Don Enrique and Albuquerque in Council
The scene changes to the Arab court of the Alcazar, where, under lines
of granite columns, knights and courtiers, heralds and pages, pass in
and out. Nothing speaks of a city entered by surprise, and held on
chance.
To look at the radiant scene, on which a fierce sun shoots down, no one
would imagine that, but a few weeks since, Don Enrique was wandering
over Spain, an outcast and a rebel.
Presently a burly, thick-set noble appears, wearing a dark velvet
_manto_, high fur-edged cap, and Cordoba boots, provided with spurs
which clank as he moves. His presence instantly impresses silence on
those around; for Don Jaime Alvarez is as rough in his manners as are
his native Asturian mountains; not a man to be trifled with at home or
abroad. He at least clearly estimates the dangers of the present
position, and casts a grim scowl on the frivolous idlers loitering
about.
As he leans over the balustrade, halfway up the sculptured marble stair,
his eye wanders round as if in search of some one, and again he frowns
as he notes the careless bearing of the sentinels who guard the
entrance, and the peals of laughter which break from time to time from
the undercurrent of talk below.
But he has not long to wait. His satisfied glance shows it as a dark
figure emerges from the crowd and he is joined by Albuquerque, much
changed since his last interview with Don Pedro in the cloisters of the
church of San Juan at Valladolid. The great minister, disgusted by the
ingratitude of his master and the insults of Maria de Padilla, has
changed sides, and is now attached to the varying fortunes of Don
Enrique. He is thinner, and slightly bent, and his once commanding eyes
are dimmer and sadder.
As he approaches Don Jaime, an audible sigh passes his lips. Now,
instead of at once settling the affairs of state with the unruly Don
Pedro, who bears more respect to him than to any one else, he must
consult with a colleague who naturally regards him with suspicion as a
renegade, who from a bitter enemy has become a doubtful friend.
“Shall we sit apart in the gallery?” Albuquerque asks, after ceremonious
greetings have been exchanged between the rival counsellors, as they
mount the steps together to the upper gallery, supported by slender
pillars rising from a carved balustrade of singular richness in scroll
work, stars, and arabesques; “or shall we enter the apartments?”
“The heat is great,” is the reply, “let us remain here.”
“Have you informed Don Enrique of the news?” anxiously asks Albuquerque,
eyeing doubtfully the set face of the man before him. “I myself have not
seen him this morning.”
“If you mean his Grace the king, I have not either,” answers Don Jaime
drily, his naturally ill-favoured countenance darkening into a most
unpleasant expression.
“But he must instantly know what has happened,” returns Albuquerque.
“His Grace, as I understand,” replies Don Jaime, “is somewhat
indisposed, and has not yet risen.”
“Nevertheless, let us go to him instantly,” urges Albuquerque, “the
greatest results depend on what has occurred.”
“I scarcely view the matter in that light,” answers the other coldly.
“We conquer or we fall by the fortune of war. It is not a struggle in
which a woman more or less----”
“A woman!” breaks in Albuquerque; “but this is a queen, who carries in
her hand France and Navarre. She is here, in sanctuary within the
cathedral. The importance of her presence cannot be underrated.”
“It is natural that _you_ should think so,” retorts Don Jaime, with a
sneer. “You brought her into Spain to establish alliances for Don Pedro.
Now these have failed, you would use her on the other side.”
“But, my lord, while we are here bandying unseemly words,” replies
Albuquerque, unmoved by the covert insult implied, “time flies. Let us
at once crave an audience of Don Enrique, and expose to him our views.”
“His Highness King Enrique, you mean, I presume,” replies Don Jaime,
greatly nettled. “This is the second time I have corrected you, my lord
minister. _You_, at least, should not question the title which your
abandonment of his brother’s cause so greatly facilitated. This, and the
excommunication of the Pope of Rome which legalised it.”
But Albuquerque was not to be drawn into further discussion on so
dangerous a subject. He simply bowed and made way for the Asturian noble
to pass first under the carved portal which led into the royal rooms.
