“A contemptible dreamer,” I said. “Pity him, Sire. He has his uses.
To remove him would be to remove a channel through which we can always
obtain knowledge precisely of what is doing.”
Again I prevailed, and there the matter hung a while. But the King was
right, his fears were well inspired. Escovedo, always impatient,
was becoming desperate under persistent frustration. I reasoned with
him--was he not still my friend?--I held him off, urged prudence and
patience upon him, and generally sought to temporize. I was as intent
upon saving him from leaving his skin in this business as I was, on the
other hand, intent upon doing my duty without pause or scruple to my
King. But the fool forced my hand. A Court is a foul place always, even
so attenuated a Court as that which Philip of Spain encouraged. Rumour
thrives in it, scandal blossoms luxuriantly in its fetid atmosphere.
And rumour and scandal had been busy with the Princess of Eboli and me,
though I did not dream it.
We had been indiscreet, no doubt. We had been seen together in public
too often. We had gone to the play together more than once; she had been
present with me at a bull-fight on one occasion, and it was matter of
common gossip, as I was to learn, that I was a too frequent visitor at
her house.
Another visitor there was Escovedo when in Madrid. Have I not said
that in his early days he had been one of Eboli's secretaries? On
that account the house of Eboli remained open to him at all times. The
Princess liked him, was kindly disposed towards him, and encouraged his
visits. We met there more than once. One day we left together, and
that day the fool set spark to a train that led straight to the mine on
which, all unconsciously, he stood.
“A word of advice in season, Don Antonio,” he said as we stepped forth
together. “Do not go so often to visit the Princess.”
I sought to pull my arm from his, but he clung to it and pinned it to
his side.
“Nay, now--nay, now!” he soothed me. “Not so hot, my friend. What the
devil have I said to provoke resentment? I advise you as your friend.”
“In future advise that other friend of yours, the devil,” I answered
angrily, and pulled my arm away at last. “Don Juan, you have presumed, I
think. I did not seek your advice. It is yourself that stands in need of
advice this moment more than any man in Spain.”
“Lord of the World,” he exclaimed in amiable protest, “listen to him!
I speak because I owe friendship to the Princess. Men whisper of your
comings and goings, I tell you. And the King, you know well, should he
hear of this I am in danger of losing my only friend at Court, and so--”
“Another word of this,” I broke in fiercely, “now or at any other time,
and I'll skewer you like a rabbit!”
I had stopped. My face was thrust within a hand's-breadth of his own; I
had tossed back my cloak, and my fingers clutched the hilt of my sword.
He became grave. His fine eyes--he had great, sombre, liquid eyes, such
as you'll scarcely ever see outside of Spain--considered me thoughtfully
a moment. Then he laughed lightly and fell back a pace.
“Pish!” said he. “Saint James! I am no rabbit for your skewering. If
it comes to skewers, I am a useful man of my hands, Antonio. Come,
man”--and again he took my arm--“if I presume, forgive it out of the
assurance that I am moved solely by interest and concern for you. We
have been friends too long that I should be denied.”
I had grown cool again, and I realized that perhaps my show of anger had
been imprudent. So I relented now, and we went our ways together without
further show of ill-humour on my part, or further advice on his. But
the matter did not end there. Indeed, it but began. Going early in the
afternoon of the morrow to visit Anne, I found her in tears--tears, as I
was to discover, of anger.
Escovedo had been to visit her before me, and he had dared to reproach
her on the same subject.
“You are talked about, you and Perez,” he had informed her, “and the
thing may have evil consequences. It is because I have eaten your bread
that I tell you this for your own good.”
She had risen up in a great passion.
“You will leave my house, and never set foot in it again,” she had told
him. “You should learn that grooms and lackeys have no concern in the
conduct of great ladies. It is because you have eaten my bread that I
tell you this for your own good.”
It drove him out incontinently, but it left her in the condition in
which I was later to discover her. I set myself to soothe her. I swore
that Escovedo should be punished. But she would not be soothed. She
blamed herself for an unpardonable rashness. She should not have taken
that tone with Escovedo. He could avenge himself by telling Philip,
and if he told Philip, and Philip believed him--as Philip would, being
jealous and mistrustful beyond all men--my ruin must follow. She had
thought only of herself in dismissing him in that high-handed manner.
Coming since to think of me it was that she had fallen into this
despair. She clung to me in tears.
“Forgive me, Antonio. The fault is all mine--the fault of all. Always
have I known that this danger must overhang you as a penalty for loving
me. Always I knew it, and, knowing it, I should have been stronger. I
should have sent you from me at the first. But I was so starved of love
from childhood till I met you. I hungered so for love--for your love,
Antonio--that I had not the strength. I was weak and selfish, and
because I was ready and glad to pay the price myself, whatever it should
be and whenever asked, I did not take thought enough for you.”
“Take no thought now,” I implored her, holding her close.
