Don Enrique Welcomes Queen Blanche to Toledo
Hours pass, struck out from the Giralda tower in many-toned bells, each
bell with its own name and recognised by its tone. Figures had glided in
and out, dwarfed to pigmies by the vast size. Groups had formed at
distant shrines, to vanish as they came. Veiled women had knelt on the
marble pavement, and a crowd had gathered round a preacher in a far-off
aisle.
At length, when hope seemed dead, the shrill blast of trumpets and the
clatter of horses’ feet came to the ears of the ever-watchful Claire,
from the direction of the Puerta de los Leones, dull at first, and low,
but marvellously distinct.
Then steadily advancing footsteps are heard approaching, the heavy tread
as of a company of armed men whose mailed feet fall heavy on the marble
pavement.
With beating hearts Blanche and Claire start to their feet to await
their doom.
The glare of many torches is thrown forward, calling up fantastic
shapes; an armed figure emerges, clearly defined against the light, a
long Castilian sword at his side, and a mailed hand is stretched
forward.
“Welcome to Toledo, madam,” says the voice of Enrique de Trastamare.
“Never could we have esteemed ourselves more happy in the fortune of war
than by your presence.”
As he speaks Blanche throws herself at his feet; her veil falls back.
She weeps, but her tears do not mar the fresh beauty of her face.
“Save me, my lord!” she cries. “Save me, for the love of God.”
She clasps her hands, as if addressing a deity. Her sobs drown her
voice, which still murmurs, “Save me! Save me!”
Enrique’s eyes fill with tears. He stoops and raises her, imprinting on
her cheek a royal kiss of welcome.
“You will not betray me to Don Pedro?” she whispers, seizing his mailed
hand.
“Betray you!” he answers, greatly moved. “Rather die! If I am a crowned
king, I am no less a belted knight. There is no right of chivalry more
precious than the succour of distress, especially that of a royal lady
allied to us by marriage. Our entrance into the city of Toledo was by
surprise; there are here no noble ladies to form your court at the
Alcazar; but such rough welcome as a soldier can afford is yours, fair
queen. I pray you to honour our quarters with your presence, where I
have already ordered such preparations to be made as are possible.”
Something in the voice and aspect of Enrique so powerfully reminded
Blanche of Fadique, that she remained utterly speechless, to the great
distress of Claire, who whispered into her ear, “For the sake of the
Virgin, who has sent him, thank him as he deserves.”
Enrique, quickly penetrating the sense of the words, saluting her
graciously, replied:
“I desire no thanks from the queen. If I did, I much mistake me if the
noble _demoiselle_ with whom I speak could not as fittingly reply as her
mistress.”
At this compliment, spoken with all the charm of Spanish gallantry,
Claire blushes deeply, and holds down her head.
“Pardon me, my lord,” and Blanche stops suddenly as Enrique draws her
gently forward in the direction of the portal, “if I ask of the welfare
of your brother, the Grand Master?”
Her voice trembled as she named him, and her face grew ashy white.
Instead of answering her, Enrique paused abruptly and laid his
disengaged hand on her shoulder, as if to support her. His silence, and
the care with which he bore her up alarmed her. Slowly she turned her
eyes upon his face, clouded by grief, and a faint cry escaped her.
“Is he dead?” she asked, in a voice almost inaudible.
“He is,” was the answer.
“By whose hand did he fall?”
“By that of my brother, Don Pedro. He called him to the Alcazar, and
smote him in the Hall of the Ambassadors at Seville.”
Exhausted by the long ride from Talavera, the vigil in the cathedral,
and the agitation of meeting with Don Enrique, this cruel blow was too
much. Ere he had spoken Blanche fell into a swoon so death-like that as
Claire knelt before her under the glare of the torches, she asked
herself if life would ever return?
Great was the compassion of Don Enrique as he looked down on her fair
young face.
“Let the nearest leech be summoned instantly,” he commands, turning to
an attendant. “Meanwhile, ask the good fathers if they have no strong
waters to sprinkle on the queen, or no relics at hand which, by their
virtue, will bring the dead to life. Even I, a soldier, have heard in
camp of the virtue of Santa Leocadia, whose bones lie in the Sacristy.
Let every means be tried. Madam,” turning to Claire, vainly trying by
every art to revive her mistress, “my royal sister is happy indeed to
possess such a friend; I will myself remain and assist you.”
The strong waters brought by the priests effected no immediate cure. No
relics were forthcoming. It was not deemed meet that Santa Leocadia
should be removed from her consecrated shrine at the command of a
newly-made king, not sure of
[Illustration: A WINDOW IN THE ALHAMBRA.]
his title. For, be it noted, the appearance of the Pretender, Enrique de
Trastamare, in the cathedral, and his determination to carry away the
Lady Blanche was most unwelcome to the chapter, who were thus deprived
of their sanctuary dues, the actually reigning sovereign alone having
the privilege of recompensing them.
At length a leech arrives in the person of an aged Jew well-known in her
city at the beginning and end of life. Quickly he opens a vein, and as,
drop by drop, the blood flows over the delicate skin, her eyes open, and
again she breathes.
No sooner has consciousness returned to the queen than it is Claire’s
turn to give way. Tottering backwards she seems about to fall. But the
brave girl, ever faithful to her charge, forces herself to overcome the
passing weakness and tend her mistress, on whose pale cheeks a faint
tinge of colour has stolen.
“Dear Blanche, hear me!” cries Claire, passionately seizing her hand and
carrying the cold fingers to her lips. “On my knees I conjure you to
live, for yourself, for me! For France, our pleasant land, where we
shall return. Rouse yourself, Blanche. Sit up,” and she essays to raise
her in her arms, while Enrique, with looks of the tenderest pity,
assists her.
At length, more dead than alive, she is placed on a litter bearing the
device of “the Castle” (the same as was used by the pious Queen
Berengaria when she came to Mass), and is carried from the cathedral up
the hill to the square of the Zocodover, on her way to the Alcazar.