Old Court Life in Spain; vol. 2

A loud murmur here interrupted him for a moment, and the name of Beltrano was distinctly heard.

The colour mounted furiously to the face of the king, who, like all of his family, was a fair and comely prince; his eyes grew dangerously bright, and he laid his hand on the hilt of the dagger at his side.

“My lords! my lords! you try my patience too much!” he cried. “Why am I not to have a child like any one of you? Answer! Especially after – ” here his voice dropped. They all knew what he meant, but no one believed it. Like every member of his family, Don Enrique was unable to sustain his passions. The awe inspired by his presence had passed. Every eye was fixed menacingly upon him. Each noble recalled the scandal of his life and the treason of which he was guilty in acknowledging the Beltraneja as his heir. Face to face with the king, the indignation they felt blazed out. No words were spoken, but the menace was clear. Don Enrique quailed before it. He stood before the chief nobles of Castile as his accusers. He was judged and found guilty. The expression of their conviction was instantaneous.

Then the archbishop, with dignified calm, became the spokesman.

“Your Highness, we are here to declare that we will never acknowledge Doña Juana as your successor. Civil war will be the result of your insistence. Be advised, my good lord, not to drive your subjects to extremities. Banish that vile adventurer Beltrano de las Cuevas. Call your brother Don Alfonso, and your sister Doña Isabel to adorn the court, and trust to your faithful subjects for the rest.”

The king maintained a stony silence. He had become ashy pale. The hostile bearing of his nobles, the fearless words of the archbishop showed him his danger. Like all weak natures, he was obstinate. Never would he renounce the succession of Doña Juana; never would he dismiss Beltrano. He must temporise, but how? As his eye passed slowly down the ranks of those gathered before him, and he remembered that the most powerful chief among them was not there, a feeling of defeat came over him.

At this moment the Master of Calatrava intervened. The evident distress of the king touched him. Attacked in his life, in his consort, the old feudal feeling came to his rescue as to his chief.

“Cannot some accommodation be found,” were his words, “without imposing too severe conditions on the king? Don Alfonso, his brother, can marry the Infante Juana. This would content all parties.”

The relief this proposal gave to Don Enrique was very plain. His whole aspect changed. Again he was the reckless prince who lived in the midst of revellers, flatterers, and buffoons, and, dissolute by nature, tolerated the licentious conduct of the queen. Here was the opening he longed for, but dared not propose. An accommodation such as this would give him time to defy this outrageous insolence with arms in his hands and an army behind him.

A grateful smile lighted up his face; like all of his family, with large, prominent eyes under sharply curved eyebrows, long, pointed nose and irresolute lips which gave a shifting character to his face.

“I am ready,” he said, “to listen graciously to the desires of my subjects. The House of Trastamare owes much to its supporters. Foremost among them you are, my lord archbishop, and your nephew, the Marqués de Villena, though at the present time one would not say so.”

This shaft, levelled at the archbishop, was met with a severe reprimand.

“Your ancestors, my lord, reverenced the Church. You have defiled it.”

“Let us not fall into recriminations,” cried the Grand Master Giron, “but rather seek how our conditions can meet the king’s desires, and rebellion be avoided.”

Then Don Enrique passed his royal word, standing before the throne, his hand in that of the archbishop, that his brother, Don Alfonso, should, with his sister Doña Isabel, be received at court with the honours which were their due; that Don Alfonso, under the guardianship of the Marqués de Villena, should be affianced to Doña Juana, and the Conde de Ledesma be banished to his estates.

Time passed; but, excepting the liberty of his brother and sister, Don Alfonso and Doña Isabel, who were, however, closely watched by the queen and Ledesma, none of these conditions were fulfilled.

Every abuse continued. The Conde de Ledesma lorded it as before in a court where vice and disorder reigned paramount. Don Alfonso was not affianced to the little Juana, and the queen continued to scandalise all Castile. Then the Marqués de Villena decided upon action. This time he would make his presence felt. Don Enrique, fourth of that name, must be dethroned, (1464). His brother Alfonso proclaimed king in his place. On the plains of Avila the nation was summoned to ratify the act.

Avila stands on the summit of a wild mountain gorge, grey, colourless, and arid. Below are piled up heaps of huge granite boulders, as if washed by the water of the deluge. Then, beyond, line upon line of rough and scattered rocks lead the eye to the far-distant horizon.

At first sight the town seems to be but a dolomite crown fixed on the cliffs themselves, until the eye discerns a circle of granite walls, broken at regular intervals by machicolated towers, to this day in perfect preservation.

All is severe, wind-bound, arid. A mountain fortress looking towards the fastnesses over the Escurial. War trumpets, arrows, and catapults seem in the air; lances rattle and blood-stained banners wave. Beneath, the eye ranges over a vast region bounded by the snow-capped mountains of the Guadarrama. A prospect such as is seen nowhere but in Spain, where the plains take the semblance of an earthy sea, in the large lines of alternate sun and shade and streaks of vivid colour that undulate as on the perpetual agitation of the waves.

And now a strange sight presents itself. On a level vega, a sheet of green, illumined by the full rays of the mid-day sun, filling all nature with a glorious light, a huge platform rises, on which stands a throne. On it is seated a gigantic semblance of the king, wearing the pointed crown of the Goths, the sceptre in one hand and the sword of justice at his side. No detail is wanting to render it more real. Jewelled collar and chain sparkle around his neck, pearls, emeralds, and rubies glow at the girdle, confining a sumptuous robe under a royal mantle lined and faced with miniver.