“I must. I can't help it. I have raised this peril for you. He will go
to Philip.”
“Not he; he dare not. I am his only hope. I am the ladder by which he
hopes to scale the heaven of his high ambition. If he destroys me, there
is the kennel for himself. He knows it.”
“Do you say that to comfort me, or is it really true?”
“God's truth, sweetheart,” I swore, and drew her closer.
She was comforted long before I left her. But as I stepped out into
the street again a man accosted me. Evidently he had been on the watch,
awaiting me. He fell into step beside me almost before I realized his
presence. It was Escovedo.
“So,” he said, very sinister, “you'll not be warned.”
“Nor will you,” I answered, no whit less sinister myself.
It was broad daylight. A pale March sunshine was beating down upon the
cobbled streets, and passers-by were plentiful. There was no fingering
of hilts or talk of skewering on either side. Nor must I show any of
the anger that was boiling in me. My face was too well known in Madrid
streets, and a Secretary of State does not parade emotions to the
rabble. So I walked stiff and dignified amain, that dog in step with me
the while.
“She will have told you what I have said to her,” he murmured.
“And what she said to you. It was less than your deserts.”
“Groom and lackey, eh?” said he. “And less than I deserve--a man of my
estate. Oh, ho! Groom and lackey! Those are epithets to be washed out in
blood and tears.”
“You rant,” I said.
“Or else to be paid for--handsomely.” His tone was sly--so sly that
I answered nothing, for to answer a sly man is to assist him, and my
business was to let him betray the cause of this slyness. Followed a
spell of silence. Then, “Do you know,” said he, “that several of her
relatives are thinking seriously of killing you?”
“Many men have thought seriously of that--so seriously that they never
attempted it. Antonio Perez is not easily murdered, Don Juan, as you may
discover.”
It was a boast that I may claim to have since justified.
“Shall I tell you their names?” quoth he.
“If you want to ruin them.”
“Ha!” It was a short bark of a laugh. “You talk glibly of ruining--but
then you talk to a groom and lackey.” The epithets rankled in his mind;
they were poison to his blood, it seemed. It takes a woman to find words
that burn and blister a man. “Yet groom and lackey that I am, I hold you
both in the hollow of my hand. If I close that hand, it will be very bad
for you, very bad for her. If, for instance, I were to tell King Philip
that I have seen her in your arms--”
“You dog!”
“I have--I swear to God I have, with these two eyes--at least with one
of them, applied to the keyhole half an hour ago. Her servants passed me
in; a ducat or two well bestowed--you understand?”
We had reached the door of my house. I paused and turned to him.
“You will come in?” I invited.
“As the wolf said to the lamb, eh? Well, why not?” And we went in.
“You are well housed,” he commented, his greedy, envious eyes
considering all the tokens of my wealth. “It were a pity to lose so
much, I think. The King is at the Escurial, I am told.”
He was. He had gone thither into retreat, that he might cleanse his
pious, murky soul against the coming of Eastertide.
“You would not, I am sure, compel me to undertake so tedious a journey,”
said he.
“Will you put off this slyness and be plain?” I bade him. “You have some
bargain in your mind. Propound it.”
He did, and left me aghast.
“You have temporized long enough, Perez,” he began. “You have been
hunting with the dogs and running with the stag. There must be an end
to all that. Stand by me now, and I will make you greater than you are,
greater than you could ever dream to be. Oppose me, betray me--for I am
going to be very frank--and the King shall hear things from me that will
mean your ruin and hers. You understand?”
Then came his demands. First of all the command of the fortress of Mogro
for himself. I must obtain him that at once. Secondly, I must see to
it that Philip pledged himself to support Don John's expedition against
England and Elizabeth and to seat Don John upon the throne with Mary
Stuart for his wife. These things must come about, and quickly, or I
perished. Nor was that all. Indeed, no more than a beginning. He opened
out the vista of his dreams, that having blackmailed me on the one hand,
he might now bribe me on the other. Once England was theirs, he aimed at
no less than a descent upon Spain itself. That was why he wanted Mogro
to facilitate a landing at Santander. Thus, as the Christians had
originally come down from the mountains of the Asturias to drive the
Moors from the Peninsula, so should the forces of Don John descend again
to reconquer it for himself.
It was a madman's fancy utterly--fruit of a brain that ambition had
completely addled; and I do not believe that Don John had any part in it
or even knowledge of it. Escovedo saw himself, perhaps, upon the throne
of one or the other of the two kingdoms as Don John's vice-regent--for
himself and for me, if I stood by him, there was such power in store as
no man ever dreamed of. If I refused, he would destroy me.
“And if I go straight to the Escurial and lay this project before the
King?” I asked him.
He smiled.
“You will force me to tell him that it is a lie invented to deliver you
from a man who can destroy you by the knowledge he possesses, knowledge
which I shall at once impart to Philip. Think what that will mean to
you. Think,” he added very wickedly, “what it will mean to her.”
