Old Court Life in Spain; vol. 2

The king’s voice drops. He waits to mark the impression of his words among these heroic leaders who, new to the usages of modern warfare, disdain all means but that of the sword. Murmurs of dissent are indeed heard from the Knights of Pulgar and Aguilar, but subdued as towards their commander.

Ponce de Leon rises. “Don Ferdinand, the King,” he says, “I have no more doubt that under your guidance we shall stand within the courts of the fortress rising so defiantly before us, than that the sun will rise to-morrow, and autumn succeed summer on the plain. Stratagem is good in warfare, though some among us think otherwise. But beware of deception, your Highness; the Moor is like the Jew in cunning and deceit. Why not call the queen again into the field? Her gracious presence is ever the signal of success, and animates the soldiers. Let the saintly Isabel exorcise the infidels by the power of her faith. At the siege of Baza it was so. Why not now?”

“Bravely spoken, Ponce de Leon,” cries De Pulgar, swaying his huge body to and fro with excitement.

“Let the queen appear on the Vega,” cries the Conde de Cabra and Lord Rivers, who became so loud in his acclaim, he had to be silenced by those who sat near.

“God is my witness,” cries Ferdinand, moved to some show of emotion by this enthusiasm, “that I would willingly ever be accompanied by my beloved consort; but this is a matter which neither her Highness nor any one else can influence. I promise you, my lords, the queen shall join us, and that shortly; but I repeat that her presence touches not the matter in hand.”

But the warlike councillors had become so possessed with the idea of the queen’s arrival, that for some minutes nothing could be heard.

“It is not for us to judge of your Highness’s actions,” said, speaking last of all, the young Gonsalvo de Cordoba, whose after career showed that he acted on the same system as his master; “your wisdom is our best safeguard. All means are good to conquer the enemy: to plot while we fight, to undermine while we destroy.”

“You speak well, Gonsalvo,” answered Ferdinand, smiling, as conscious of the sympathy of a kindred spirit who can appreciate his rare qualities of intrigue.

“I will disclose so much to my assembled chiefs as to say that I am possessed of the sure knowledge that the powerful tribe of the Abencerrages are about to leave the city, in secret, to join our standard.”

At these words the whole council rose as one man, loudly to acclaim the king; all save Gonsalvo, who, indeed, stood up like the rest, but had already been informed by Ferdinand of this event.

“The Moorish king,” continued Ferdinand, “listening to the suggestions of the treacherous Zigris (always art variance with the rival tribes), believed that his queen was found in dalliance with an Abencerrage in the garden of the Generalife, called the entire tribe together in the Court of Lions, and barbarously butchered thirty-six of their number. Indeed, but for a boy, a niño, who gave the alarm, all would have perished. So exasperated are they, that one and all have determined to join our camp. Already after night falls, they will steal across the Vega; the sentries are warned, and Mousa and his master, Boabdil will be deprived of their bravest fighters. What say you to this, my valiant captains?”

“Sir King, we say that we are led not only by the bravest general who ever drew sword” (it was the Duque de Medina Sidonia who spoke, and his armed fist fell heavily on the table), “but by the wisest monarch who has reigned since Solomon. Our confidence in your Highness is complete. Lead on, my Lord, and we follow, even to the gates of hell.”

“God willing, I will not go there myself,” answered Ferdinand, smiling at his impetuosity, which, indeed, was reflected in all around, “therefore you are safe from such a danger. Hell, indeed! Into heaven, rather, that we hope to gain in this crusade against the infidels!” and Ferdinand crossed himself devoutly, for, sagacious as he was, and cunning, he was capable of the utmost depths of superstition. “But,” he continued, “spite of this important adherence, we must still fight. To-morrow I command a strong detachment to lay waste to the Vega, even to the city walls. Let all come to me who will join it. My lords, the council is ended.”

Upon this the knights rose and withdrew with all that grave and stately ceremonial which Ferdinand exacted from his followers. Only the young prince remained.

“Juan,” said Ferdinand, casting on him a look of inexpressible affection (deep down in his heart he was a tender man, and this only son was an object to him of almost adoration), “early and late the Infantes of Spain should learn the lesson of policy. It is a new science come in with modern times. Formerly, kings and princes could only fight. Now they use stratagem, which means the knowledge of the balance of power – state against state, noble against noble, Church against State, all of which would have been formerly despised, but in future will rule the world. You see, my son, these notables of Spain? They are the brightest jewels of my crown, but it is for me, their king, that they should unite their brilliancy. The queen, your honoured mother, and I, have by our entire union formed a mighty monarchy which will descend to you, Infante. But it must be maintained, not by brute force, but by knowledge. Santiago! by knowledge!” and as he spoke he seized Don Juan’s delicate fingers and pressed them in his own hard palm. “You look annoyed. Am I too fierce in my words? But by the blessed Virgin! I love you well, Juan. See, I will conquer Granada for you. But not a lizard runs on the painted walls of the Alhambra, but I know it. So in Spain. All is unfolded to me within our joint kingdom. I balance the great nobles as the player does his dice. I am called wise, my son, this is my wisdom.” Here he again crossed himself devoutly. “Ave Maria,” he said, “the blessed Virgin knows the hearts of men.”

