the Holy Father, Urban V.; Don Pedro of Castile being
legally and civilly defunct, by reason of the ban of excommunication
pronounced against him, it is the fashion now to cry, ‘Long live _El Rey
Enrique el Caballero_.’ Perhaps your Grace did not know that you were
already dead?”
As he speaks an ashy pallor spreads over the king’s face, and out of his
bloodless lips the words come thickly:
“So, so, at Toledo!” he gasps, clenching his hands in the cushions at
his head. “Crowned? My brain turns. It was not a dream?”
“By my faith, no, an army is encamped outside on the Tagus, a garrison
within. The troops a little mixed in nationality it is true, but the
promise of the support of the great companies under Du Guesclin, to be
sent to restore the Lady Blanche----”
“Restore the Lady Blanche? Why, she is locked up in the castle of
Talavera, out of which no woman ever came alive. It is you, Don Juan,
who play the fool!” exclaims Pedro, raising himself up, and seizing him
savagely by the shoulder. “By the living Christ! your life is in my
hand.”
“I care not,” is the retort, shaking off the king’s hand, who, weaker
than he deems himself, falls back muttering curses. “Your Grace has
questioned me, I tell the truth. Don Enrique holds Toledo, the Lady
Blanche is with him. Here is Don Garcia, ask him, if you doubt me. The
queen, your mother, had no power to march troops against the Conde de
Trastamare while you lay between life and death.”
As he speaks, a sullen fury falls on the king. He sits perfectly
motionless, his head pressed between his hands.
“Call hither the Lady Padilla,” he says, in a voice so veiled it is
scarcely audible.
So quickly did her presence answer the summons it would seem as though
she had been hiding near at hand. Her dark face shone out against the
glitter of the many-hued hall. A long white robe falls to her feet, and
she waits until the king addresses her.
“In my sickness, Maria,” says Don Pedro, in a voice that still sounds
unfamiliar to those around (Maria starts with an alarmed glance and
looks at him), “you tended me night and day. Why were you silent on what
touches me so nearly as the advance of Enrique upon Toledo and the
escape of the queen?”
“Because,” answers Maria, her eyes softening into a glance of ineffable
love, “your life was dearer to me than all else. What did it matter if
the Bastard reigned from the Pyrenees to the Pillars of Hercules if my
Pedro died?”
“There spoke the true woman!” exclaims the king. “Now, by my faith, you
have conquered me, Maria, quite.” Then taking her hand, he draws her
down upon the seat beside him.
“Listen to me, Juan and Garcia,” turning to them, “you know me, I am _El
Rey Justiciar_. In evidence of the love I bear this lady, and to put to
rest once for all any questions which might arise by reason of the many
traitors around me, at my death, I declare as successor to the throne of
Castile, the Infante Alonso, Maria de Padilla’s son. At the earliest
moment our ministers shall ratify the act, and call on my nobles to do
homage to him as my heir. Are you satisfied now, sweet one? This will
seal the bond,” and he draws her face, glowing with triumph, towards his
own, and impresses a kiss on her warm lips.
“And Blanche?” whispers Maria in an undertone, but not so low but that
both Don Juan and her brother hear.
[Illustration: ON THE DARRO.
From an etching by Samuel Colman.]
“Ah, Maria, will you still keep me to my bargain?” answers Don Pedro,
with a sigh.
“Yes,” quickly responds Maria, “I do, especially now that she is at
large.”
“At large? I cannot believe it. But, Maria--Blanche, divorced and
dishonoured, cannot harm you. I shall never set eyes on her again.”
“Yes, sire, but as long as she lives, she will raise up France against
you.”
“And if she dies, do you think they will let me bide?”
“My sister,” puts in Don Garcia, “leave the matter to the judgment of
the king. Urge him no more, I pray you, at a moment he has, by such a
signal act of favour, named your child successor to the throne.”
“Truly, I love not Blanche,” says Don Pedro, “I will speedily take
Toledo, and imprison her where she shall not escape. But _her life_----”
“Yes, _her life_!” cries Maria, rising from the _estrado_. “It is mine,
you promised me. I claim it.”
“Now, _por Dios_, Maria, but you press me sore. Is it that you seek to
be queen yourself?”
“Perhaps,” she answers, carelessly. “What if I do? Have you not told me
a thousand times I was born to wear a crown?”
“This is no time for trifling,” answers Don Pedro, sternly. “I have made
your son a future king. Let that suffice. The blood of Fadique clings to
me still. I saw him in my fever, there, outside, in the _patio_, where
he fell bathed in blood. And now another ghost will haunt me in that
pale-faced _demoiselle_. So nearly had I passed into the silent land
beyond the grave that to my weakened brain shadows came to me as real. I
fain would add no more to that dim company which rise up in the silent
night to curse me.”
As the words pass his lips, a page, fancifully attired as an Eastern
slave, appears between the golden pillars of the hall, and, after
prostrating himself on the ground, raises his arms aloft in Moorish
fashion, and announces: “The queen-mother.”
Hastily advancing, Mary of Portugal stands before her son. On her face
are the signs of deep emotion, almost of terror, as she hastily observes
the impression her presence has produced.
“My son,” she says, in a low voice, “my son,” and as she speaks the
words she stretches out her arms to embrace him. Then raising her head,
her eyes fall upon the figure of Maria de Padilla, erect in the shadow
behind, and in a moment the words she was about to utter die on her
lips, and a tremor passes over her.