As I am a Christian, I believe that had it been but the consideration
of myself I would have flung him from my house upon the instant and bade
him do his worst. But he was well advised to remind me of her. Whatever
Philip's punishment of me, it would be as nothing to his punishment of
that long-suffering woman who had betrayed him. Oh, I assure you it is
a very evil, ill judged thing to have a king for rival, particularly a
fish-souled tyrant of King Philip's kind.
I was all limp with dread. I passed a hand across my brow, and found it
chill and moist.
“I am in your hands, Escovedo,” I confessed miserably.
“Say, rather, that we are partners. Forget all else.” He was eager,
joyous, believing all accomplished, such was his faith in my influence
with Philip. “And now, Mogro for me, and England for Don John. About it
with dispatch.”
“The King is in retreat. We must wait some days.”
“Till Easter, then.” And he held out his hand. I took it limply, thus
clenching the bargain of infamy between us. What else was there for me.
What, otherwise, was to become of Anne?
Oh, I may have been self-seeking and made the most of my position, as
was afterwards urged against me. I may have been extortionate and venal,
and I may have taken regal bribes to expedite affairs. But always was
I loyal and devoted to the King. Never once had I been bribed to aught
that ran counter to his interests; never until now, when at a stroke I
had sold my honour and pledged myself to this betrayal of my trust.
Not in all Spain was there a more miserable man than I. All night I sat
in the room where I was wont to work, and to my wife's entreaties that
I should take some rest I answered that the affairs of Spain compelled
attention. And when morning found me haggard and distraught came a
courier from Philip with a letter.
“I have letters from Don John,” he wrote, “more insistent than ever in
their tone. He demands the instant dispatch of money and Escovedo. I
have been thinking, and this letter confirms my every fear. I have cause
to apprehend some stroke that may disturb the public peace and ruin
Don John himself if he is allowed to retain Escovedo any longer in his
service. I am writing to Don John that I will see to it that Escovedo is
promptly dispatched as he requests. Do you see him dispatched, then,
in precise accordance with his deserts, and this at once, before the
villain kills us.”
My skin bristled as I read. Here was fatality itself at work. Philip was
at his old fears--and, Heaven knows, he was not without justification of
his intuitions, as I had learnt by now--that Escovedo meditated the most
desperate measures. He was urging me again, as he had urged me before,
and more than once, to dispatch this traitor whose restless existence so
perpetually perturbed him. I was not deceived as to the meaning he set
upon that word “dispatch.” I knew quite well the nature of the dispatch
he bade me contrive.
Conceive now my temptation. Escovedo dead, I should be safe, and Anne
would be safe, and this without any such betrayal as was being forced
upon me. And that death the King himself commanded a secret, royal
execution, such as his confessor Frey Diego de Chaves has since defended
as an expedient measure within the royal prerogative. He had commanded
it before quite unequivocally, but always I had stood between Escovedo
and the sword. Was I to continue in that attitude? Could it humanly be
expected of me in all the circumstances again to seek to deflect the
royal wrath from that too daring head? I was, after all, only a man,
subject to the temptations of the flesh, and there was a woman whom I
loved better than my own salvation to whose peace and happiness that
fellow Escovedo was become a menace.
If he lived, and for as long as he lived, she and I were to be as slaves
of his will, and I was to drag my honour and my loyalty through the foul
kennels of his disordered ambitions. And the King my master was bidding
me clearly see to it that he died immediately.
I sat down and wrote at once, and the burden of my letter was: “Be more
explicit, Sire. What manner of dispatch is it your will that Escovedo
should be given?”
On the morrow, which was Thursday of Holy Week, that note of mine
was returned to me, and on the margin of it, in Philip's own hand,
Escovedo's death-warrant. “I mean that it would be well to hasten the
death of this rascal before some act of his should render it too late;
for he never rests, nor will anything turn him from his usual ways. Do
it, then, and do it quickly, before he kills us.”
There was no more to be said. My instructions were clear and definite.
Obedience alone remained. I went about it.
Just as all my life I have been blessed with the staunchest friends, so
have I, too, been blessed with the most faithful servants. And of these
none was more faithful than my steward, Diego Martinez, unless, indeed,
it be my equerry, Gil de Mesa, who to this day follows my evil fortunes.
But Mesa at that time was as yet untried, whilst in Diego I knew that I
had a man devoted to me heart and soul, a man who would allow himself to
be torn limb from limb on the rack on my behalf.
I placed the affair in Diego's hands. I told him that I was acting
under orders from the King, and that the thing at issue was the private
execution of a dangerous traitor, who could not be brought to trial lest
there he should impeach of complicity one whose birth and blood must be
shielded from all scandal. I bade him get what men he required, and see
the thing done with the least possible delay. And thereupon I instantly
withdrew from Madrid and went to Alcala.
