Old Court Life in Spain; vol. 2

“Is he not coming?” asked the king quickly, a look of relief spreading over his face.

“He is not; a most base calumny prevents him. The Conde de Luna is accused of having caused the assassination of Don Alfonso de Vivars. Until his sovereign publicly justifies him, he prefers to retire to his castle of Portello.”

“What! Vivars murdered!” cried Don Juan, evincing genuine emotion at the news. “How did this come about? I know he is a violent opponent of the constable, but what grounds are there for suspicion that he is concerned in his death?”

“None that I know of,” answered the bishop, “except public report, which is alien to the Conde de Luna.”

“But I can give your Grace reasons,” cried a voice from within, “if you will listen to me, which you never do,” and the Prince of the Asturias stormed into the room.

“Peace! Infante, or speak with more respect,” said the king, the whole equilibrium of his gentle character overset by this turbulent onslaught.

Don Enrique was so violent and headstrong, that his father positively dreaded the sight of him when they met, which was not often. Not one jot, however, did this terrible son yield of his insolent bearing.

“Respect to whom respect is due, my lord,” were his words, his young face crimson with rage and defiance. “I presume that this holy ecclesiastic (that is the word, though it is nought in this case) is imparting to you the news of the new crime of your favourite. He is ready at getting rid of his enemies; but this time it is done so boldly in the broad face of day the whole nation cries shame. Will your Grace create him to some new honour to reward him?”

As he spoke, the prince looked so furious as he advanced close to his father that the bishop interposed, but in vain.

“It is of no use,” he continued, fronting the king almost with menace, “to give you proofs of the guilt of the constable in this atrocious vengeance on an enemy; you would not believe me if I did. But I do not intend to be silent. I shall address the nation, which has already judged him for what he is.”

All this time the king had stood silent, contemplating his son with an expression of contempt. He was used to his violence.

“Whatever you say will be undutiful,” he replied at last, “and unfitting for a father’s ear to hear.”

“Yes, if you call it so,” cried the prince, not at all impressed by this reproof, spoken with more gentleness than seemed possible. “Until you send that arch-impostor, Luna, to the scaffold, we shall never be friends.”

“Then let us remain enemies,” replied the king with dignity; “I will do no man’s bidding.”

But this forbearance only angered the prince all the more.

“The traitor who sold victory over the Moors for a bribe in a basket of figs is then to be let off? Under the walls of Granada he did it, the villain!”

“Be silent, Infante!” cried the king; “you know that story is a lie!”

“By Santiago, I hold it for the truth,” quickly replied the prince. “How comes he by such revenues if he takes no bribes? Not this alone, but many. What need has he of twenty thousand freedmen at his heels when he travels – more than your Highness requires? Has he told you, or have you, my lord bishop, his confidant, that the King of Navarre is advancing on Pamplona? By the living God, my father, if you do not banish this upstart I will join with him against you! Think well of it, my lord. I am brave in the field. I stay not at home, toying with a new wife, singing ballads and romanceros, nor have I poets to amuse me, or Latin books to peruse. But the people will follow me. You and your favourite will be alone, and I shall reign over Navarre, Aragon, Leon, and Castile before you die! Ha! ha!”

With these wild words on his lips, the Prince of the Asturias retired as noisily as he had come, leaving the king, his father, in a state of the deepest dejection. No suffering to him was so great as anger and dispute. Almost rather would he have resigned the crown to his son than endure his sneers. But Luna had always combated this idea vigorously; and now he had married a new queen, and he would like to reign, if only to display her beauty by his side. A feeling of relief came over him that at least she and the prince were not joined together against him, although both were working for the same end – the fall of the constable.

With a deep sigh he sank upon a chair; such violence unhinged him. He could not at once collect his ideas sufficiently to resume his conversation. Then he remembered the murder and the invasion of Navarre.

“Is what the Infante says about Navarre true?” he asked the bishop, who stood respectfully aloof.

“Yes, my lord, they are in force before Pamplona.”

“And he will join them,” muttered the king; “he will disgrace me.” Then aloud, “I pray you, reverend father, to furnish me with the details of this assassination. Am I to understand that the constable is still at Portello?”

“Yes, my lord, he is awaiting judgment.”

“Now who will command my armies?” cried Don Juan, driven to despair by all this accumulation of trouble. “Little do they know what the constable is, who seek his destruction! I pray you, good bishop, to retire for to-day. I am indisposed. Go to Portello and take the constable’s orders as to the disposal of the troops against the King of Navarre. Summon the constable to hasten to me at once.”

“No, my lord, he cannot come before his trial.”

“By the holy Santiago! was ever a man so tormented as I?” exclaimed Don Juan, wringing his hands. “I shall have to lead the troops against my own son, if he carries out his rebellious intention. Adieu, my lord bishop. Salute Luna for me. I never missed him so much as now.”

