A New King--Enrique de Trastamare
Again we are at Toledo, on the banks of the dark Tagus, a river full and
strong, flowing for three hundred and seventy-three miles from the
lonely mountains of Biscay to the port of Lisbon.
The wild and melancholy Tagus! A very river of fate, now darkly rushing
beside blackening rocks, now meandering sweetly by the meadows of the
Huerta del Rey, whispering by the Baths of Florinda under King Wamba’s
old palace, or turning the Moorish mills which still supply the city
with corn.
Many and many a tale could old Tagus tell of races come and gone since
the Jews fled to Tarshish when Jerusalem was taken by Nebuchadnezzar,
but black and silent it goes its way under the walls of the stuccoed
palace of the Taller del Moro, where all the guests bidden to a festival
were slain; the Gothic-towered church of San Juan de los Reyes, with its
masses of votive chains hung outside, and the ancient synagogues of La
Blanca and El Transido, trellised with honeycombed carvings on the
walls, the Holy of Holies shrouded by eastern veils. An arch-ancient
river, as one may say, looking into streets so narrow that Roman consuls
and Gothic kings had to pass on foot or in litters.
Hebrews, Romans, Goths, and Moors have possessed Toledo, but of all it
is the Moor who has most left his mark. Moorish is the Puerta del Sol by
which you enter, a magnificent Arab arch blazing in the sun, and Moorish
is the Alcazar which crowns the hill with its long façade of _miradores_
and towers.
Here the new king, Enrique de Trastamare--by his own election--holds his
court, accompanied by that great minister, Albuquerque, who has turned
against his late master, Don Pedro, and the powerful northern noble, Don
Rodrique Alvarez, who devotes his riches and his weapons to his cause.
From the first, Enrique wisely threw in his chance with the northern
powers, and now the repudiation and imprisonment of Queen Blanche has
given a new strength to his alliance.
The ire of the French king is greatly roused by the ill-usage of his
sister-in-law; Navarre is with him to a man, and Aragon friendly.
To many, Enrique has come as a saviour to a much-tormented land. No one
was safe from the attacks of Don Pedro, and his own discontented
subjects appealed to the Pope, who has placed Castile under an
interdict.
If Don Pedro dies, his brother will undoubtedly succeed him. If he
lives, he is strong enough to fight him. As yet but a few of his allies
have joined him, but report says he is speedily to be reinforced by _Les
Grandes Compagnies_ under the Constable Bertrand du Guesclin, so that
the bold step of marching on Toledo was not so foolhardy an enterprise
as it appears.
The adjacent hills are white with his tents, and squadrons of horse are
posted low down on the banks of the Tagus to guard the bridge and the
Moorish mills which supply the city with bread.
His flag--a tower on a red ground--proudly floats over the city, and
men-at-arms, bowmen, soldiers, knights, and that promiscuous rabble
which follows a camp, pass and repass through the narrow streets, where,
side by side with the rich fruits and products of the land are
locksmiths and workers in steel blades as thin and fine as a needle, yet
more fatal than an axe, the heavier scimitars and broadswords in common
use, and hamps and chains and locks; painters who expose gaudy
likenesses of saints and madonnas; moulders of Moorish _azulejo_ tiles,
the deep rich colour lighting up the dark holes which serve for shops;
skilled wood-carvers of roofs and spandrels, crests and medallions;
workers in brass with forge and file; and carpenters with planks of wood
and heaps of shavings--all these different trades piled pell-mell on
each other.
In hot weather an awning is stretched across the _calle_, where a big
tree leans out, serving as a lounge for Asturian porters, ready to bear
any weight, close to a blank wall, with an elaborate doorway sunk into
the soil, and green with mildew, leading to a synagogue up a narrow
alley.
In front a _paseo_, or plaza, is planted with rows of trees, overhanging
the gorge of the Tagus, and rough benches are set, on which two Jews are
seated engaged in earnest talk.
Although under the rule of Don Pedro the Jews are in such favour that it
is said by his enemies he has adopted their faith, they still, from
habit, wear their national dress, a long, loosely-fitting gabardine with
a girdle, long yellow boots lined with fur, and a high, square cap of a
peculiar cut.
Such is the costume of the two men; the elder, Father Isaac, with the
aquiline nose and piercing black eyes of his nation, his thin features
ending in a long beard; the younger, Cornelius, of the same type, but
ruddier and stouter, and with far less distinction in his coarse
physiognomy.