Diego engaged five men to assist him in the task; these were a young
officer named Enriquez, a lackey named Rubio, the two Aragonese--Mesa
and Insausti--and another whose name was Bosque. He clearly meant to
take no chances, but I incline to think that he overdid precaution, and
employed more hands than were necessary for the job. However, the six of
them lurked in waiting on three successive nights for Escovedo near his
house in the little square of Santiago. At last, on the night of Easter
Monday, March 31st, they caught him and dispatched him. He died almost
before he realized himself beset, from a sword-thrust with which
Insausti transfixed him. But there were at least half a dozen wounds in
the body when it was found. Diego, I have said, was a man who made quite
certain.
No sooner was it done than they dispersed, whilst the lackey Rubio,
instantly quitting Madrid, brought me news of the deed to Alcala, and
the assurance that no arrests had been made. But there was a great ado
in Madrid upon the morrow, as you may imagine, for it is no everyday
occurrence to find a royal secretary murdered in the streets.
The alcaldes set out upon a rigorous search, and they began by arresting
and questioning all who attempted to leave the city. On the next day
they harassed with their perquisitions all those who let lodgings.
They were still at this work in the evening when I returned to Madrid,
brought back--as it would seem--from my country rest by the news of this
murder of my friend and colleague. I bore myself as I should have done
had I no knowledge of how the thing had been contrived. That was a
necessity as imperative as it was odious, and no part of it more odious
than the visit of condolence I was forced to pay to the Escovedo family,
which I found plunged in grief.
From the very outset suspicion pointed its finger at me, although there
were no visible traces to connect me with the deed. Rumour, however,
was astir, and as I had powerful friends, so, too, I had the powerful
enemies which envy must always be breeding for men in high places
such as mine. Escovedo's wife mistrusted me, though at first she seems
equally to have suspected in this deed the hand of the Duke of Alva, who
was hostile to Don John and all his creatures. Very soon, as a result of
this, came the Court alcalde to visit and question me. His stated object
was in the hope that I might give him information which would lead to
the discovery of the assassin; but his real object, rendered apparent
by the searching, insistent nature of his questions, was to lead me
to incriminate myself. I presented a bold front. I pretended to see in
this, perhaps, the work of the Flemish States. I deplored--that I might
remind him of it--my absence from Madrid at the time.
He was followed by another high official, who came in simulated
friendship to warn me that certain rumours linking me with the deed were
in circulation, in reality to trap me into some admission, to watch my
countenance for some betraying sign.
I endured it stoutly, but inwardly I was shaken, as I wrote to Philip,
giving him full details of what had been said and what answers I had
returned, what bitter draughts I had been forced to swallow.
He wrote in reply: “I find that you answered very well. Continue to
be prudent. They will tell you a thousand things, not for the sake
of telling them, but in the hope of drawing something out of you.
The bitter draughts you mention are inevitable. But use all the
dissimulation and address of which you are capable.”
We corresponded daily after that, and I told him of every step I took;
how I kept my men about me, for fear that if they attempted to leave
Madrid they would be arrested, and how, finally, I contrived their
departure one by one, under conditions that placed them beyond all
suspicion. Juan de Mesa set out for Aragon on a mission concerned with
the administration of some property of the Princess of Eboli's. Rubio,
Insausti, and Enriquez were each given an ensign's commission, bearing
the King's own signature, and ordered to join the armies in various
parts of Italy; the first was sent to Milan, the second to Sicily, and
the last to Naples. Bosque went back to Aragon. Thus all were placed
beyond the reach of the active justice of Castile, all save myself--and
the King, who wrote to me expressing his satisfaction that there had
been no arrests.
But rumour continued to give tongue, and the burden of its tale was that
the murder had been my work, in complicity with the Princess of Eboli.
How they came to drag her name into the affair I do not know. It may
have been pure malice trading upon its knowledge of the relations
between us. She may have lent colour to the charge by her own
precipitancy in denying it. She announced indignantly that she was
being accused, almost before this had come to pass, and as indignantly
protested against the accusation, and threatened those who dared to
voice it.
The end of it all was that, a month later, the Escovedo family drew up
a memorial for the consideration of the King, in which they laid the
murder to my charge, and Philip consented to receive Don Pedro de
Escovedo--the dead man's son--and promised him that he would consider
the memorial, and that he would deliver up to justice whomsoever he
thought right. He was embarrassed by these demands of the Escovedos, my
own danger, his duty as king, and his interests as an accomplice, or,
rather, as the originator of the deed.
The Escovedos were powerfully seconded by Vasquez, the Secretary of the
Council, a member of Alva's party, a secret enemy of my own, consumed
by jealousy of my power, and no longer fearing to disclose himself and
assail me since he believed himself possessed of the means of ruining
me. He spoke darkly to the King of a woman concerned in this business,
without yet daring to mention Anne by name, and urged him for the
satisfaction of the State, where evil rumours were abroad, to order an
inquiry that should reveal the truth of the affair.
