Old Court Life in Spain; vol. 2

“But, our Lady defend us!” he cried, as he suddenly caught sight of the dismal face of Martos, “what brings you with such a woful countenance? Speak, man! Have the dogs bitten you?”

“No, no!” answered Martos, with a grim smile. “No, but the dinner!”

“Have the dogs eaten it, then, instead of you?” asked the king.

The major-domo shook his head sorrowfully. “Dinner, my lord and master, there is none.”

“No dinner!” broke in Garcia. “Do you mean to say nothing is provided for the king?”

“Nothing! nothing!” cried Martos in despair, clasping his hands.

“I assure your Grace I told them you were coming,” broke in Garcia. “I gave the Marqués de Villena due notice. I am not to blame.”

“I am sure you are not, dear Garcia. Good Martos, do not vex yourself. Call such people together as you can find, and have the game we shot on the way fashioned into a salmis. It will make a delicious dish.”

Then Martos and a page appeared, carrying a single dish, and placed it on the table.

“How is this?” cried the king, with more anger than he had yet shown. “Where are the servants I pay to serve this palace? Where is the jefe whose duty it is to receive his sovereign?”

“Gone, my lord and master, gone no one knows whither. Nothing left but a crippled scullion and those cursed dogs, who fly upon us every time we move.”

“I must look to these matters more closely,” said the young king, roused at last to a sense of his position. “As my tutors and governors are so careless of the charge conferred on them by my father, it is time that I should relieve them of their office.”

A delighted look overspread Garcia’s face, and a sardonic grin from Martos indicated that he had much more to say if he dared.

“Speak freely, my faithful Martos,” said the king, “if you have anything to tell me.”

Garcia eagerly listened.

“It is a great liberty, Altezza, for one so humble as I am to interfere in the affairs of those so much above me, but I have cause to know that your Highness’s governors are not worthy of the confidence reposed in them.”

“Did I not say so?” interposed Garcia. “They hated me too much to be honest.”

“Proceed, Martos, I see you have not told me all.”

“True, my lord. And there is something of which I would fain inform your Grace,” continued he, speaking in a whisper, with a careful look round. “I know that there is to be a great fiesta given at the house of the Archbishop of Toledo to-night. All the grandiose are bidden, and all the cooks in Burgos will attend. There will be plenty of food there,” with a sly glance at the solitary dish of game yet untouched lying on a huge table.

As the old man spoke, the king’s face changed to a graver look than it seemed possible for those placid features to assume.

“I understand,” he answered, “while the King of Castile is without a dinner, his Regents and nobles feast. Alas! I am often weak in health, which leads me to shrink from the duties of my office, but, por Dios! I am strong in spirit, and I will settle these caballeros as they deserve.”

That same night the Casa del Cordon, in the great Plaza of Burgos, where the Regents lived, was blazed bright as day. Circles of light blazed in the heavily mullioned casements of the front, where the arms of Mendoza Velasco appear within a deep entablature, surrounded by carved figures, each line and detail of the building defined by low Moorish lamps softly glimmering, and armorial shields. Crowds of men-at-arms and alguazils stationed along the street bore torches of resin, casting fiery gleams upon the pavement, crowded as far as the eye could reach with Burgolese notables come out to see the show, wrapped in their everlasting mantos.

Passing through a lofty guard-room with raftered ceiling – the walls hung with tapestry – where casques and shields of antique pattern shone out, side by side with crescent banners and scimitars captured from the Moors, the guests arrive and are ushered into a Gothic hall of sculptured oak heavily carved, a richly wrought balustraded gallery breaking the lines high up under the cornice. All the great names of Burgos are present. The Villacruces, De Vaca, Peralta, Gomez, Laynes, descendants of the Cid Campeador, Lerma, De Bilbas, and Mendoza, making their way to tables ranged transversely across the dais at the upper end, bright with golden lamps, fed with delicately-scented oil, each place set with cups and sturdy flagons enriched with jewels, trophies of Arab filigree work, taken from the Moors, and gilded shields all wreathed with fruit and flowers to represent a garden of delight.

In the centre of the board, on two chairs more elevated than the rest, sit the Archbishop of Toledo, his pale face outlined against the panels of dark oak; and opposite to him the courtly figure of the Marqués de Villena, his handsome features greatly set off by the quaint half-ecclesiastical costume he wears of the Master of Calatrava, with belt and sword, the cross of Christ embroidered on his breast.

The days are past when the great nobles come to feasts in plumed casques and chain armour, as knights ready to mount and ride as the trumpet note sounds. Now more peaceful times have come, the land of castles has expelled the Moors – shut up in the east of Spain among the mountains of Granada where they are soon to be attacked – and the great chiefs can display their taste in abundance of costly jewels and apparel of brocade and velvet, samite and silk, crimson, purple, and yellow, close-fitting to display the person, with mantles trimmed with miniver or ermine; the long skirts worn to the ankle, embroidered with all the art the needle could attain, with the crests, cognisances, and initials of the wearer, pointed shoes and golden girdles thick with gems, holding glittering daggers, the head covered with graceful caps or furred bonnets adorned with circlets of jewels and plumes placed on flowing locks trimmed according to the fashion of the time.