Juan listened with a weary attention to his wise father, little consonant with the statecraft to which these lessons tended. He was a soldier who loved to march with the army and cared not for tortuous policy.

“But I love my mother’s ways best,” said the gentle prince, suppressing a yawn, as he sank back into his chair, “with her Grace all is truthful and open.”

“May Heaven bless her!” cried Ferdinand. “She is a noble wife. But it is our union which makes the strength of Spain.”

In the early summer Queen Isabel sets out from Cordoba to join the army, accompanied by her eldest daughter, Isabel, to become Queen of Portugal, attended by prelates, cardinals, and friars. Her younger children, Juana and Catalina, remain behind.

With her, also, are Beatrix de Bobadilla, now Marquesa de Moya, her loving friend, her secretary, Peter Martyr, the Boswell of her life, her Almoner, the Bishop of Talavera, who, when offered the See of Salamanca, replies he will accept nothing but the See of Granada!!! Garcilaso de la Vega, and her court of dueñas and ladies.

The lovely Infanta has now become a stately matron, exceedingly fair, and somewhat inclined to stoutness, spite of the constant activity of her life. All feel the majesty of her presence, and the sway of the enlightened mind that dictates all her actions. Mistress she remains of herself and of her kingdom, spite of Ferdinand’s continual interference. But her love for him is unchanged, although he is far from being the faithful husband she deserves, and she is much tormented by jealousy.

As Queen of Castile she has assisted him in the war to the utmost of her power. The united Cortes of Castile and Aragon have been invoked by their own sovereigns, and each has made independent provision for the Moorish war “to be pursued to the end,” as necessary to the well-being of the nation.

It is a lovely valley she traverses on her way from Cordoba to Granada, now followed by the rail. Here is Montilla, famous for its white wines; old towers and castles succeed each other on the hills, and the sunny slopes are lined by vineyards and pomegranate woods. Olive-trees, big as ancestral oaks, make avenues as far as the eye can reach, and the damp wind sounds like music among the reeds at the Puerte del Xenil. At the town of Bobadilla, now a station, the huge mountains of Granada shut in all the plain, impregnable barriers between the Christian and the Moor.

The queen travels mounted on a mule, seated on a golden saddle – a rich kirtle of velvet with hanging sleeves forms her robe, cut square on the neck, and a long mantle and a black hat complete her attire.

As she advances through the defile, the Rock of the Lovers (Pina de los Enamorados) opens to the sight, so called because a Christian knight, who loved a Moorish maid, flung himself from the summit to die with her in his arms.

Higher up in the mountains the queen is met by a splendid train of knights, headed by the elegant Ponce de Leon, courtly as he is brave – indeed, from his actions in this war he has been named the second Cid – and Lord Rivers, the English volunteer, mounted a la guisa (meaning with long stirrups), wearing over his armour a velvet cloak and a French hat and feather, attended by pages in silk, and foot soldiers.

The earl, as eccentric as he is brave, bare-headed makes a reverence to the queen, which she returns, at the same time graciously condescending to compliment him on his valour in the siege of Loja, further condoling with him on the loss of his two front teeth, knocked out by the hilt of a Moorish scimitar.

“But Earl Rivers might,” continues Isabel, in her soft voice, bending on him the calm lustre of her blue eyes, recorded as such a beauty in her faultless face, “have lost the teeth by natural decay, whereas now their lack will be esteemed a glory rather than a shame.”

To which the earl, bowing to his saddle-bow, replies that he returns thanks to God for the honour her Highness has done him in allowing him to meet her; that he is contented, nay, even happy in the loss of his teeth seeing that it was for the service of God and of her Highness; for God having given him all the teeth he possesses, in depriving him of two has but opened a window in the house of his body, the more readily to observe the soul within.

As the royal cavalcade approaches the great gonfalon of Spain, the queen makes a low reverence and passes to the right hand, awaiting Ferdinand, who appears in state, armed cap-à-pie in mail so wrought with gold it seems all of that metal – a snowy plume waving over a diadem on his neck, a massive chain, the links inwrought with gems of the rough workmanship of Gothic times when everything was ponderous, mounted on a chestnut charger, and attended by the Christian knights. But as they approach each other, these royal spouses, in the presence of the army and in a hostile land, it is not in the guise of mutual lovers, but as allied sovereigns that they meet. Three formal reverences are their salutation, the queen taking off her hat as Ferdinand approaches and formally kisses her on the cheek. He also kisses his daughter and blesses her, and so they pass into the camp to the lofty tent prepared for Isabel. In the centre of the camp, not, indeed, a tent, but a pavilion in the Oriental taste, formed of sheets of cloth of gold, divided into compartments of painted linen lined with silk, each compartment separated from the other by costly arras. Lances make its columns, brocade and velvet its walls, and it covers such an extent of ground as might have been occupied by a real palace.