It was Philip himself who informed me of what had passed, sneering at
the wildness of rumours that missed the truth so wildly, and when I
evinced distress at my position, he sought to reassure me; he even wrote
to me after I had left him: “As long as I live you have nothing to fear.
Others may change, but I never change, as you should know who know me.”
That was a letter that epitomized many others written me in those days
to Madrid from the Escurial, whither he had returned. And those letters
comforted me not only by their expressed assurances, but by the greater
assurance implicit in them of the King's good faith. I had by now a
great mass of his notes dealing with the Escovedo business, in almost
every one of which he betrayed his own share as the chief murderer,
showing that I was no more than his dutiful instrument in that
execution. With those letters in my power what need I ever fear? Not
Philip himself would dare to betray me.
But I went now in a new dread--the dread of being myself murdered. There
were threats of it in the air. The Escovedo family and their partisans,
who included all my enemies, and even some members of the Eboli family,
who considered that I had sullied the honour of their name by my
relations with Anne, talked openly of vengeance, so that I was driven to
surround myself by armed attendants whenever now I went abroad.
I appealed again to Philip to protect me. I even begged him to permit
me to retire from my Ministerial office, that thus the clamant envy that
inspired my persecution might be deprived of its incentive. Finally,
I begged him to order me to stand my trial, that thus, since I was
confident that no evidence could be produced against me, I should force
an acquittal from the courts and lay the matter to rest for all time.
“Go and see the President of Castile,” he bade me. “Tell him the causes
that led to the death of Escovedo, and then let him talk to Don Pedro de
Escovedo and to Vasquez, so as to induce them to desist.”
I did as I was bidden, and when the president, who was the Bishop of
Pati, had heard me, he sent for my two chief enemies.
“I have, Don Pedro,” he said, “your memorial to the King in which you
accuse Don Antonio Perez of the murder of your father. And I am to
assure you in the King's name that justice will be done upon the
murderer, whoever he may be, without regard to rank. But I am first
to engage you to consider well what evidence you have to justify your
charge against a person of such consideration. For should your proofs be
insufficient I warn you that matters are likely to take a bad turn for
yourself. Finally, before you answer me, let me add, upon my word as a
priest, that Antonio Perez is as innocent as I am.”
It was the truth--the absolute truth, so far as it was known to Philip
and to the Bishop--for, indeed, I was no more than the instrument of my
master's will.
Don Pedro looked foolish, almost awed. He was as a man who suddenly
becomes aware that he has missed stepping over the edge of a chasm in
which destruction awaited him. He may have bethought him at last that
all his rantings had no better authority than suspicions which no
evidence could support.
“Sir,” he faltered, “since you tell me this, I pledge you my word on
behalf of myself and my family to make no more mention of this death
against Don Antonio.”
The Bishop swung then upon Vasquez, and his brow became furrowed with
contemptuous anger.
“As for you, sir, you have heard--which was more than your due, for
it is not your business by virtue of your office, nor have you any
obligations towards the deceased, such as excuse Don Pedro's rashness,
to pursue the murderers of Escovedo. Your solicitude in this matter
brings you under a suspicion the more odious since you are a priest.
I warn you, sir, to abstain, for this affair is different far from
anything that you imagine.”
But envy is a fierce goad, a consuming, irresistible passion, corroding
wisdom and deaf to all prudent counsels. Vasquez could not abstain.
Ridden by his devil of spite and jealousy, he would not pause until he
had destroyed either himself or me.
Since Escovedo's immediate family now washed their hands of the affair,
Vasquez sought out more distant relatives of the murdered man, and
stirred them up until they went in their turn to pester the courts,
not only with accusations against myself, but with accusations that now
openly linked with mine the name of the Princess of Eboli.
We were driven to the brink of despair, and in this Anne wrote to
Philip. It was a madness. She made too great haste to excuse herself.
She demanded protection from Vasquez and the evil rumours he was putting
abroad, implored the King to make an example of men who could push
so far their daring and irreverence, and to punish that Moorish dog
Vasquez--I dare say there was Moorish blood in the fellow's veins--as he
deserved.
I think our ruin dated from that letter. Philip sent for me to the
Escurial. He wished to know more precisely what the accusations were.
I told him, denying them. Then he desired of the Princess proof of what
she alleged against Vasquez, and she had no difficulty in satisfying
him. He seemed to believe our assurance that all was lies. Yet he did
not move to punish Vasquez. But then I knew that sluggishness was his
great characteristic. “Time and I are one,” he would say when I pressed
on matters.
After that it was open war in the Council between me and Vasquez. The
climax came when I was at the Escurial. I had sent a servant to Vasquez
for certain State papers to be submitted to the King. He brought them,
and folded in them a fiercely denunciatory letter full of insults and
injuries, not the least of which was the imputation that my blood was
not clean, my caste not good.
In a passion I sought Philip, beside myself almost, trembling under the
insult.
