Enrique IV. el Impotente
The court is at Segovia, that ancient city perched among the romantic
passes of the Guadarramas, north of Madrid, said to have been founded by
Hercules. The famous Roman bridge, or aqueduct, one of the wonders of
Spain, and borne as the city’s shield, joining into the ancient walls at
a length of 937 feet.
Although they agree in nothing else, Enrique el Quarto, like his father,
loved this quaint Gothic town.
Undutiful and disorderly as a son, he made a bad king. Indolent,
licentious, and ignorant, he despised learning and cultivation of all
kinds, and was by far the worst of the illegitimate Trastamares, on
whom, as has been said, a curse for the murder of Don Pedro really
seemed to rest.
Nothing they undertook answered, and it might be said of them, “their
names were written in water.” Yet, not to be too hard on Enrique, it
must be allowed he so far redeemed himself from the nullity of his
father as to lead his armies bravely in the usual campaigns against
Navarre and Aragon, besides undertaking a ten years’ crusade against
the Moors, authorised by Pope Calixtus III.; in all which, so long as he
was assisted by the friends and advisers of his amiable father, his
incapacity was concealed, but his later campaigns were unfortunate
because fought alone. Nor could his love of pomp and splendid attendance
blind his subjects to the fact that his court was a very sink of
debauchery.
It seems strange, too, that Don Enrique, who, as Prince of the Asturias,
had for years stormed against favouritism, now fell into the same fault
himself. Not with such a master of men as the Condestable de Luna, but
with an obscure and needy adventurer, called Don Beltrano de las Cuevas,
with no merit whatever but his skill in deceiving him.
* * * * *
The court is at Segovia. At this moment Don Beltrano is crossing the
Sala de Ricebimento in the Alcazar, a Gothic Moresque apartment, with
lofty raftered ceiling and cornices of dark oak, the sides splendidly
gilt, setting off rows of royal shields and _bandieros_.
He is a striking-looking man of robust proportions, with a florid face
of that full sensual type so little seen among the thin-featured
Spaniards.
His love of display is apparent by the rich surcoat of satin and brocade
he wears, cut in the latest mode and glittering with jewels, a plumed
hat placed defiantly on one side of his head.
But you must not call him by his vulgar name of Beltrano, drunkard,
dicer, and reveller, but Sua Grandeza el Conde de Ledesma, by favour of
the King, or, more correctly speaking, of the Queen. You must also pay a
certain attention to him, upstart and braggart as he is, because it was
through his agency that the dynasty of Castile came to be merged in that
of Aragon, in the person of Isabel the great Queen, wife of Ferdinand of
Aragon, and by her marriage constituting the union of the future kingdom
of Spain.
As he passes with a step full of importance across the motes of sunshine
striking on the marble pavement from the historic window out of which
the late king, Don Juan, was let fall, as a child, by a lady of the
court, who lost her head for her carelessness, the vulgar showiness of
his dress is in conspicuous contrast to the soberly habited grandees of
the old school.
All the court, who are awaiting the arrival of the king, draw back
respectfully to make way for him. The alguazils and _ballesteros_ salute
him with reverence, and pages doff their plumed caps as he pauses for a
moment under the effigies of the early kings of Castile and Leon ranged
on either side, life size, mounted on mimic horses, armed, like their
masters, in plates of steel.
“_Ese, es el Conde de Ledesma_,” is buzzed about in whispers of
approbation, the great man himself affecting not to notice the stir he
makes, but fixing his eyes on a group near the door, who take no notice
of him. That they are persons of distinction is evident from the badges
they wear and the large attendance of pages and esquires and _jefes_.
As the count passes, he draws himself up and casts on them a
supercilious glance of defiance, at once returned with smiles of scorn
and derision.
“Here comes that wretch,” the tallest of them is saying, no other than
Don Pedro Giron, Grand Master of Calatrava.
“Vile parasite!” exclaims another.
“Hush! hush! my Lord of Benevente,” says a third; “keep silence, I pray
you, until the right moment comes.”