All lay in profound repose, the gorgeous pageant was over, the shades of evening deepened, the stars came out serene in that large firmament, and lighted up the streets of tents, gay with banners and devices, where the camp-fires burned.

Alone, the queen had not retired to rest, and was offering up her fervent prayers for the success of the war and the safety of Ferdinand. In an instant a vivid and startling blaze burst forth beside her. The tent was in flames. The light materials fed the fire. She had barely time to escape from the burning embers falling about her, and to rush to her husband’s tent. Into his arms she cast herself – the valiant queen for a moment all the woman – in her alarm.

“The Moors have done this!” cried Ferdinand, as he listened to her confused account. “They will be on us. Let the trumpets sound to charge,” and hastily wrapping himself in his manto he made his way through the blazing camp to command his forces.

But no Moors were there. The towers of Granada rose white and placid in the night. The only light, the beacon fire in the high outpost of the Vega. No sound came from the city. For a moment the thought of magic floated through Ferdinand’s mind. He was superstitious, and the Moors dealt much in necromancy, but it was evident that in its course the fire was associated with the queen (whether by purpose or accident), and he was resolved to take advantage of this to rouse his indignant army to action.

“Heaven,” said he, as his knights came rushing round him, “has saved the queen. Let this danger to her life break up the camp and lead us to the solid walls of Granada. Let us lodge her safely within the walls of the Alhambra. Woe to the Moslem and his wiles!”

At these words lances rattled and swords leaped from the scabbard.

“Woe to the Moslem!” echoed from every side.

With the morning light a vigorous assault was made, and a fierce battle fought among the charred wrecks of the smouldering camp. But Ferdinand’s cold and sober policy was principally bent on restraining the fiery spirits he commanded. Mostly he contented himself with skirmishes and closing all the issues through which provisions could reach Granada.

It was the accident of the fire which led to the building of Santa Fé (the city of Sacred Faith) in the Vega, as a permanent refuge, to convince the Moors that nothing would turn the Christians from the conquest.

The ruins of Santa Fé still remain on the slope of a line of low hills opposite Granada, close by the castle of Rum or Roma, granted by Ferdinand VII. to the Duke of Wellington in the Peninsular War.

At Santa Fé Isabel appeared in complete armour at the head of the Castilians. She inspected every tent, reviewed her troops, consoled, exhorted, encouraged, a very Christian Bellona, who carried victory in her hand.

At Santa Fé she met Columbus, and after refusing him what he needed for his enterprise, sent after him, when he had crossed the bridge of Peñas on his return, and consented to find funds for his departure to the New World.

Now nothing in the siege was so fatal to the Moors as the building of Santa Fé.

While their enemies were revelling in the plenty of the land the supplies of the city were cut off. Autumn brought them no crops, the Christians spoiled them; all their sheep and cattle were lifted, and famine began to be felt.

Then Boabdil, who had succeeded his father, Muley Hassan, called together the heads of the city – the alcaides, dervishes, alfaquis, and imams of the faith, within the great Hall of the Ambassadors, where his father had sat. By his side his mother, Ayxa la Horra, just middle-aged, of commanding stature, in long, ample robes, worked with jewels, her dark hair shaded by a turban diademed with gold – and asked them, “What is to be done?” At the momentous question every face grew white, and they who had fought so many years so manfully, hung their heads and wept.

For a time no voice answered until an aged alcaide rose and with a faltering voice uttered the word “Surrender!”

As with one voice all joined in: “Surrender!” echoes up to the domed roof, glittering with crystal damasked in deep-coloured wood – the arabesques and the fantastic devices echo it, the fairy-like arcades bordered with orange and lemon-trees carry it on to the women’s quarter beyond the Court of the Alberca, where wails and shrieks repeat it.

“Surrender!” sounds from the towers upon the cliff down to the deep valley of the Darro where the bubbling waters foam.

“Surrender!” is carried by the winds into the narrow streets of Granada, where want and famine stalk, tangible to the eye in sunken faces of famished men.

“Surrender! Yes!” cries the aged alcaide, taking up the word. “Alas! we have no food. None can reach us since the armed walls of Santa Fé command the place. We are 200,000 young and old. We are all starving. Of what avail are the Alhambra walls? The Christians are at home, well defended. Allah has willed it. Kismet! It is done. We must surrender.”