the covetous, domains. Nothing is left undone that can determine the wavering and secure the doubtful. “The ultimate success of the pretender of Trastamare,” he says, “is an event utterly improbable; and even should he come, it would only be to enrich his own followers by a fearful reckoning among those who have opposed him.”
Subtle arguments these, and admirably suited to the temper of the times, when men’s minds were swayed either by venal and selfish motives, or by the terror of ruin and massacre.
Don Juan lives in a narrow street, a stone’s throw from the gate of the Alcazar. His house still remains, a curious monument of the times; a small, low building with a quaint projecting attic and casements guarded by rows of low Saracenic arches.
Of course there is a fountain in the small pillared patio where he received his friends. If it is the same little pillar of spray as in Don Juan’s time hummed and splashed through the long summer days, I cannot say, or if he was served by the identical Leporello we know so well, and scolded by the shrewish wife Doña Elvira, who always sings in “alt.” But it is certain that the low door of his house gave access nightly to crowds of rollicking guests and fair masked señoras, and that the king in disguise often stepped across the street from the Alcazar to take part in the revelry.
The real Don Juan lives in evil times. Seville is growing desperate with the tyranny of the king. The name of Enrique el Caballero is whispered everywhere as a saviour to an oppressed people. It is said indeed that he has again been proclaimed king at Cahorra by his followers, at the head of the Grandes Compagnies, and that Charles V. of France treats with him as friend to friend.
The priests despise Don Pedro because he lies under an interdict, and no masses can be said in the churches; the libertines hate him because he judges them severely and gives such large measure to himself; and the lovers and husbands because no woman is safe.
No two men are of the same mind in this divided city. The houses are barricaded, the towers turned into fortresses, the iron lattices of the windows, where true lovers whisper, into loopholes for pikes and arrows; the black crosses in the plazas are stained with blood, and the dead often lie unburied in the calle. In all these disorders Don Juan is a leader, cutting down the king’s enemies like dogs, and anathematising all rebels to his cause. “Let us make merry ere we die,” is the cry of the Sevillianos, not knowing what may befall; and so they pass the time in the certainty of coming warfare between Don Enrique and the king, in rioting and profligacy.
The very priests live like gallants, and the nuns trail silken gowns. Merry-makings and orgies are held even in the churches, and drinking and dancing are common among the graves, much to Don Juan’s delight as a scoffer and a blasphemer, who gaily foots it to a rattling measure with the bones.
From dancing the citizens get to fighting; a few cry for Don Pedro, but more shout for El Caballero and thus from bad to worse the evil days pass along.
There is a homely proverb which says, “The devil will have his own.” This is proved in the history of Don Juan de Mañara. During an orgy, at which another noted gallant and profligate, Don Santiago de Augebo, is present, a gitana of great beauty slips in to sell flowers to the noble señors lounging in drunken mirth among the wine-cups.
Impudent gitana! Swords are drawn and a free fight for her possession instantly ensues, Don Santiago getting the upper hand and seizing on her, spite of her screams.
“Now, by all the saints and devils!” cries Don Juan, touched by the genuine terror of the girl, “give us also a chance, Señor Caballero,” and as the other opposes him, although in his own house, he draws his rapier and falls on him with such thundering blows that Santiago sinks insensible on the floor.
The gitana, somewhat above her class, and very beautiful, kisses Don Juan’s hand, which he returns by raising her and pressing his lips to hers. Then plunging his hand into the depths of his doublet he pulls out a well-filled purse, which he gives her with a glance out of his wicked eyes, such as the stage Don Giovanni bestows on Zerlina and with like effect, much to the amazement of the company, who rise up to shout and laugh as he conducts her with mock solemnity to the gate of the patio—especially Don Santiago, by this time recovered, and swearing secret vengeance on Don Juan.
To the Leporello of that day, by name Gesuelo, Don Juan secretly issues his commands to find out all he can about the gitana, which is done by the ready-witted knave, who tells him her name is Caritad, and that her father abandoned her mother at her birth.
But next morning, with the fumes of last night’s wine the image of Caritad vanishes, and he orders a great supper in honour of Don Pedro, to which all the gallants of Seville are bidden.
“Death to the king’s enemies” is the toast, and Don Pedro himself graces the board with his presence. But a cloud of care rests on his young face. All looks dark. The Black Prince, on whose help he has so firmly relied, has not responded to his repeated calls for help, while Enrique is supported by the presence of the redoubtable Du Guesclin or Clayquin as he is called in contemporary history. Now they have entered Spain, and actually Toledo, Burgos, Salamanca, Palencia, and other cities of the north are with them. The King of Portugal is doubtful in his allegiance, the passes of the Pyrenees swarm with French adventurers and rebels, tramping down to join Enrique’s camp at Logroño; and worse than all, his little son, Alonso, Maria de Padilla’s child, his only male heir and successor, is dying. Ever since the death of Blanche the horrors of a violent and speedy death possess him. Do as he will, curse, carouse, murder, and blaspheme, he cannot shake off the sinister foreboding. The murder of the Rey Bermejo has alienated the Moors, and Seville, his own Seville, is wavering.
As the banquet proceeds and the heads of the guests begin to turn under the effect of the choice wines of Andalusia, passed round in golden cups and goblets, Don Juan suddenly rises and drinks the health of the hereditary ally of Castile—the hero of Crécy and Poitiers—Edward, the Black Prince—now lying encamped in Guienne at Bordeaux; extols his prowess and generosity, and cunningly passing on to vaunt the respect and affection he bears to his master the king, announces his speedy arrival in Spain with the flower of the English chivalry unrivalled in the world.