“The unmannerly cur!” mutters the Lord of Benevente, as Ledesma
disappears into the presence chamber. “He never saluted us. Are we, the
greatest _ricoshombres_ of Spain, absolute in our freedom, and with the
right of life and death, to be insulted by such an upstart? If the queen
can spare him [at this there is a general laugh], he will doubtless take
command in the crusade against the Moors, and be packed off with a bevy
of mistresses and mummers to amuse the king. Castile has fallen under
the rule of favourites with a vengeance! The Conde de Luna was a
_hidalgo_, but this fellow is a low impostor.”
“A vile shame!” exclaims another Marqués de Villena, who, with his uncle
Carillo, Archbishop of Toledo, is again to be found conspiring in this
court as in that of “El Enfermo.”
“Presently it will be our turn,” says the Conde de Palencia. “Don
Enrique is unworthy, and the queen--well, I do not wish to use foul
language, but there is only one word to designate _her_. We are all
agreed as to the birth of the Beltraneja, your graces.” The other two
bow, and he continues: “A worn-out voluptuary and eight years of
sterility require faith in a miracle in favour of our noble king which
he does not inspire. She was christened by the public, as soon as she
was born, ‘Beltraneja,’ after her real father. Don Enrique insists on
her succession, to exclude his brother and sister. Why this imposture
has been tolerated so long I cannot understand.”
“Such vice is disgusting; the palace is nothing but a brothel!” exclaims
the fiery Pimentel, Lord of Benevente, ever impatient and outspoken, one
of the most powerful lords in the kingdom, with broad lands in the north
and an ancient castle within the confines of Leon. “Where is our
national honour? The king has forfeited our allegiance. For the sake of
a miserable bastard he keeps his sister, Doña Isabel, shut up in the
fortress here.”
Now the Spaniard is of a silent nature, reserved and proud. His passions
are violent and deep; but once aroused he stops at nothing and is
capable of extraordinary cruelty and revenge. For one in the exalted
position of Pimentel to speak thus of his sovereign, the scandal of his
life must be outrageous.
“These are but words, my lord,” is the stern answer of Juan Pacheco,
Marqués de Villena, the crafty intriguer all through this reign as his
namesake was in that of Enrique el Enfermo, and not a whit behind
Pimentel in ancient descent, dating from the Moors. He was the man who
fought the duel where, _asi cuenta la historia_, he defied three
antagonists, as is still to be seen in marble on his tomb in the Parral
at Segovia. His commanding presence and haughty bearing imposed even on
the impetuous Pimentel. Old in intrigue and conspiracy, he passed by
mere threats as empty sound profiting nothing. “You know your remedy,”
he continues; “all the disaffected are convened to meet at the palace of
my uncle, the Archbishop of Toledo, come to Segovia for that purpose.
Your graces will not fail?”
“We will not fail,” is the answer.
* * * * *
The place appointed for the secret council-chamber was within the
precincts of the Cathedral, in the cloisters, where life-like statues of
prophets and kings quaintly sculptured stand beside the Gothic arches;
Abraham and St. Jaime, and San Fernando holding a ring, and his consort,
Doña Beatrix.
The night was dark, and the muffled figures enveloped in ample mantles
passed unnoticed through the door with the beautiful triptych carved
over it.
In a dark room, lined with a mosaic of wood, with gold pendants on the
roof, and lit up with massive silver candelabra, stands the Archbishop
of Toledo, dismissed from his office of Minister to make way for
Ledesma. This enemy of El Impotente is a man in the prime of life, as
turbulent, fierce, and haughty as any feudal baron, his dark eyes sunk
deeply in his head, bright with the power of intellect, and unerring and
piercing; his ecclesiastical robe hanging loosely about his figure--very
different from the dignified churchman who headed the banquet at which
the young King Enrique sang as a wandering minstrel.
