Old Court Life in Spain; vol. 2

What could those devoted servants do against the strong force under Conde de Zuniga? A few crossbows were discharged, some swords were drawn. Morales fell wounded, Gotor was taken prisoner, and the besieged were overpowered.

Zuniga, furious at the opposition, appeared on the platform in front of the castle gate clad in a complete suit of dark armour greaved with steel, wearing his visor down, preceded by a herald bearing the red and yellow flag of Spain.

“In the name of Don Juan, King of Castile and Leon,” cries the herald. “Oh, hear, hear him. I, Don Alfonso de Zuniga, leading the armies of the king, command Don Alvarez de Luna, Constable of Castile and Leon, instantly to surrender his person for trial on the charge of foul murder, or the castle of Portello shall be consigned to the flames. Lord High Constable, I call on you, in the king’s name, to answer.”

“I am here to reply to the Conde de Zuniga,” answers Luna, appearing under the arch of a Gothic window over the gallery, with the same dignity of presence as if he were receiving him as a guest. A blind confidence in his power over the king still possesses him, and, besides, to his haughty spirit, the humiliation of submission to his enemies is bitterer than death.

“Answer me also. What mean you, Don Alfonso de Zuniga, by besieging my castle?”

A tone of offended dignity is in his voice, but he does not condescend to any other expression.

“I come on a warrant from the king,” answers Zuniga, displaying a parchment which he hands to the herald, who holds it up extended on a lance.

“The king!” cries Luna, with more passion than he has yet shown. “It is a lie! This is some foul scheme to trap me into your hands.”

“Look at that document,” cries Zuniga, chafing under the insolent bearing of the constable, and as the sun, which has now risen, shines upon the rocky platform on which they stand before the castle, the brilliant colours of “the castle and the lion,” are plainly displayed emblazoned on the sheet. “If you submit,” continues Zuniga, advancing to where Luna stands at the casement, “such respect as your rank entitles you to is guaranteed; I swear it on the honour of a Castilian. My orders are to conduct you to Valladolid in honourable custody, and to demand your sword.”

“Take my life with it, if you list!” cries Luna, in a voice of bitter anguish, “if my lord and master has in truth given me into your hands.”

The one desire of Luna was to obtain an interview with the king. Well did he estimate his craven and helpless nature and that, if once admitted to his presence, the long supremacy he had exercised over him would at once return. The queen was equally determined that so dangerous an interview should not take place. It was the influence of the moment which always decided Don Juan, if any decision he ever had at all.

“I will not admit the Conde de Luna to my presence,” was his answer to the messengers sent to Burgos.

“Nor has such a traitor the right to ask it,” added the queen – who now habitually took part in the Council of State – standing behind him, her dark eyes flashing fire.

Three long days passed within the noble hall with the artesonado ceiling, where Luna was confined in the Casa de las Argollas (the iron links), still entire and standing in the Plaza Viega of Valladolid – three days of terrible suspense, yet with the absolute assurance that Don Juan would relent. He had been guilty of no crime; he deserved no punishment from the master he had so faithfully served. His arrogant nature was maddened under the delay, but he suppressed the expression of his indignation until he should stand face to face with the king.

The long hours passed, no message came. Then, yielding to the alarm of the friends who had gathered round him, he wrote that historic letter, each word of which has come down to us.

“Forty-five years of my life, King Don Juan, have been passed in your service; nor have I ever heard a word of complaint from your lips. The favours you have showered on me were greater than my deserts, and certainly more than my desire. To my prosperity one thing was wanting —caution. In the days when you loved me I should have retired from court and enjoyed in an honourable retreat the well-earned proofs of your munificence.

“But I was either too generous or presumptuous, and I continued to lead the state as long as I deemed my sovereign needed me. In this, O King of Castile, I was myself deceived.”

So completely had Don Juan’s heart at this time been hardened against him, that, resolute for once, instead of a reply, the trial of the High Constable was decided on. The crimes of which he was accused were many. First, the assassination of the Conde de Vivars; then vague charges of embezzlement of the royal revenues, of having possessed himself by magic of the will of the king and of his late queen; of being a tyrant, without specifying any act of tyranny, and of usurping the royal authority, without stating on what occasion.