In front is planted the banner of Castile, and a whole army of men-at-arms, crossbowmen, and lancers, guard the mimic sovereign as in life.

All those dignitaries and prelates who took part in the conference at the archbishop’s are there also, to a man, gathered round the platform, to judge the king.

Beyond, a vast multitude spreads over the plain. The nation has been summoned and it has come, and great disappointment is expressed not to find also figures of the queen and Don Beltrano exposed for judgment, as well as of the king.

Each craft and profession is arrayed in the costume of its order, distinctive at that time. Monks and mendicant friars, Moorish sheikhs from Granada and belted knights stand shoulder to shoulder with ecclesiastics and learned professors, the military orders of Santiago and Calatrava in half-clerical costume, and estudiantes from Salamanca, the cockle-shell on their large hats.

Nor are the picturesque peasants wanting from the northern provinces with cloak and staff. Aragonese with hempen sandals, the heavy-mantled Castilian who dreads the cold, and the men of Leon who till the fields.

At the roll of the drum the troops march forward, the colours are lowered, and a solemn Mass is celebrated by the Archbishop of Toledo before the sham king, while martial bands thrill the souls of men.

Then to the blare of trumpets the young Infante Don Alfonso (only eleven years of age) is borne in – a tall, slender boy of the delicate type of his family, brother of Doña Isabel, who declines to appear.

His appearance is announced with deafening shouts, and countless voices welcome him as king.

The archbishop then advances in the midst of his tonsured chapter, the censers around him filling the air with a fragrance more intense than the wild thyme and lavender of the Huerta, and mounts the steps of the platform, the other nobles standing with drawn swords.

A loud trumpet-call sounds a long and melancholy note, prolonged into infinite echoes to command attention. Every voice is hushed, every eye directed to the platform, where a herald in his parti-coloured dress appears, and standing between two alguazils, proceeds to read the sentence of dethronement.

“Ye Castilians, Grandees, Ricoshombres, Prelates, Hidalgos, Esquires, and Citizens, hear, oh! hear! The King Don Enrique the Fourth, being unworthy of the crown, which he disgraces by many crimes, it now pleases God, by the agency of his confederated nobles, to punish him by a well-merited dethronement for the following reasons:

“He is unworthy of a crown he cannot hold, for it is the pernicious Don Beltrano de las Cuevas, known as the Conde de Ledesma, who rules Castile.

“He is unworthy of the sword of justice, because he administers none among his subjects.

“He is unworthy of the throne, because he is a traitor in naming a bastard child of the queen and Beltrano de las Cuevas as his successor, instead of his brother, his rightful heir. Let Henry the Fourth of Castile be therefore hurled from the throne he disgraces.”

As the herald retires, the fierce-eyed metropolitan again comes to the front, and, with great solemnity unlooses the glittering crown from the brow of the figure and hurls it into space.

Next the Conde de Palencia mounts the platform and, less calm and collected than the churchman, with a furious gesture tears the sword of justice from its side.

Now it is the turn of the fiery Lord of Benevente, who presses forward, and, with words of passion on his lips, rends the sceptre from the hand of the image.

No sooner is this done than Don Diego Lopez de Zuniga seizes the figure and flings it headlong from the throne to be torn and burned by the common people, who think it a fine thing to fall upon even the semblance of a king.

At the same moment the confederate nobles lift the Infante Don Alfonso on their shoulders and place him on the vacant throne.

To the crafty statesman and intriguer, the Marqués de Villena, falls the honour of investing him with the insignia of royalty. The archbishop does homage and kisses his hand, followed by each noble in his turn, advancing towards the blushing prince, who had been with difficulty prevailed on to act this part during the life of his brother.

The new king then mounts on a milk-white charger, covered with gold trappings, nets, feathers, and ribbons, and attended by all the confederates (or conspirators, as they might be called), and the vast multitude, passes up the hill to Avila, amid universal acclamations, to the Cathedral, where the apse forms a strong bastion in the city wall. And here he is blessed under the gloom of deeply stained windows, while bishops pronounce warlike orations in his honour to the boom of cannon and the firing of arquebuses.

But an unforeseen misfortune befell the confederate nobles. The young Alfonso died. Nothing daunted, however, they at once named his sister, the Infanta Isabel, Princess of the Asturias, heiress to the crown.

CHAPTER XXIII

Ferdinand and Isabel

WE are again in the great room in the palace of Valladolid, with its low roof and deep embowered casement, looking on the richly carved front of San Pablo, in which Don Fadique dared to avow his ill-omened passion to poor Blanche of Navarre.

As then, it is evening, and a warm atmosphere of tempered light plays about the statues and foliage, tracery and shields of the Gothic façade that rises with so much majesty in front, and flocks of grey pigeons circle round the towers to perch upon the gargoyles and escutcheons of the deeply arched portal, a noble specimen of the flamboyant style.

Now another princess sits in the same place, under the glow of the coloured glass of the casement, glinting in upon the dusky panels of the room, so dim and low and long that the farther end has already melted into shadow.

She is young too, this princess, barely sixteen, and fair-complexioned, with blue eyes and well-marked features, altogether a noble head, set off by the abundant coils of auburn hair, arranged under a jewelled coif; but there the resemblance ends.

Instead of the curly head of poor yielding Blanche, with her Gallic vivacity and childlike eyes full of tenderness to all she loves, this one has a natural dignity about her which at once imposes respect. She is calm and reserved in manners and has a measured speech.