Prominent among the nobles who arrive is the Conde de Santilana, in the
prime of life, with that soldierly bearing so noticeable in Spain among
all who hold military command; Giron, Master of Calatrava, bland and
mild, but withal shrewd and acute, as behoves one in his prominent
position; Pimentel, Lord of Benevente, with strongly cut features on
which many a wrinkle has gathered, not from age, but from the headlong
impetuosity of his character, which has aged him before his time; the
Grand Admiral of Castile, with a weather-beaten face, showing that he
has lived a life of exposure; the Condes de Haro, Palencia, and Alba,
besides prelates and _ricoshombres_, all men of commanding eminence in
the kingdom.
But one of the number is yet wanting, the archconspirator, Villena, who,
although bearing the name of one of the regents, is of quite a different
form. He is in reality the leading spirit of them all, a man tormented
by the love of power, to attain which he is willing to meet, unmoved,
peril, or even death, with the silent constancy of a Spaniard.
No one hates Ledesma more than Villena, who, like the archbishop, was
displaced for his sake; no one has more influence over those assembled
here, not even the warlike archbishop, armed as for heaven and earth.
As Villena enters, the importance of his mission is impressed upon every
movement as he hastens to salute the exalted company, who rise as he
appears, with the utmost expression of formal courtesy, then reseat
themselves as he takes his seat at the council table beside them.
“Lords of Castile and Leon,” he says, in a full, clear voice, as he
rises to speak under the deep shadow of a deep-chiselled altar at his
back, “my words shall be short, but my purpose will be long. Let none
imagine that private vengeance for the affront put on me by the king, as
also on my kinsman, the archbishop, actuates my mind. The existence of
the state is at stake. I have a proposal to make.”
“Speak!” comes from all sides.
“I need not tell you, Grandezas, Prelates, and Ricoshombres, that the
infatuation of the king blinds him even to his personal dishonour. The
only redress lies in two courses, the dismissal and exile of Don
Beltrano, or his own dethronement. Since the birth of the child, not
issued from the blood of the Trastamares, but the ‘Beltraneja,’ the
spurious offspring of Ledesma and the Queen, measures must be taken to
insure the rightful succession to his young brother. In her cradle this
young offspring of adultery was proclaimed Princess of the Asturias and
successor to the throne, and is already affianced to the Duc de Guienne,
son of Louis XI. of France. No time is to be lost.”
“And if Don Enrique will not agree to either of these proposals?” asks
the quick-tongued Lord of Benevente.
“Then,” replies Villena, with an icy smile, drawing himself up to his
full height, “he must be dethroned, and the Infante Alfonso, whom he
keeps under observation along with his sister, Doña Isabel, proclaimed
king in his place.”
Spite of the esteem in which Villena was held, this audacious proposal
staggered the assembly. Many voices were heard in opposition, and
amongst much confusion each illustrious noble spoke his mind.
“Peace, my lords!” cried Villena, his tall figure dominating the rest.
“I speak in my own name and in that of the Archbishop of Toledo; we old
ministers of the throne and councillors of state are agreed. Never was a
nation sunk to so low an ebb. The rule of Don Alvarez de Luna was glory
to it. The proclamation of the Beltraneja as heir has brought matters to
a crisis. It is rumoured among those about him that Don Enrique was so
anxious for the birth of a child, that, knowing his own incapacity, he
has himself connived at this dishonour. Be that as it may, if the king
is incapable of guarding his own honour, we will defend it for him.”
The marquess spoke with passion. Loud acclamations followed his words.
The position was so plain, the risk so degrading to a chivalrous people.
Had this child, whom all knew to be a bastard, not been born, the
insolence of the favourite might have been tolerated, the licentious
life of the Queen Juana of Portugal passed unreproved; but in the
desperate effort to foist his daughter on the throne, Ledesma had, like
a bad player, over-reached himself.
Of the two children of Juan II., by his second queen, the charming
Isabel of Portugal, Don Alfonso and Doña Isabel, both were popular in
Castile.
All the assembled nobles had not the courage to follow Villena in his
bold course, which, if unsuccessful, might bring ruin to them and their
families as rebels to their king. All could not reckon on the favour of
Don Alfonso, if set at liberty and proclaimed Prince of the Asturias, on
which the scheming brain of the marquess counted as the plot. But a
sufficient number joined with him. The ardent spirit of the Lord of
Benevente, that young warrior of the north, was gained before the
archbishop had spoken, who, seeing the hesitation of many, now rose
slowly from his chair.