So irregular and illegal were the conditions of the tribunal, composed of accusers and judges, that it went far toward proving not only his innocence, but a preconceived conclusion against him. He was condemned to death.

Still he could not be brought to believe in his danger. When the sentence was read to him, he bowed his grand head, covered with the glossy curls, and was silent. A defiant smile parted his lips, as, roused from his usual apathy, his eyes travelled slowly round from one to the other of his judges.

Had not a fortune-teller predicted he should die in Cadahalso, the name of one of his fiefs? And he was now in prison in Valladolid! But he forgot that, in Spanish, Cadahalso also means scaffold, and that on the scaffold he was condemned to die.

He was condemned, but the warrant of death had not yet been signed by the king; at any time he might revoke it. The queen knew this and watched him.

The fatal paper lay on a table in his retiring-room, untouched. Long Don Juan contemplated it in silence, absorbed in more gloomy reflections than he had ever felt before.

He imagined he was alone, but the queen, who never left him, was concealed behind the arras.

Poor helpless, foolish sovereign! the atrocity of the act bewildered him. A confusion of ideas troubled his spirit. As he gazed, the letters stood out as if in characters of blood before his eyes.

What! he told himself, as he cast sad glances upon the paper, and pang after pang of real sorrow shot from his inmost soul – the death of Luna, whom he had loved when yet a little child, and his firm hand upheld his tottering steps! The man in whom he had placed implicit trust and whose genius left to him only the luxury, not the cares, of sovereignty. Luna, the brave, the poetic knight, whose romantic career had fired his fancy with the enthusiasm of a second Cid! Luna, his favourite, friend, the support of his throne! The touch of his familiar hand seemed to grasp his own! The superb majesty of his presence became tangible to him as he paced up and down the apartment, a prey to a waking vision, called up by the vivid image of his life. The constable! Always the constable! Where was he? Would he answer to his call, and make his life pleasant to him as heretofore? For a moment he forgot the existence of the queen. Her blandishments and pleadings faded away as a mist before the sun. His weak mind, unable to battle with such a tumult of ideas, recalled no reason why his great minister should not be before him. There, opposite, on the seat where he had sat so many years, and raised his sonorous voice to comfort him. Dead! Condemned! Impossible! It was an evil dream. His hand was already outstretched to rend the parchment, the sight of which had caused him such agitation, and by swift messengers to recall him to his side, when Queen Isabel stood before him.

“What! my dear lord!” she cried, in that melodious voice which she never allowed to reach his ears but as a harmony, laying her hand upon his as she spoke and drawing him from the table where the sentence lay, “can it be true that you hesitate, when my safety and that of the nation are at stake?”

In a confused silence he listened.

Attired in long robes of deepest mourning, which set off the luscious brilliance of her complexion, she looked the ideal embodiment of woe. Her large eyes were dull and veiled as she turned them imploringly on the king, her whole being expressed the most poignant grief. Isabel was perhaps the handsomest woman of her time, and, as such, bequeathed it to her great daughter, Isabella of Aragon. She was at least the most subtle. She knew that as long as Luna lived, the king might escape her at any moment.

Impulsively she grasped both his hands, she laid her cheeks next to his. Thus they stood for awhile; his arms clasped around her in a fervid embrace. What beauty, what devotion was hers! Could he pain this transcendent creature? These tears which lay on her eyelids like roseate dew he could kiss off, but no further cause must be given her to shed them.

“Oh, Juan!” she whispered, her words reaching his ears like ineffable sighs, “why will you spare the criminal whose death I desire? Why will you support a wretch whom every noble in your kingdom would see in his grave? Your very crown is in danger! Your son is in revolt! Your cousin, the Infante of Aragon, favours him; the King of Navarre – ”

At the detested name of Navarre and his cousin of Aragon, who were both, in this troubled and odious reign, continually conspiring against him, the king gave a great start. Such energy as he possessed suddenly came back to him.

