The Black Prince Defeats Don Enrique and Reinstates Don Pedro.--Don
Enrique Murders Don Pedro.--Death of Don Enrique.
We are in a romantic age of youth and _fanfaronnade_. Our _dramatis
personæ_ are overflowing with the sap of life. Of the three
Plantagenets, the Black Prince is in the prime of life and fame, his two
young brothers in the heyday of valour and love. Don Pedro, little past
thirty, a professed lady killer and seducer, and Enrique de Trastamare,
the ideal Caballero, a few years older. Add to these those who have
vanished from the scene, Blanche of Castile, but fifteen when she was
married, and Maria de Padilla, dying in the flower of her days, there
results a circle of youth, beauty, and romance unparalleled in history.
As for a tournament these ardent spirits prepare for battle. Only Du
Guesclin is wise and old, also Chandos, who endeavours to allay the
universal ferment in men’s blood. But what is their influence against
the spirit of the age?
When Don Enrique finds himself on the 3d of
[Illustration: A VIEW IN SEGOVIA.
From the engraving by D. Roberts after the painting by J. Cousin.]
April, 1367, face to face with the Black Prince, he has but one idea, to
rush on him at once and make an end! Strategy and prudence are cast to
the winds. “Let us fight like true knights and carry the crown upon a
lance!” is his idea.
Envoys arrive from France and entreat him to avoid a general engagement
with the English chivalry, the finest in the world, led by the Prince of
Wales, but he will have none of their advice. He will fight at once, and
even shifts his advantageous position, against the counsel of Du
Guesclin, on the other side of a small river which divides the camps--to
deal his blows nearer.
“Your Grace will be beat,” says Du Guesclin, scanning with
well-practised eye the battle-field.
“I tell you that this very night I shall be either dead or a prisoner.”
“I shall win!” cries the enthusiastic Caballero. “Santiago and Spain are
with me. But as the Prince of Wales is a valiant knight, and my brother
a lying traitor, that he may know the realm is mine, and that I am
fighting in support of my right, I will send him a cartel to tell him
what is my intent.”
* * * * *
“I well perceive,” said the Black Prince, more prudent in his councils,
but as enthusiastic as the rest, when informed of this intention, “that
the bastard Enrique is a valiant prince and shows good courage; so, not
to be behind him in courtesy, I will also address to him a letter in
which I will call on him, according to the laws of honour, to
relinquish the crown which he has unjustly seized.”
Upon which--always following out the idea of a knightly encounter in
which each side sets forth their right by the voice of a herald or
trumpeter--Enrique replies: “To the most puissant Edward, Prince of
Wales, Duke of Aquitaine and Guienne: that King Don Pedro has not, as he
pretends, and as the prince imagines, governed his kingdom well, but as
a tyrant and a traitor, verily giving orders to murder the Lady Blanche,
his lawful wife, and Doña Leonora d’Aragon, his aunt--also his cousins
of the royal blood--and Doña Bianca de Villena for her goods; that also
he killed his three brothers, Don Fadique, Juan, and Pedro, as well as
Martin Gil d’Albuquerque his minister, Don Juan d’Aragon and others; and
that neither did he respect the wives and daughters of divers nobles, or
the rights of the Pope and the Church,--_for which cause and others too
long to be detailed_, and having no _allegiance or followers_ in the
kingdom, his subjects, to deliver themselves from so dangerous a ruler,
have been pleased to name us his successor with universal acclamation.”
But this royal exchange of courtesies did not deter the Black Prince
from fighting desperately. A complete victory was gained at Navarrete.
Enrique lost all his train and equipage, the great Constable Du Guesclin
being the victim as he had foretold, and taken prisoner.
Prostrate on his knees, Don Pedro thanks the Black Prince, who modestly
replies as he raises and embraces him:
“Not to me, but to God, who has given us the victory, give praise.”
This happened on a Saturday. Next day Don Pedro formally requested the
Black Prince to allow him “to put to death all his rebellious soldiers,
so that they might raise no more disturbance in the kingdom against
him.”