“I, too,” he said, and as his full voice made itself audible a
religious silence reigned, “as metropolitan of Spain, must raise the
standard of the church against this Ahab, who has soiled the sanctity of
the cloister by imposing a second Jezebel, in the person of his
unfaithful mistress, as Abbess of Santa Maria de las Damas, and
banishing the reverend mother to make room for this harlot. Spite of the
excommunication of the Church, the Condesa de Sandoval still rules in
the chapter. What malediction does a prince not merit who thus traffics
with the devil and leads his people into mortal sin? Anathema maranatha
on Enrique de Trastamare!”
The archbishop’s solemn imprecation carried many who had trembled at the
impetuous proposal of Villena. A deputation was named to wait upon the
king, at the head of which was the Archbishop of Toledo; but Villena
himself remained in the background. As the principal conspirator, it
behoved him to be cautious.
* * * * *
“What!” cried Don Enrique next day, when the prelate at the head of the
deputation of nobles appeared before him in the Sala del Trono, when,
surrounded by his attendant lancers, splendidly equipped, he sat under
the _baldaquino_ on the chair of state, the whole room glittering with
gilded panels, _retablos_, and mirrors, doubling the array of hostile
figures before him, “What! you dare dictate to me--your king? How long
is it, my lord archbishop, that you, our metropolitan, set the example
[Illustration: FERNANDO THE CATHOLIC.]
of disobedience? And you, my Lord of Benevente,” as according to his
vehement nature, Pimentel had thrust himself more forward than the rest,
“who come of such ancient stock, are you not ashamed to appear as a
rebel? And you,” addressing the rest, “go back to your homes and learn
obedience. What! I am to depose my daughter Juana at your bidding?”
A loud murmur here interrupted him for a moment, and the name of
Beltrano was distinctly heard.
The colour mounted furiously to the face of the king, who, like all of
his family, was a fair and comely prince; his eyes grew dangerously
bright, and he laid his hand on the hilt of the dagger at his side.
“My lords! my lords! you try my patience too much!” he cried. “Why am I
not to have a child like any one of you? Answer! Especially after--”
here his voice dropped. They all knew what he meant, but no one believed
it. Like every member of his family, Don Enrique was unable to sustain
his passions. The awe inspired by his presence had passed. Every eye was
fixed menacingly upon him. Each noble recalled the scandal of his life
and the treason of which he was guilty in acknowledging the Beltraneja
as his heir. Face to face with the king, the indignation they felt
blazed out. No words were spoken, but the menace was clear. Don Enrique
quailed before it. He stood before the chief nobles of Castile as his
accusers. He was judged and found guilty. The expression of their
conviction was instantaneous.
Then the archbishop, with dignified calm, became the spokesman.
“Your Highness, we are here to declare that we will never acknowledge
Doña Juana as your successor. Civil war will be the result of your
insistence. Be advised, my good lord, not to drive your subjects to
extremities. Banish that vile adventurer Beltrano de las Cuevas. Call
your brother Don Alfonso, and your sister Doña Isabel to adorn the
court, and trust to your faithful subjects for the rest.”
The king maintained a stony silence. He had become ashy pale. The
hostile bearing of his nobles, the fearless words of the archbishop
showed him his danger. Like all weak natures, he was obstinate. Never
would he renounce the succession of Doña Juana; never would he dismiss
Beltrano. He must temporise, but how? As his eye passed slowly down the
ranks of those gathered before him, and he remembered that the most
powerful chief among them was not there, a feeling of defeat came over
him.
At this moment the Master of Calatrava intervened. The evident distress
of the king touched him. Attacked in his life, in his consort, the old
feudal feeling came to his rescue as to his chief.
“Cannot some accommodation be found,” were his words, “without imposing
too severe conditions on the king? Don Alfonso, his brother, can marry
the Infante Juana. This would content all parties.”