“See, Sire, what this Moorish thief has dared to write me. It transcends
all bearing. Either you take satisfaction for me of these insults or you
permit me to take it for myself.”
He appeared to share my indignation, promised to give me leave to
proceed against the man, but bade me first wait a while until certain
business in the competent hands of Vasquez should be transacted. But
weeks grew into months, and nothing was done. We were in April of '79,
a year after the murder, and I was grown so uneasy, so sensitive to
dangers about me, that I dared no longer visit Anne. And then Philip's
confessor, Frey Diego de Chaves, came to me one day with a request on
the King's part that I should make my peace with Vasquez.
“If he will retract,” was my condition. And Chaves went to see my enemy.
What passed between them, what Vasquez may have told him, what he may
have added to those rumours of my relations with Anne, I do not know.
But I know that from that date there was a change in the King's attitude
towards me, a change in the tone of the letters that he sent me, and,
this continuing, I wrote to him at last releasing him from his promise
to afford me satisfaction against Vasquez, assuring him that since,
himself, he could forgive the injuries against us both, I could easily
forgive those I had received myself, and finally begging his permission
to resign my office and retire.
Anne had contributed to this. She had sent for me, and in tears had
besought me to make my peace with Vasquez since the King desired it,
and this was no time in which to attempt resistance to his wishes. I
remained with her some hours, comforting her, for she was in the very
depths of despair, persuaded that we were both ruined, and inconsolable
in the thought that the blame of this was all her own.
It may be that I was watched, perhaps more closely than I imagined. It
may be that spies were close about us, set by the jealous Philip, who
desired confirmation or refutation of the things he had been told, the
rumours that were gnawing at his vitals.
I left her, little dreaming that I was never to see her again in this
life. That night I was arrested at my house by the Court alcalde upon an
order from the King. The paltry reason advanced was my refusal to make
my peace with Vasquez, and this when already the King was in possession
of my letter acknowledging my readiness to do so; for the King was in
Madrid, unknown to me. He came, it seems, that he might be present at
another arrest effected that same night. From the porch of the Church
of Santa Maria Mayor, he watched his alguazils enter the house of the
Princess of Eboli, bring her forth, bestow her in a waiting carriage
that was to bear her away to the fortress of Pinto, to an imprisonment
which was later exchanged for exile to Pastrana lasting as long as life
itself.
To sin against a Prince is worse, it seems, than to sin against God
Himself. For God forgives, but princes, wounded in their vanity and
pride, know nothing of forgiveness.
I was kept for four months a prisoner by the alcalde, no charge being
preferred against me. Then, because my health was suffering grievously
from confinement and the anxiety of suspense, I was moved to my own
house, and detained there for another eight months under close guard. My
friends besought the King in vain either to restore me to liberty or
to bring me to trial. He told them the affair was of a nature very
different from anything they deemed, and so evaded all demands.
In the summer of 1580, Philip went to Lisbon to take formal possession
of the crown of Portugal, which he had inherited. I sent my wife to him
to intercede for me. But he refused to see her, and so I was left to
continue the victim of his vindictive lethargy. After a year of this,
upon my giving a formal promise to renounce all hostility towards
Vasquez, and never seek to do him harm in any way, I was accorded some
degree of liberty. I was allowed to go out and to receive visitors, but
not to visit any one myself.
Followed a further pause. Vasquez was now a man of power, for my party
had fallen with me, and his own had supplanted it in the royal councils.
It was by his work that at last, in '84, I was brought to trial upon a
charge of corruption and misappropriation. I knew that my enemies had,
meanwhile, become possessed of Enriquez, and that he was ready to give
evidence, that he was making no secret of his share in the death of
Escovedo, and that the King was being pressed by the Escovedos to bring
me to trial upon the charge of murder. Instead, the other charge alone
was preferred.
It was urged against me that I had kept a greater state than any grandee
of Spain, that when I went abroad I did so with a retinue befitting
a prince, that I had sold my favour and accepted bribes from foreign
princes to guard their interests with the King of Spain.
They sentenced me to two years' imprisonment in a fortress, to be
followed by ten years of exile, and I was to make, within nine days,
restitution of some twenty million maravedis*--the alleged extent of
my misappropriations--besides some jewels and furniture which I had
received from the Princess of Eboli, and which I was now ordered to
deliver up to the heirs of the late Prince.
*Ten thousand pounds, but with at least five times the present
purchasing power of that sum.
Perquisitions had been made in my house, and my papers ransacked. Well
I knew what they had sought. For the thought of the letters that had
passed between Philip and myself at the time of Escovedo's death must
now be troubling his peace of mind. I had taken due precautions when
first I had seen the gathering clouds foreshadowing this change of
weather. I had bestowed those papers safely in two iron-bound chests
which had been concealed away against the time when I might need them
to save my neck. And because now he failed to find what he
sought--the evidence of his own share in the deed and his present base
duplicity--Philip dared not slip the leash from those dogs who would
be at my throat for the murder of Escovedo. That was why he bade them
proceed against me only on the lesser charge of corruption.