“Never, by the blood of Christ!” cried the indignant Plantagenet,
horrified at his bloodthirsty ally; “I did not come into the kingdom of
Spain to act as your Grace’s headsman, but as your defender.” And from
that moment their cordial relations ceased, and the germs of that
coolness and suspicion were sown which so soon led to a formal breach
between them.
“You will find that the King of Castile is not worth the trouble you
have taken to reinstate him,” observed Du Guesclin to the Black Prince,
who, treated him, as his prisoner, with every kind of distinction and
soon after set him at liberty without ransom.
“I begin to think you are right,” was the prince’s answer, deeply moved
at Don Pedro’s cruelty.
Nor did he in this only show the cloven foot. The subsidies he had
promised for the troops were unpaid; all his engagements were broken. As
soon as he found himself once more safe in Seville and reinstated in his
rights, incessant expresses were sent to Burgos, where the prince
lodged, in the ancient monastery of Las Huelgas, outside the gates,
still remaining a most interesting monument of that chivalric time, and
to Valladolid where he moved later--but _no money_.
Nor was the province of Biscay ever ceded to him. In fact the only item
that was fulfilled of the agreement was the marriage of the ardent young
Lancaster with Costanza de Castila.
At length, after the delay of many months, disgusted and disillusioned,
the Black Prince led back his army to Bordeaux, bearing the germs of the
fatal malady of which he died soon after.
Again the scales of fortune turn in this strife between brother and
brother. Deprived of the support of the English, the monstrous cruelties
of Don Pedro again alienate all his subjects, and Don Enrique, supported
by France and Aragon, in company with Du Guesclin, again leads an army
into the field.
“I swear, by the cross of Christ,” cries the romantic Caballero, so apt
a prototype of that fantastic time, “that alive I will never again leave
Castile!” And by a succession of events too complicated to detail, he
does again possess the kingdom, and Don Pedro, defeated and driven at
bay, finds himself blockaded in the castle of Montiel, Don Enrique and
Du Guesclin holding the country round.
* * * * *
The castle of Montiel lies on the side of an escarped and precipitous
rock, amid the rugged flanks of the Sierra Morena, that lofty barrier
which divides Spain from Portugal. It is a fortress of no great size,
but at that time it was surrounded by strong walls, and from its
position deemed impregnable.
Beneath open dark caves, the refuge of hunters and shepherds, emerald
breasted valleys musical with streams, and arrowy peaks known only to
the eagle and the heron; the black defiles of the _Despeñaperros_ break
between where the dead bodies of Moors once carpeted the soil--and
beyond the bare corn tracts of La Mancha open out, and smiling vine
terraces purple with fruit.
(Dear to the modern mind is the name of the Sierra Morena, as Don
Quixote’s country, where you may follow him as a living man between
Montiel and Toledo. The Cueva de Montesino, where he sojourned with
Sancho Panza, the Posada de la Melodia, where he cut the necks of the
wine-skins for Moors, the Venta de las Cardenas, where Dorothea and her
lover were wounded, the scene of his penance in the mountain cleft, and
Sierra Nueva, where he liberated the slaves.)
Below, in the Campo de Montiel, beside the bare shores of a chain of
lakes bordering the course of the river Guadiana, Don Enrique and Du
Guesclin are watching in their tents. _How can they seize the king?_
This question is asked twenty times a day. No one answers; and, if they
seize him, _what will they do with him?_ To this there is no answer
either.
There are no traitors in the castle of Montiel. Mem Rodrigues is with
the king, along with the faithful Emanuel, and the governor, Garcia
Morano, is a true man.
Now it happens that Mem Rodrigues is very friendly with Du Guesclin, in
that in-and-out fashion common between foes who drink out of the same
wine cup to-day and run at each other’s throats to-morrow.
Hearing that he, Du Guesclin, commands a detachment of the troops below,
Rodrigues sends him a message, requesting a private meeting, which Du
Guesclin willingly grants, along with a safe conduct.