The relief this proposal gave to Don Enrique was very plain. His whole
aspect changed. Again he was the reckless prince who lived in the midst
of revellers, flatterers, and buffoons, and, dissolute by nature,
tolerated the licentious conduct of the queen. Here was the opening he
longed for, but dared not propose. An accommodation such as this would
give him time to defy this outrageous insolence with arms in his hands
and an army behind him.
A grateful smile lighted up his face; like all of his family, with
large, prominent eyes under sharply curved eyebrows, long, pointed nose
and irresolute lips which gave a shifting character to his face.
“I am ready,” he said, “to listen graciously to the desires of my
subjects. The House of Trastamare owes much to its supporters. Foremost
among them you are, my lord archbishop, and your nephew, the Marqués de
Villena, though at the present time one would not say so.”
This shaft, levelled at the archbishop, was met with a severe reprimand.
“Your ancestors, my lord, reverenced the Church. You have defiled it.”
“Let us not fall into recriminations,” cried the Grand Master Giron,
“but rather seek how our conditions can meet the king’s desires, and
rebellion be avoided.”
Then Don Enrique passed his royal word, standing before the throne, his
hand in that of the archbishop, that his brother, Don Alfonso, should,
with his sister Doña Isabel, be received at court with the honours which
were their due; that Don Alfonso, under the guardianship of the Marqués
de Villena, should be affianced to Doña Juana, and the Conde de Ledesma
be banished to his estates.
* * * * *
Time passed; but, excepting the liberty of his brother and sister, Don
Alfonso and Doña Isabel, who were, however, closely watched by the queen
and Ledesma, none of these conditions were fulfilled.
Every abuse continued. The Conde de Ledesma lorded it as before in a
court where vice and disorder reigned paramount. Don Alfonso was not
affianced to the little Juana, and the queen continued to scandalise all
Castile. Then the Marqués de Villena decided upon action. This time he
would make his presence felt. Don Enrique, fourth of that name, must be
dethroned, (1464). His brother Alfonso proclaimed king in his place. On
the plains of Avila the nation was summoned to ratify the act.
* * * * *
Avila stands on the summit of a wild mountain gorge, grey, colourless,
and arid. Below are piled up heaps of huge granite boulders, as if
washed by the water of the deluge. Then, beyond, line upon line of rough
and scattered rocks lead the eye to the far-distant horizon.
At first sight the town seems to be but a dolomite crown fixed on the
cliffs themselves, until the eye discerns a circle of granite walls,
broken at regular intervals by machicolated towers, to this day in
perfect preservation.
All is severe, wind-bound, arid. A mountain fortress looking towards the
fastnesses over the Escurial. War trumpets, arrows, and catapults seem
in the air; lances rattle and blood-stained banners wave. Beneath, the
eye ranges over a vast region bounded by the snow-capped mountains of
the Guadarrama. A prospect such as is seen nowhere but in Spain, where
the plains take the semblance of an earthy sea, in the large lines of
alternate sun and shade and streaks of vivid colour that undulate as on
the perpetual agitation of the waves.
And now a strange sight presents itself. On a level _vega_, a sheet of
green, illumined by the full rays of the mid-day sun, filling all nature
with a glorious light, a huge platform rises, on which stands a throne.
On it is seated a gigantic semblance of the king, wearing the pointed
crown of the Goths, the sceptre in one hand and the sword of justice at
his side. No detail is wanting to render it more real. Jewelled collar
and chain sparkle around his neck, pearls, emeralds, and rubies glow at
the girdle, confining a sumptuous robe under a royal mantle lined and
faced with miniver.
In front is planted the banner of Castile, and a whole army of
men-at-arms, crossbowmen, and lancers, guard the mimic sovereign as in
life.
All those dignitaries and prelates who took part in the conference at
the archbishop’s are there also, to a man, gathered round the platform,
to judge the king.
Beyond, a vast multitude spreads over the plain. The nation has been
summoned and it has come, and great disappointment is expressed not to
find also figures of the queen and Don Beltrano exposed for judgment, as
well as of the king.