“You here!” her face flushing crimson, “you--Jezebel--that come between
my son and me. I might have guessed it. I came to speak of mercy, before
you who live by blood. Of honour--to one who never knew the word. Well
do I know you and the current of your thoughts, and that you would
prompt my son to an act of cruelty that will shake his very throne, and
place him in the certainty of an alliance of vengeance.”
Silent, inscrutable, stands Maria, but Don Pedro interposes: “To what
action do you allude, my mother?” he asks.
“What!” answers the queen, exasperated by his manner. “The intended
murder of Blanche, in order that she may reign.”
“And if so,” comes from Maria, in a deep-toned voice, “Doña Maria, the
Queen, what is that to you?”
“I speak not to you,” is Mary’s answer, her passion waxing hot. “I am
here to address my son. Think you, sire, the Queen of France will hear
unmoved that her sister’s life has been sacrificed to _her_? That the
alliance on which you count, of Aragon and Navarre, will stand when the
hosts of France, led by Du Guesclin, shall scour Castile? Already a new
king has risen in Toledo who rests his title on this royal lady’s name
whom this false woman would lead you to sacrifice. Restore to Blanche
her rights, and the league against you will fall asunder.”
“Madam,” answered Don Pedro, “I am the guardian of the crown I wear.
Meanwhile, I warn you,” and he broke off to give one of those strange
discordant laughs, “that, like my sainted father, your husband, beauty
with me is paramount. She whom nature crowns is queen. Behold her here,”
taking Maria by the hand. “I command you, therefore, Doña Maria, my
mother, in my presence to treat the Lady Padilla with the respect her
many charms command. To me she is the brightest jewel in my crown, and I
will prove it, too, shortly to you and all the world.”
As he paused, the queen’s countenance fell, and her whole attitude
changed. Exposed to the full battery of Maria’s insolent eyes, it was
_she_ who appeared the suppliant, and _Maria_ the queen.
“My son,” she says, speaking in a very different tone to that she used
on entering, “will you not grant me the same power of speech you accord
to the least of your subjects?”
“Have you any more to say, madam?” he asks, turning wearily from her.
“If not, the audience is ended. When I stood in need of help in my fever
and lay between life and death, you feared to enter.”
“Oh, Pedro,” cries the unhappy mother, the tears streaming down her
face, “believe it not. On my knees I entreated that fiend who rules you
to let me pass, and she barred my access by the guards, whom she had the
insolence to command to arrest the mother of their king! It was I, as
self-appointed regent, that have kept the realm together when it was
believed that you were dead! That you find any troops or treasure is due
to _me_.
“Ah! Pedro,” she continues, advancing to where he lay, and seizing one
of his unwilling hands, “let us speak together alone. I would convince
you that in sparing the life of Blanche you insure your own;” and she
turns such an imploring glance at him, that it touches even his hard
heart.
“Will it please you, fair lady, to give place for a short space to the
queen-mother?” says Don Pedro, addressing Maria, whose attitude has
never changed.
“Whatever your Grace commands shall be my duty to obey,” is her answer,
the submission of her words contrasting strangely with the dark scowl
which knits her brow.
“Be it so, sweetheart. I have that to say touching yourself, which will
surprise her. It were best said in your absence.” And rising feebly
upright, he leads her by the hand into the inner _patio_, and lover-like
kisses her hand.
At this moment, Garcia de Padilla, who has remained an unobserved
witness of the interview, rushes forward, and, with effusive courtesy,
offers his arm to the king to assist him to his seat, bows to the
ground, and is lost to view among the pillars.
Then, resuming the conversation with the queen: “You forget, my mother,”
says Don Pedro, as he places her beside him (it is said, he never was
more dangerous than when he assumed a gracious air), “that this
_demoiselle_ of France, who bears my name, has been convicted of incest
with my brother Fadique by a council of bishops appointed for that
purpose, and that, far from being a prisoner, she is at this moment
free, in the city of Toledo, under the chivalric custody of my rival
and successor, Enrique el Caballero. You forget I am superseded,
dishonoured. Ha! ha! Yes! dishonoured by these bastards, whom you had
not the sense to wring the necks of, when they were young.”
“Yes, Pedro, but I am confident all this will be set right. I have
received such assurance during your illness, from Toledo, that I know
you will overcome your brother whenever you take the field. As to
Blanche----”
“Yes, madam,” interrupting her, “but as yet I am too weak to wield a
weapon. I think you can have little to say to me,” he adds coldly, “that
the Lady Padilla could not hear. It is her son I have named my
successor, and the lady declares she is my lawful wife. What if I
proclaim her such to the assembled Cortes?”
“Mother of God!” cries the queen, clasping her hands, a look of absolute
horror on her face, “give me patience! To be so mocked at by my son!
Such madness is impossible!”
“Not a whit! Not a whit!” he exclaims, facing the infuriated queen.
“Now, by the heavens above, Blanche of Bourbon shall die! And speedily
too! My mind is made up.”
Alas! The strain upon the unhappy mother is too great. As the king
utters these words, she staggers backwards, a deadly pallor overspreads
her face, and with a wild cry of “My son! My son!” holding out her arms
in the vain hope of his support, she falls fainting on the floor, and is
borne away by her ladies waiting without in the _Patio de las
Doncellas_.