I was taken to the fortress of Turruegano, and there they came to
demand of me the surrender of my papers which the alcalde had failed to
discover at my house. I imagined the uneasiness of Philip in dispatching
those emissaries. I almost laughed as I refused. Those papers were my
buckler against worse befalling me than had befallen already. Even now,
if too hard pressed, I might find the opportunity of breaking my bonds
by means of them. I sometimes wonder why I did not apply myself to that.
Yet there is small cause for wonder, really. From boyhood, almost, King
Philip had been my master. Loyalty to him was a habit that went to the
very roots of my being. I had served him without conscience and without
scruple, and the notion of betraying him, save as a very last and very
desperate resource, was inconceivable. I do not think he ever knew the
depth and breadth of that loyalty of mine.
My refusal led those sons of dogs to attempt to frighten my wife with
threats of unmentionable horrors unless she delivered up the papers
I had secreted. She and our children were threatened with perpetual
imprisonment on bread and water if she persisted in refusing to
surrender them. But she held out against all threats, and remained firm
even under the oily persecution to the same end of Philip's confessor,
Frey Diego. Finally, I was notified that, in view of her stubbornness
and my own, she and our children were cast into prison, and that there
they would remain until I saw fit to become submissive to the royal
will.
It is a subtle form of mental torture that will bid a man contemplate
the suffering for his sake to which those who are dear to him are being
subjected.
I raged and stormed before the officer who brought me this infamous
piece of news. I gave vent to my impotent anger in blasphemous
expressions that were afterwards to be used against me. The officer was
subtly sympathetic.
“I understand your grief, Don Antonio,” he said. “Believe me, I feel
for you--so much that I urge you to set an end to the captivity of those
dear ones who are innocent, who are suffering for your sake.”
“And so make an end of myself?” I asked him fiercely.
“Reflection may show that even that is your duty in the circumstances.”
I looked into his smug face, and I was within an ace of striking him.
Then I controlled myself, and my will was snapped.
“Very well,” I said. “The papers shall be surrendered. Let my steward,
Diego Martinez, come to me here, and he shall receive my instructions
to deliver the chests containing them to my wife, that she in turn may
deliver them to the King.”
He withdrew, well pleased. No doubt he would take great credit to
himself for this. Within three days, such haste did they make, my
faithful steward stood before me in my prison at Turruegano.
You conceive the despair that had overwhelmed me after giving my
consent, the consciousness that it was my life I was surrendering with
those papers,--that without them I should be utterly defenceless. But
in the three days that were sped I had been thinking, and not quite in
vain.
Martinez left me with precise instructions, as a result of which those
two iron-bound chests, locked and sealed, were delivered, together
with the keys, to the royal confessor. Martinez was asked what they
contained.
“I do not know,” he answered. “My orders are merely to deliver them.”
I can conceive the King's relief and joy in his conviction that thus had
he drawn my teeth, that betide now what might, I could never defend or
justify myself. The immediate sequel took me by surprise. We were at
the end of '85, and my health was suffering from my confinement and
its privations. And now my captivity was mitigated. My wife Juana even
succeeded in obtaining permission that I should be taken home to Madrid,
and there for fourteen months I enjoyed a half liberty, and received the
visits of my old friends, among whom were numbered most of the members
of the Court.
I imagined at first that since my teeth were drawn the King despised me,
and intended nothing further. But I was soon to be disillusioned on that
score. It began with the arrest of Martinez on a charge of complicity in
the murder of Escovedo. And then one day I was again arrested, without
warning, and carried off for a while to the fortress of Pinto. Thence
I was brought back in close captivity to Madrid, and there I learnt at
last what had been stirring.
In the previous summer King Philip had gone into Aragon to preside
over the Cortes, and Vasquez, who had gone with him, had seized
the opportunity to examine the ensign Enriquez, who had, meanwhile,
denounced himself of complicity in the murder of Escovedo. Enriquez made
a full confession--turned accuser under a promise of full pardon
for himself and charged Mesa, Rubio, and my steward Martinez with
complicity, denouncing Martinez as the ringleader of the business. The
other two, Insausti and Bosque, were already dead.
Immediately Vasquez attempted to seize the survivors. But Mesa had gone
to earth in Aragon, and Rubio was with him. Martinez alone remained,
and him they seized and questioned. He remained as cool and master of
himself as he was true and loyal to me. Their threats made no impression
on him. He maintained that the tale was all a lie, begotten of spite,
that I had been Escovedo's best friend, that I had been greatly
afflicted by his death, and that no man could have done more than I to
discover his real murderers. They confronted him with Enriquez, and
the confrontation no whit disturbed him. He handled the traitor
contemptuously as a perjured, suborned witness, a false servant, a man
who, as he proceeded to show, was a scoundrel steeped in crime, whose
word was utterly worthless, and who, no doubt, had been bought to bring
these charges against his sometime master.