Each craft and profession is arrayed in the costume of its order,
distinctive at that time. Monks and mendicant friars, Moorish sheikhs
from Granada and belted knights stand shoulder to shoulder with
ecclesiastics and learned professors, the military orders of Santiago
and Calatrava in half-clerical costume, and _estudiantes_ from
Salamanca, the cockle-shell on their large hats.
Nor are the picturesque peasants wanting from the northern provinces
with cloak and staff. Aragonese with hempen sandals, the heavy-mantled
Castilian who dreads the cold, and the men of Leon who till the fields.
* * * * *
At the roll of the drum the troops march forward, the colours are
lowered, and a solemn Mass is celebrated by the Archbishop of Toledo
before the sham king, while martial bands thrill the souls of men.
Then to the blare of trumpets the young Infante Don Alfonso (only
eleven years of age) is borne in--a tall, slender boy of the delicate
type of his family, brother of Doña Isabel, who declines to appear.
His appearance is announced with deafening shouts, and countless voices
welcome him as king.
The archbishop then advances in the midst of his tonsured chapter, the
censers around him filling the air with a fragrance more intense than
the wild thyme and lavender of the Huerta, and mounts the steps of the
platform, the other nobles standing with drawn swords.
A loud trumpet-call sounds a long and melancholy note, prolonged into
infinite echoes to command attention. Every voice is hushed, every eye
directed to the platform, where a herald in his parti-coloured dress
appears, and standing between two alguazils, proceeds to read the
sentence of dethronement.
“Ye Castilians, Grandees, Ricoshombres, Prelates, Hidalgos, Esquires,
and Citizens, hear, oh! hear! The King Don Enrique the Fourth, being
unworthy of the crown, which he disgraces by many crimes, it now pleases
God, by the agency of his confederated nobles, to punish him by a
well-merited dethronement for the following reasons:
“_He is unworthy_ of a crown he cannot hold, for it is the pernicious
Don Beltrano de las Cuevas, known as the Conde de Ledesma, who rules
Castile.
“_He is unworthy_ of the sword of justice, because he administers none
among his subjects.
“_He is unworthy_ of the throne, because he is a traitor in naming a
bastard child of the queen and Beltrano de las Cuevas as his successor,
instead of his brother, his rightful heir. Let Henry the Fourth of
Castile be therefore hurled from the throne he disgraces.”
As the herald retires, the fierce-eyed metropolitan again comes to the
front, and, with great solemnity unlooses the glittering crown from the
brow of the figure and hurls it into space.
Next the Conde de Palencia mounts the platform and, less calm and
collected than the churchman, with a furious gesture tears the sword of
justice from its side.
Now it is the turn of the fiery Lord of Benevente, who presses forward,
and, with words of passion on his lips, rends the sceptre from the hand
of the image.
No sooner is this done than Don Diego Lopez de Zuniga seizes the figure
and flings it headlong from the throne to be torn and burned by the
common people, who think it a fine thing to fall upon even the semblance
of a king.
At the same moment the confederate nobles lift the Infante Don Alfonso
on their shoulders and place him on the vacant throne.
To the crafty statesman and intriguer, the Marqués de Villena, falls the
honour of investing him with the insignia of royalty. The archbishop
does
[Illustration: View of the Alhambra and the Sierra Nevada, from the
Church of San Nicholas, on the Albaicin.]
homage and kisses his hand, followed by each noble in his turn,
advancing towards the blushing prince, who had been with difficulty
prevailed on to act this part during the life of his brother.
The new king then mounts on a milk-white charger, covered with gold
trappings, nets, feathers, and ribbons, and attended by all the
confederates (or conspirators, as they might be called), and the vast
multitude, passes up the hill to Avila, amid universal acclamations, to
the Cathedral, where the apse forms a strong bastion in the city wall.
And here he is blessed under the gloom of deeply stained windows, while
bishops pronounce warlike orations in his honour to the boom of cannon
and the firing of arquebuses.
* * * * *
But an unforeseen misfortune befell the confederate nobles. The young
Alfonso died. Nothing daunted, however, they at once named his sister,
the Infanta Isabel, Princess of the Asturias, heiress to the crown.