Within his tent they meet and exchange mutual compliments. Mem Rodrigues
does not affect to deny the straits in which his master lies, or Du
Guesclin his determination to take him.
Then Mem Rodrigues, in a casual way, observes to the great leader, who
sits in deep thought, leaning his forehead on his hand at a table with
weapons ranged at his touch: “That whatever reward Don Enrique may have
offered him in treasure, titles, or lands, the dukedom of Soria for
instance (an entire province lying under Navarre, almost a kingdom in
itself), my master, Don Pedro, will make good and more, if you will let
him go.”
Encouraged by the silence of Du Guesclin, who has never moved, Mem
Rodrigues continues: “Surely, it will redound more to your honour,
Señor Condestable, to release so great a king, rather than to set up a
pretender.”
As if touched by a scorpion, the burly Breton starts, his rugged
features darken, and a dangerous glitter lights up his deep-set eyes.
“By my troth, Sir Knight,” he answers, clenching his fist and letting it
fall heavily on the table, causing the arquebuse and daggers on it to
rattle ominously, “do you take me, Bertrand Du Guesclin, for a knave or
for a fool, to act such a traitor’s part? Speak to me no more on such a
subject, if you desire to continue my friend.”
So Mem Rodrigues says no more, and returns to the castle discomfited.
Of all this Don Enrique is informed. “I thank you, gallant Du Guesclin,”
is his answer, “for this and all other marks of your regard. Methinks,
all the same, I am better able to reward your service than Pedro,
without a rood of land, now for the second time driven forth by his
people. Further pleasure me now, I pray you, in this matter, by
informing your friend Mem Rodrigues, that you will do all you can to
forward his desire if he will prevail on the king to come to your tent
to arrange means of escape.”
Now the drift of this speech was plain to the Breton leader, neither
wanting in cunning nor foresight. He had sent back Mem Rodrigues with an
angry denial, now he is bidden to call him again, and eat his own words
in a treacherous message. Can he doubt the purpose of Don Enrique?
A look passes between them. Death is in their eyes. Nothing more is
said.
The treason is obvious; Du Guesclin asks time for reflection.
Reflect he did, and decided, and by that act fouled his glorious blazon
with a blot never to be effaced!
* * * * *
Abandoned by all, without winter provisions or friends, those still with
him unable to help him, the unfortunate Don Pedro, upon the strength of
a safe conduct, sworn to by Du Guesclin, determines to capitulate.
It is in the month of March, on the 23d. In those elevated peaks winter
still reigns. Snow lies thick on the mountains, blocking the deep
ravines, and rending giant cliffs.
Far below, in a cold mist, lies the wide-spreading plains of La Mancha.
No ray of sun breaks the veil, as Don Pedro, on horseback, emerges from
the portcullis of the castle, clad in a heavy mantle which entirely
conceals his figure, the hood pressed over his face. As he passes
beneath, his eye catches the figure of an eagle over the arch, and under
it the words “_Torre de Estrella_.” With horror he remembers that in the
letter which Blanche addressed to him before her execution (where she
solemnly calls on him to meet her beyond the grave), it is at the
“_Torre de Estrella_” she foretells that he shall die.
Great as is the shock at that moment, he tries to laugh it off. He
never has cared for prophecies, why now? But something about it strikes
his senses with awe. Words from the dead are certain to come true. This
is distinctly a message. What matter? And the same reckless courage
comes over him as of old. If to die, he will sell his life dearly.
Perhaps it is a dream. Who knows?
So, carefully guiding his steed, he passes down the narrow path,
zigzagging the descent in wide-lying circles. The wind rises and howls
in his face, the crannies of the rocks groan as if haunted by demons,
and a storm of sleet and hail strikes full upon him, driving him back
each step he takes. Hardly can the wiry little horse he bestrides make
way against the blast. But, in one of those rapid changes so common in
the south, before he has reached the plain the fleecy clouds have
lifted, driven back by the raging wind, the sky clears, and a sickly sun
shines out on the surface of the lakes, beside which the tents of the
encampment lie, protected by strong barricades, under groups of low
scrub and tempest-torn oaks.