* * * * *
In a small but lofty chamber, wainscotted with wrought walnut wood and
lighted by one of those high casements which run along the front of the
Alcazar and give so much dignity to the noble façade, sits Enrique el
Caballero.
Quite young, but older than Don Pedro, this son of the unhappy Eleonora
de Guzman has already braved death again and again with dauntless
valour. In person he is tall and fair like his brothers. The same
well-cut features, and chestnut hair lying in crisp, close curls under a
velvet cap, thrown back on a broad, clear brow, and a skin so delicate
that the choice lace collar worn at his neck is not more white.
It is not for nothing that Enrique is named El Caballero. A suave
gentleness, almost feminine, is the characteristic of his face. Frank,
firm, and courteous, he charms all who approach him; but when offended,
like a true Spaniard, he can be both unforgiving and vindictive. A
certain mobile expression about his mouth tells of strong passions
ill-repressed, but the gracious smile so readily called up is as a mask
to his feelings. Altogether, a man capable of the tenderest benevolence
and of the bitterest hate.
Of all the children of Eleonora de Guzman, Enrique is the cleverest and
the best. Often wandering alone in the mountains, and only saved from
starvation by the shepherds of the grassy Biscayan valleys--fighting
with the freebooters who lurk on the frontiers, escaping into Navarre,
where he vainly pleads for help, or despatching unavailing offers to the
French king of firm alliance and support if he places him on the
throne--Enrique has ever maintained himself orthodox to the Church, and
as such is openly favoured by the Pope.
Thus, little by little, he has collected a band of followers about him;
and now, confident of help from France, and strengthened in his claims
by the report of Don Pedro’s death, he has entered Toledo.
As he sits at a table covered with papers, a sheet of
heavily-embroidered drapery at his back, a more gallant young prince
would be hard to find, as, doffing for a moment his jewelled cap, he
signs to Albuquerque and Don Jaime to be seated.
“To what good fortune,” he asks, “am I indebted for this early visit?”
“My lord,” replies Albuquerque, as he places himself beside the table,
“I am already late in imparting the important intelligence. The Lady
Blanche of Bourbon has escaped, and is now within the cathedral. Your
brother, Don Pedro, is restored to health, and is advancing on this
city.”
In a moment the smiling face of the young prince changes to an
expression of gravest thought.
“By the bones of Santiago, this is a wondrous change!” he exclaims. “My
brother, though still civilly deceased, rises from a bed of death to
fight me, and the lady comes to aid me. Is she alone?”
“As far as we know,” is the reply, “one female attendant only is with
her. The Lady Blanche is invaluable as a hostage.”
“In what sense?”
“Your Highness may at once dictate peace to Don Pedro by giving her up.”
“Never!” cries Don Enrique. “Even to speak of it is a crime. My lord,”
rising and turning sharply on Albuquerque, “you forget whom you now
serve. The perfidious policy of my brother never shall be mine.”
“I do not advocate perfidy,” is the dignified reply of the unmoved
statesman, “but it is my duty to point out your Grace’s present
advantage.”
“Away with such proposals!” exclaims Enrique, his cheeks reddening under
the waves of chestnut hair. “By the Queen of Heaven! I hold you a poor
counsellor to advocate such crooked means. As a sister I greet her and
will protect her. Her youth and hapless fate touch me deeply. Poor
Fadique! how well he loved her! It cost him his life.”
After this brief passage of arms between the new king and his former
enemy, Enrique reseats himself, his face still aglow with emotion, and
signs to Albuquerque, who has also risen, to do the same. It is the
minister who speaks first, with the imperturbable composure of a man who
cares no more for the chances of life than for the throw of dice upon a
board.
“Your Grace is sure of the support of the Great Companies, if you can
hold Toledo until they arrive.”
“_If_,” quickly rejoins Don Enrique. “_If_, where is the doubt? Look out
beyond,” and he points to the opposite hills over the dark gorge through
which the Tagus flows; “are not those our tents glistening in the light?