Whether the Conde de Luna was really guilty of the crimes imputed to him will ever remain an historic problem. He offered no defence now or before. Either he was too conscious of his innocence, or too proud to justify himself.

At length, pressed on all sides, the half-imbecile king signed the order for his arrest, glad at any price to rid himself of importunity. A body of troops under Zuñiga were secretly despatched to surround the castle of Portello, where he had remained since his accusation.

All these preparations could not altogether escape the knowledge of Luna, but, with a fatality common to great ministers, he despised his enemies too much to take any measures against them.

Within a darkened chamber the constable sits in the castle of Portello; no other guards or alguazils man the walls but such as habitually attend on his person. The magnificence of his household has been greatly reduced, as if in deference to the accusations against him. Until lately the cynosure of all eyes, the dispenser of all honours at court and in the camp, he has come to lead a solitary life.

Lost in deep thought he rests his head upon his hand, sitting at a table covered with piles of parchments and papers, under which lies a naked sword.

The night is gathering around. All the noises of the little town have died out. The bells of the churches have long since been silent; the couvre-feu has tolled; the sharp click of the sereno’s metal stick has ceased to strike on the pavement, and the voices of some late revellers have died away in the night wind.

Still the constable sits on. That the thoughts which so absorb him are painful the furrows upon his forehead show, and the deep sighs which occasionally escape him. At all times indifferent to the accessories of dress, now in the middle of life, the plainness of his attire presents a remarkable contrast to the splendour of the court. His mantle and vest are of black cloth of simplest fashion, and he wears none of those jewels which constitute the habitual insignia of rank.

The beauty of his countenance is remarkable. Long black hair, bright and glossy, curls back from his lofty brow, his features aquiline and pointed, of the true Spanish type, give great expression to his eyes, of a somewhat mystic expression, and the deep olive of his skin brings into prominence the rich jet of his pointed beard and moustache. The lightness of his figure and his slender make, not only impart to him height, but make him appear much younger than he really is.

Nor is there any indication about him as he sits so motionless at the table, under the light of a massive silver candelabra, of that supercilious arrogance which has so greatly incensed his enemies.

Altogether he looks born to command men and to fascinate women. Skilled in every accomplishment of the age, fabulously brave, a type of manly beauty, no wonder that Mary of Aragon succumbed to his power and beauty, in contrast to the feebleness of her husband; nor that Isabel, her successor, believing him to exercise magic arts, shrinks from his contact. But the magic of which they accuse him is in the man himself. Luna is the magician, and his commanding intellect, as of a Titan among minnows, has brought his name down from a remote period as one of the most remarkable characters recorded in history.

The low oaken door within the keep in which the chamber of the constable is situated opens suddenly, and an aged jefe stands before him; behind him is his page, Morales.

Resenting any intrusion on his solitude, he looks up sharply, and his eyes fix themselves on them with a menacing expression.

“How dare you enter uncalled for?” he asks in a stern voice, addressing his devoted servant, Gotor, whose white face and trembling limbs announce some extraordinary agitation. “Why are you shaking so, old man?”

“Oh, my lord! my lord! Listen! The royal troops have arrived after dark; they surround the town.”

“Well! What of that?”

“You are in danger, my dear master!” cries Gotor, clasping his hands and approaching nearer to the table at which Luna is seated. “You must instantly conceal yourself until you can escape. I have a disguise ready without.”

“Escape!” cries the constable, rising from his chair. “Never! I have lived in danger of my life for the last twenty years. I care not for the petty plots of traitors whom I will soon hang up as high as Haman.”

“But the king, my lord! The king – he has forsaken you. He sends these troops. I know it,” put in Morales, coming to the front in spite of the terror with which the constable inspires him. “Hearing the movement in the town, I have been down among the alguazils who accompany the troops. They say that their mission is to seize the High Constable and carry him to Valladolid a prisoner. Fly, my dear master! Let us die for you!” More eager than Gotor, the tears stream from Morales’s eyes as he dares to advance and touch the Conde on the arm.

“No,” answers Luna, shaking him off, and with a stately step turning to pace up and down the chamber. “It is false that Don Juan has himself sent for me. He may be foolish, weak, deceived; but he will never betray his faithful friend.”

“For the love of God, believe me!” pleads Morales, again pressing on the Conde, no muscle of whose face had changed.

“That my enemies are below I do not doubt,” he replies, “but that they are sent by the king, no voice but his own shall convince me.”

“Then, my dear master, we must defend you. Call our slender garrison together, and man the walls with their crossbows.”

No reply comes. Gotor hastily turns towards the door, but the impetuous Morales is before him. The heavy panels turn on their hinges, the lock closes loudly in the silence, and Luna is again alone.