“If you could prove that, my Reina!” he cried, every feature in his face working with passion.

“I can! I can!” she answered; “the proofs are in my possession.” Then, gently drawing him towards the table, on which lay the fatal document, she placed a pen in his hand. “Sign, Juan,” she said, “for the sake of my unborn child!”

Even at that moment his hand trembled so violently that he could scarcely form the letters of his name.

The scaffold was erected in the Plaza Mayor, in the centre of the city of Valladolid, where so many autos-da-fé came afterwards to be celebrated under Philip II.

A large crucifix was placed in front of the stage, upon which was spread a carpet of black velvet. The block and axe were there, but partially concealed by the tall figure of the executioner, masked and robed in scarlet.

From the moment he had received the intimation of his doom, the fortitude and composure of the constable inspired respect even among his enemies. With an unmoved countenance he met the high officers of state at the door of the apartment he occupied in the Casa de las Argollas, and listened to the sentence of death and the enumeration of the crimes which were laid to his charge.

Not a word passed his lips. He might have been a statue of stone but for a sad, tranquil smile, and the grave courtesy of the salute with which he returned the reverences of the judges.

Now the trumpets sounded their shrill note, the clarion answered, and the procession marched forward. First the parti-coloured herald with his gay cap and tabard, rehearsing in a loud voice the reasons for which the High Constable was to suffer. A body of men-at-arms followed in two ranks, marching to the sound of muffled drums.

The constable himself next, mounted on a mule. He wore high-heeled shoes with diamond buckles and an ample Castilian mantle reaching to his chin. By his side rode his confessor.

The multitude which thronged the city to see this extraordinary sight was immense; not only Valladolid and Burgos, but from all the burghs and villages about for fifty miles.

As the people gazed open-eyed at the fall of the Master of Castile, much as he was detested in life, murmurs of compassion were heard on every side, as, with an air of dignified leisure, he dismounted, and slowly ascended the steps of the scaffold.

Arrived at the summit, he stood for a moment lost in thought as his eyes ranged over the sea of faces uplifted to his, surging like the troubled action of the waves. The stone colonnade which still surrounds the Plaza was crammed; in every window, terrace, mirador, and balcony, the eager countenances of massed-up spectators seemed to clothe the walls.

Raising his plumed hat for a moment from his head, he scanned the multitude come to see him die. In front of the scaffold stood his enemy, Don Enrique, Infante of Aragon, whose efforts to depose Don Juan he had for years successfully combated. Around him gathered a group of nobles of the queen’s party.

“Tell my master and yours, Don Juan the the king,” he said, speaking in a clear voice, addressing himself to the Infante, “that he may find the crown fit better on his brow now that I am gone, who made it too heavy for him.” Then turning to his page Morales, convulsed with grief, who had followed him to the scaffold, bearing on his arm, neatly folded, a scarlet cloak to cover his body after decapitation, his lofty bearing softened and his voice trembled as he spoke: “Alas! my poor boy, you, who owe me nothing, weep for me; and my master the king, who owes me so much gratitude, desires nothing but my death!”

He then took off his hat, which he handed to Morales, together with a ring, placing it on his finger. His face was perfectly serene and his clustering curls hung upon his broad shoulders, scented and tended as carefully as heretofore.

Standing in front of the platform, the crimson figure of the executioner backing him, the whole multitude was moved to pity, and notable sounds of lamentation rent the air.

That this public testimony of sympathy gratified him exceedingly, the smile that lighted up his face plainly showed. He placed his hand on his heart and again saluted the vast assembly. “No manner of death brings shame,” he said, “if supported with courage. Nor can the end of life be deemed premature when it has been passed at the head of the state with probity and wisdom. I wish the King of Castile a happy life, and his people the same prosperity I brought to them.”

He then examined the block on which his head was to be laid, loosened the lace ruff about his throat, smoothed back his hair from his neck, and took a black ribbon from his vest, which he handed to the executioner to bind his hands.