No guard turns out to receive him, no flourish of trumpets heralds his
approach; the sentinels, enveloped in heavy garments to shield them from
the cold, pass to and fro indifferent beneath the banner of Castile,
floating wildly in the wind, nor do they salute him as he enters the
tent.
After a few words have passed between Don Pedro and Du Guesclin, whose
embarrassment is apparent as he parries his questions as to the plan
formed for his escape, and alarmed at the manner in which he is
received, he moves forward and calls to Mem Rodrigues, who has remained
outside the tent, in a loud voice.
“Let us go!” are his words; “it is time.”
Seizing the bridle of his horse he is about to mount, when he is
intercepted by one of Du Guesclin’s cousins.
“Wait a moment, my lord,” he says; “there is no haste,” and he draws him
again into the tent.
Before he can reply, Don Enrique, who is watching, appears close to Don
Pedro, armed at all points.
At first Don Pedro does not recognise him, not having seen him for many
years, until the same cousin who seized the bridle of his horse,
whispers:
“Sire, take care, your enemy is upon you,” and Enrique, now face to face
with his brother, calls out in a voice which comes to him as a sinister
echo out of long past years:
“Where is that son of a Jew who calls himself King of Castile?”
Upon which, dropping his mantle, Don Pedro, his face convulsed with
passion, shouts out:
“You are a liar, Enrique de Trastamare. It is I who am king, the lawful
son of King Alonso.”
Then, with all the concentrated fury of years of ferocious hate, the
brothers fall upon each other in a death grapple.
[Illustration: Surrender of Granada.
From a Modern Painting by F. Pradilla, in the Palacio del Senado,
Madrid.]
Don Pedro, being the stronger of the two, throws Don Enrique on the
floor. Laying his hand on his dagger, he is about to finish him, when
the powerful form of Du Guesclin is thrust forward. For a moment his
dark scathed face gazes down on the deadly struggle; then with the
words, “_Mi quito in pungo rey freza seriva, mon Señor, ye n’ote et ne
mets pas Roi mars u’ters, mon seigneur_,” he seizes Don Pedro by the leg
and turns him over on the undermost side. Enrique, thus freed from his
grasp, drawing out a long poniard, instantly stabs him in the breast,
after which the whole party fall to and finish him.
* * * * *
Thus was Blanche’s prophecy fulfilled, “That at the _Torre de Estrella_
by a violent death Don Pedro should die and answer for her murder in
another world.” As Don Pedro had left unburied the body of his brother,
Don Fadique, in the court of the Alcazar, so was his own body left
exposed for three days on the earth, bathed in blood, that all might see
he was really dead; also the bodies of Mem Rodrigues and Emanuel, who
had rushed in to aid their master, and were killed in the struggle.
The governor of Montiel at once surrendered, and was pardoned by
Enrique, as was the chancellor Fernando de Castro, over whose tomb was
placed this inscription:--
“_Aqui yace Don Fernando Perez de Castro, toda la fedelidad de España._”
Thus all that remained of this “high and mighty king, Don Pedro,” as
set forth on his portal in Alcazar of Seville, were his three
illegitimate daughters, Costanza and Isabel, married to the brothers of
the Black Prince, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, and Edmund of
Cambridge, Duke of York; Beatrix, the oldest, becoming a nun.
After all, El Caballero died young, reigning but eleven years, and it is
recorded that on his deathbed he heartily repented of his rebellion and
the murder of his brother.
“Be faithful to France,” said he to his son Juan, who succeeded him,
1380; “but above all, draw to your side the followers of my brother
Pedro. They are true _hidalgos_, who were faithful to him on the losing
side.”
Bertrand Du Guesclin, or Claquin, received the price of his baseness in
the Dukedoms of Molinos and Soria, but, as with Judas, the possession of
great riches gave him no pleasure. He afterwards sold them for a small
sum and returned to France, a sorrowing and a dishonoured man; and
Charles the Bad received, I am happy to say, the reward of his treason
in a series of defeats at the hand of Enrique de Trastamare.