Old Court Life in Spain; vol. 2

“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.

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.