The situation, thanks to Martinez's stoutness, had reached a deadlock.
Between the assertions of one man, who was revealed to the judges for a
worthless scoundrel, and the denials of the other, against whom nothing
was known, it was impossible for the court of inquiry to reach any
conclusion. At least another witness must be obtained. And Vasquez
laboured with all his might and arts and wiles to draw Rubio out of
Aragon into the clutches of the justice of Castile. But he laboured in
vain, for I had secretly found the means to instruct my trusty Mesa to
retain the fellow where he was.
In this inconclusive state of things the months dragged on and my
captivity continued. I wrote to Philip, imploring his mercy, complaining
of these unjust delays on the part of Vasquez, which threatened to go
on forever, and begging His Majesty to command the conclusion of the
affair. That was in August of '89. You see how time had sped. All that
came of my appeal was at first an increased rigour of imprisonment, and
then a visit from Vasquez to examine and question me upon the
testimony of Enriquez. As you can imagine, the attempt to lure me into
self-betrayal was completely fruitless. My enemy withdrew, baffled, to
go question my wife, but without any better success.
Nevertheless, Vasquez proclaimed the charge established against myself
and Martinez, and allowed us ten days in which to prepare our answer.
Immediately upon that Don Pedro de Escovedo lodged a formal indictment
against us, and I was put into irons.
To rebut the evidence of one single, tainted witness I produced six
witnesses of high repute, including the Secretary of the Council of
Aragon. They testified for me that I was at Alcala at the time of
Escovedo's death, that I had always been Escovedo's friend, that I was
a good Christian incapable of such a deed, and that Enriquez as an evil
man whose word was worthless, a false witness inspired by vengeance.
Thus, in spite of the ill-will of my judges and the hatred of my
enemies, it was impossible legally to condemn me upon the evidence.
There were documents enough in existence to have proved my part in the
affair; but not one of them dared the King produce, since they would
also show me to have been no more than his instrument. And so, desiring
my death as it was now clear he did, he must sit impotently brooding
there with what patience he could command, like a gigantic, evil spider
into whose web I obstinately refused to fling myself.
My hopes began to revive. When at last the court announced that it
postponed judgment whilst fresh evidence was sought, there was an outcry
of indignation on all sides. This was a tyrannical abuse of power,
men said; and I joined my voice to theirs to demand that judgment
be pronounced and my liberty restored to me, pointing out that I
had already languished years in captivity without any charge against
me--beyond that of corruption, which had been purged by now--having been
established.
Then at last the King stirred in his diabolical underground manner. He
sent his confessor to me in prison. The friar was mild and benign.
“My poor friend,” he said, “why do you allow yourself to suffer in this
fashion, when a word from you can set a term to it? Confess the deed
without fear, since at the same time you can advance a peremptory reason
of State to justify it.”
It was too obvious a trap. Did I make confession, indeed, upon such
grounds, they would demand of me proof of what I asserted; and meanwhile
the documents to prove it had been extorted from me and had passed into
the King's possession. In the result I should be ruined completely as
one who, to the crime of murder, added a wicked, insidious falsehood
touching the honour of his King.
But I said naught of this. I met guile with guile. “Alas! I have been
tempted,” I answered him. “But I thank Heaven I have known even in my
extremity how to resist the temptation of such disloyalty. I cannot
forget, Brother Diego, that amongst the letters from the King was one
that said, 'Be not troubled by anything your enemies may do against you.
I shall not abandon you, and be sure their animosity cannot prevail. But
you must understand that it must not be discovered that this death took
place by my order.”'
“But if the King were to release you from that command?” he asked.
“When His Majesty in his goodness and generosity sends me a note in his
own hand to say, 'You may confess that it was by my express order that
you contrived the death of Escovedo,' then I shall thankfully account
myself absolved from the silence his service imposes on me.”
He looked at me narrowly. He may have suspected that I saw through the
transparent device to ruin me, and that in a sense I mocked him with my
answer.
He withdrew, and for some days nothing further happened. Then the
rigours of my captivity were still further increased. I was allowed
to communicate with no one, and even the alguazil who guarded me was
forbidden, under pain of death, to speak to me.
And in January I was visited by Vasquez, who brought me a letter from
the King, not, indeed, addressed to me and in the terms I had suggested,
but to Vasquez himself, and it ran:
You may tell Antonio Perez from me, and, if necessary, show him this
letter, that he is aware of my knowledge of having ordered him to put
Escovedo to death and of the motives which he told me existed for this
measure; and that as it imports for the satisfaction of my conscience
that it be ascertained whether or not those motives were sufficient, I
order him to state them in the fullest detail, and to advance proof of
what he then alleged to me, which is not unknown to yourself, since I
have clearly imparted it to you. When I shall have seen his answers, and
the reasons he advances, I shall give order that such measures be taken
as may befit.