Amid the bustle of attendants rushing to and fro with ponderous dishes, and skins of wine to replenish the flagons, and the joyous talk of the numerous guests echoing down the hall in which the deep sonorous voice of the archbishop is prominent by bursts of loud laughter and noisy jests as deep draughts of the finest vintages of Val de Peñas and Xeres mount into the brain, the feast proceeds, each guest pledging his neighbour, the Conde de Peralta drinking to Don Pedro de Mendoza, in his turn bowing to the Conde de Lerma, who, rising in his chair and bowing low, carries his full goblet towards the Marqués de Villena, who with lofty courtesy acknowledges the toast, and forthwith fills his golden cup to drink wassail to the archbishop.

“I will warrant your Grace of not dying of old age with this vintage,” cries Don Pedro de Mendoza, addressing the archbishop as he has risen in his place to return the compliment, eying the generous liquor with the loving eyes of a connoisseur. “It is enough to carry a man far into a hundred years.”

All at once the conversation is arrested by the soft notes of a Moorish zither; just the sweep of the cords and a tap or two on the sounding board, galopando, then the plaintive cana or cry rises, preluding the cancionero of the Cid – ever the popular hero of Burgos – sung with such exquisite sweetness that the entire company is hushed.

Si es Español
Don Rodrigue
Español fue el
fuente andalla.

“What new constellation has your greatness procured us?” asks Don Silvela Velasco, turning to the Marqués de Villena – a known lover of music. “Who is he? Not the young king himself, with all his talent, can excel him.”

“He sings well,” is the answer of the marquess, listening attentively until the final cadenza, and giving his opinion with the decision of a master. “But I know nothing of him. Minstrels were commanded to be present, and he is come. His voice and the music please me. I am accounted, as you know, my lords, a judge in these matters. You are aware that if the king has any merit, he owes it entirely to my training.”

Again the sweet voice sounds, this time with more power in its tones.

“Who is he? Can no one tell us?” asked the archbishop, breaking off in a discussion of the value of certain jewels which he had purchased from a Jew.

“A wandering estudiante who is travelling through the north,” answered the chamberlain, advancing with doffed cap and bended knee; for the Regents exacted the same respect in addressing them as the kings of Castile; “recommended to me by a friend as skilled in his art.”

“That cannot be doubted,” said the archbishop. “Bring him round, that we may judge of his appearance.”

This command was promptly obeyed, and a youth stood forward on the edge of the dais, habited in a long dark mantle of coarse cloth, sandals on his bare feet, and a mass of thick fair hair combed down so straight under a pointed cap it was almost impossible to distinguish his features. Not that he appeared the least dismayed, but stood perfectly at his ease in front of the radiance of the scented lamps, his zither in his hand, minutely surveying the faces of those before him.

“Your looks proclaim you young,” said the archbishop, struck for a moment with a fancied resemblance to some one he had seen. “Where do you come from? By our Lady of Saragossa, you have a pleasant voice.”

“Grandeza,” answered the minstrel, “I am an orphan, of good birth, reduced to the greatest want. To-day, upon my word, I have not eaten a meal.”

“Poor boy! here you shall have your fill. How long have you been so reduced?”

“Since my father’s death, your Grace. He died when I was a child, and the wicked governors he placed over me have despoiled me of my inheritance. You see me, mighty señors, reduced to sing for food.”

“A right good youth, and worthy of largess,” observed Don Pedro de Mendoza, ill-famed as the most ruthless squanderer of the royal treasure. (If Don Pedro could have scanned the expression of the face before him, he might have seen such a smile of scorn gathering about the thin lips as would have startled him.)

“The saints bless you!” was the reply, “and deal with you as you do to others. As for me,” with a deep sigh, “I am not only starving, but at this present time I know that my sinful guardians are carousing at my expense.”

“The Virgin protect us!” exclaimed the archbishop. “Did ever man hear of such infamy!”

“If the youth speaks truth,” returned Villena, not to be behindhand in the expression of sympathy, “the matter should be submitted to the king’s judges, and right done in ample restitution.”

“Otherwise it were a disgrace to the government of the Regents,” put in Don Pedro de Mendoza.

“Restitution is not sufficient,” sententiously observed the archbishop in a pompous voice, intended to impress the company with his high sense of justice. “If the guilt of his guardians be proved, death is their proper due.”

“Methinks your holiness is somewhat severe,” put in the minstrel, making a low obeisance.

“Not at all, not at all! We rule Castile and Leon, not the king, who is disabled by bodily infirmities. It is our duty to have justice done.”