Are not those our standards flying in the wind? The lances of our
gallant squadrons of horse catching the sun? Below our body of archers,
whose special charge it is to guard our person? Does all Spain show a
company of men more gallant? Every one of them would die
[Illustration: A VIEW OF GRANADA.]
rather than harm come to me! Listen to the trumpet-call ringing on the
heights! Hark! it is answered from the garrison within the city. Are
these not more than enough to keep possession of what we have?”
A long silence follows.
“God forbid, your Grace,” Albuquerque replies, while the triumphant
glances of Don Jaime seem to shame the coldness of his manner, “that I
say aught to arrest the natural ardour of so chivalrous a prince. But
there are many dangers which make me venture to suggest a peace. Your
Highness entered Toledo by surprise; a strong party, especially among
the Jews within the city, favours your brother. Your army is made up of
many ill-assorted elements. The Castilian hates the Aragonese; the men
of Portugal are jeered at for their coarseness by such French
mercenaries as have joined your standard. Toledo is a large and
straggling city, ill-calculated to resist a siege without a much larger
garrison than you possess. And as to his Grace, my late master, who
knows but that his sickness is but a feint to put you off your guard?
True that the Lady Blanche is here, and that both France and Navarre may
send reinforcements, as soon as time allows, but they are not here.
Besides, our funds run low. The devil take the Hebrews in this city! The
interest they demand is so exorbitant I know not where to find money to
pay the troops, who are already clamouring for pay.”
“The chance of war, the chance of war!” cries Don Enrique, chafing under
these prudent considerations. “Fortune favours the bold. Had I reasoned
thus on the rugged slopes of the Asturias, I should not be sitting now
within these walls. What say you, Don Jaime, ever so faithful to me in
all changes?”
“I say that your Grace is born to reign.”
“Yes,” is the reply, “there is something within me that tells me so. No
matter what happens, my star will prevail. The throne, the throne,
nothing but the throne!” As he speaks an almost glorified look shines on
his face, in which all the charm of the expression is brought out by a
radiant smile, as he gazes over the expanse of city and plain to the
snow-tipped range of Guadarrama, dim in the distance.
“Does he see visions, this boy?” thought Albuquerque, gravely observing
him and but little impressed by this outburst of youthful confidence.
“Pardon me, my lord, if I recall you to the present time. You will
surely at once visit the Lady Blanche, and free her from the discomforts
of the cathedral; the worthy chapter will be at a loss how to entertain
so delicate a princess.”
“Yes, yes, I will at once proceed to the cathedral to offer her such
hospitality as a soldier can command. Call the _jefe_ of my household,
and cause the state apartments to be prepared as are fitting for her,
and such attendants as have escaped with her.”
“And what is far more important,” adds Albuquerque, “I will send off
instant despatches to the most Christian king, informing him of the
presence of his kinswoman, and urge on him the need of quick support.”
“May the Christian king not chance to remember that it was _you_,
Albuquerque, who brought her into Spain? The sight of your name may
raise suspicion. But no matter,” observing the frown which rises on his
face at the ill-timed jest. “By my faith! I would not be in the shoes of
the Governor of Talavera, who has favoured the queen’s escape; for
favour her he must, else she never would have passed the gates of that
invincible fortress. Pedro will invent new tortures to punish him; what
say you, Albuquerque?” and more than a touch of irony betrays itself in
Don Enrique’s voice as he recalls the sufferings the policy of
Albuquerque have entailed on him. “Your kinswoman, Maria, too, will have
a new grudge against me, and work some diabolical charm. Methinks I see
myself in effigy, burning upon a blazing pile, my life-blood ebbing as,
drop by drop, the wax falls into the flame! Ha! ha! If it were only with
witches and warlocks I had to do! But God is with the just! and the Holy
Father’s blessing is potent.”
No answering look of mirth responded to his words; a sad expression was
on the fallen minister’s brow as he gravely saluted and quitted the
chamber, leaving Enrique and Don Jaime to arrange the preparations for
his immediate visit to the cathedral.