“By the God of Abraham, El Caballero Don Enrique shall rue it!” speaks
this one in a louder tone, seeing that the plaza is utterly deserted for
the street, the hum of which reaches them dimly, broken by the continual
chiming of the bells from the cathedral close by. “His entrance into the
city was a surprise. Without that renegade Ben Hassan’s help, he could
not have kept his unruly troops together--already the Aragonese had
threatened to go back. And now he is safe in the Alcazar, and refuses
to meet the bond. ‘_He will pay when he is at Seville_,’ he says,--very
fine!”
“At Seville he will never be,” answers the elder Jew in a lower tone, a
gleam of hatred lighting up his deep-set eyes, “at least, while Don
Pedro lives. At no better interest can we place our gold than to
maintain him who is the rightful king and the friend of Israel. Ben
Hassan is a traitor, and deserves to die as a scapegoat for his people.”
“You speak well, Father Isaac,” is the rejoinder. “Think you that Don
Pedro will ever forgive our tribe? His spies are everywhere; and he is
sure to know, though _he_ now lies sick at Seville.”
From long habits of caution, to this direct question the old Jew for
awhile did not answer; then, with a cautious glance round to see that no
one lurked among the trees, replied:
“A trusty Hebrew is on the way to Seville, to offer the king the
supplies he may require; also charged with rich presents of jewels, and
a crown of fine gold to Maria de Padilla. Were _she_ queen, Israel would
return to its ancient glory in the land.”
“They say Blanche of Navarre has escaped, and is in sanctuary in the
cathedral. Is this true, Father Isaac?”
“I know not, for certain; but if she expects help from France, by the
body of Moses, son Cornelius, before it comes Enrique will not be here.”
“I understand the will of our nation is to expel him, Father Isaac; but
have they the _power_?”
[Illustration: The Hall of Justice, Alhambra.]
“Gold, my son, gold is the axle on which turns the world. By this the
humble Israelite is often stronger than kings. Our only danger is lest
the destroying angel strike Don Pedro dead. While he lives, the
protector of the Hebrews shall be richly furnished for his enterprise,
and we of the tribe of Levi within this city will spread ducats
broadcast to pave the way. Had it not been for that renegade Hassan
(whom the Almighty consume in Gehenna), our conspiracy were already
ripe.”
“And do you think this great outlay of our hard-won substance needed?”
asks the younger Jew, a hungry look in his eyes, like a dog robbed of
his bone. “Father Isaac, Don Pedro is not sure. May not Samuel Levi have
misreckoned? A man who turns against his own blood and dabbles with
Moorish superstitions is little to be counted on.”
“Impossible,” answers the elder man, his black eye lighting up with the
fire of youth. “By the great Jehovah! let no such miscalculation mar our
action. The oppression of ages on our nation has made us cowards. A
craven race we are. We will--and we will not--if it costs us gold. Now
our very existence in this land of Castile hangs on Don Pedro; Don
Enrique hates us. The French will torture us and spoil us, as do the
hunters for the soft fur that wraps the bosom of the hapless hare. Once
let us have news from Samuel Levi that the king is recovered, and has
marched from Seville upon Toledo, these hands of mine,” and he holds up
his pointed, delicate fingers, “shall open to him a postern.”
“There will be much bloodshed,” answers Cornelius, thoughtfully, “and
our dwellings may be sacked.”
“Bury our treasure, then, son Cornelius, we must bear that. The Hebrews
in Toledo, once masters before the Moors, are still numerous. Our foes
are divided. All is prepared. The bribes are ready. He can raise no
gold. Already the ground is mined under his feet, and then"--and he
stretches forth his hand and points to the vast expanse of river,
mountain, rocky gorge, and undulating plain, the white tents of the
pretender visible through the foliage--“this alien camp shall give place
to the royal standard, and the Hebrew name again be raised high among
the nations. Then, son Cornelius, we shall receive what interest we
choose to ask for our gold.”
“But blood will flow in rivers, my father, before that comes; who knows
if not ours?”
“Speak not of it, my son,” answers the older man, veiling his face with
his hands, “I love neither danger nor poison. If Blanche dies"--but what
he was about to say is drowned in a tumult of voices rising from the
street, and soon a rabble of boys and men fill the _paseo_, while below,
the music of trumpets and fifes thunders through the close alley, as a
gallant body of knights, attended by their esquires, march towards the
old square of the Zocodover (restricted as to size, as is all else in
Toledo), where the lists have been prepared for a passage of arms
between the chief officers of Aragon and Navarre.