Don Juan knows this is a lie, and that the Black Prince has shown no sign, but that matters little if only he can succeed in impressing the company with the belief that he is on the road to fight Don Enrique. Indeed, to do this is the principal aim of the banquet, and he takes care to bring forward the intelligence at a moment when no one is in a condition either to canvass or to dispute it.
The name of the Black Prince is coupled with those of the English knights who accompany him—Captain de Buch, Thomas of Canterbury, Montfort, and the gallant and elegant Chandos. The feats of arms performed in the taking of Toledo by Don Pedro are remembered, and also the ugliness of the women, except indeed the Jewesses. The humiliating particulars of Don Enrique’s flight are detailed, and loud laughter ensues at his sham coronation at Burgos. But no one dares to mention that the Grandes Compagnies have entered Castile commanded by the Comte de la Marche, of the royal blood of St. Louis, and Du Guesclin, and that with Don Enrique they are marching upon Seville!
At the mention of his brother’s name the king’s passion blazes out; he clenches his fist and the veins swell on his forehead. Starting to his feet, his blue eyes travel round the room, as if he would read on each countenance the bias of the mind within. Then, seizing a jewelled cup, which he holds on high, he drinks: “Death to the bastard, and by the Holy Cross of Compostella may he burn in Hell!”
There is a pause. No one echoes this savage curse of brother to brother. Even the well-seasoned profligates around are sobered for an instant by the unnatural toast.
In the general silence which follows, Leporello or Gesuelo makes his way to his master with a musk-scented letter in his hand, bound with a blue ribbon.
Cutting the ribbon with his dagger, Don Juan (like a man accustomed to such missives) glances at the signature, then lets it fall. What matter? It is signed Amina. Who is Amina? He has already forgotten!
When the king rises to depart, Don Juan accompanies him to the portal of the Alcazar, followed by the soberer guests. The open letter lies upon the floor. It is perceived by Don Santiago who, raising it on the point of his rapier, reads these words aloud: “Come to me, false one, come ere I die. Amina.”
Shouts of laughter follow, and deep draughts of wine are drunk to speed her parting soul to purgatory; not forgetting the health of the gitana Caritad, with whom Don Santiago swears he will cut out Don Juan.
Meanwhile Don Juan wanders on from the Alcazar into the dark streets. A vague notion possesses him he is going to visit some one, but if it be his new love Caritad, or his ancient flame Amina, of whom he has long lost sight, or both, he cannot clearly define. From the streets he turns into the Plaza de San Francesco, and perceives a light in a house opposite the Palace of the Ayuntamiento (the first floor still remains, all miradores, like the wooden houses in England). On approaching, a silken ladder appears attached to the balcony.
“By St. Anthony! a public tryst!” Don Juan mutters. “Which of the fair ones I seek thus openly hangs out the signal?”
Then he falls into a deep cogitation as to the owner of the house. But Gesuelo has the list of the three hundred and three noble ladies he loves in Seville, and such peasants too who are worthy of his attention, and it was thus he came to know Zerlina, and gave such trouble to that poor fool Masetto. For the life of him, he cannot now remember who lives here, but in a confused way he recalls the letter which he feels for in his vest and misses.
“Confusion,” he mutters to himself. “Into whose hands has it fallen? Meanwhile, here goes!” he cries aloud, “Caritad or the Devil; it is all the same to me, so it be a woman,” and he vaults on the rounds of the ladder and swings himself up to the bars of the balcony.
Within he pauses. All is dark. Somehow, the abundant moon shining outside does not penetrate into the room. To see clearly he must remove his mask, when he discerns from an inner chamber the glimmering of a taper.
Drawing his sword he rushes forward and finds himself before a couch closely shrouded. With haste he removes the draperies and beholds a lady sleeping. Stooping to observe her more closely, with a beating heart he removes a veil, and his eyes fix themselves on the hideous aspect of a corpse festering in its shroud! This is his first warning.
Later, at midnight, in the ancient quarter of the Macerena, Don Juan falls in with a funeral procession, with torches, singing, and banners. It is some grandee of high degree, doubtless—there are so many muffled figures, mutes carrying silver horns, the insignia of knighthood borne upon a shield, a saddled horse led by a shadowy page, and the dim forms of priests and monks chanting death dirges.
Don Juan can recall no death at court or among the nobles, and this is plainly a funeral of quality. Nor can he explain a midnight burial, a thing unknown except in time of war or plague; so, advancing from the dark gateway where he stood to let the procession pass, he addresses himself to one of the muffled figures and asks: “Whose body are they bearing to the Osario at this strange time?”
“Don Juan de Mañara” is the reply. “Will you follow, and say a prayer for his sinful soul?”
As these words are spoken, the procession seems to pause, and one advances who flings back the wreaths of flowers which lie around the face, and lo! Don Juan beholds his own visage in the coffin!
Spellbound he seems to join the ghastly throng which wends its way to the Church of Santa Iñes. Here other spectral priests appear to meet it and carry the bier into the nave, where next morning he is found by the nuns, coming into matins, insensible on the floor! This is the second warning.
After this the name of Don Juan was heard no more at court. Whither he went, no one knew, not even Gesuelo. At length he was discovered in a monastic dress, living in a hospital he had founded for the old and bedridden, on the banks of the Guadalquivir, opposite the Golden Tower where Don Pedro kept his treasure,—a quaint old building which still remains close to the custom-house. You cannot pass a day in Seville without remarking it as you follow along the wharf crowded with merchant ships and steamers, placed a little back but conspicuous by its whiteness.
On an ancient portal, much ornamented in that barocco style into which Seville fell when ceasing to be Moorish, are graven these words:
On one side are the high windows of a Gothic hall, where aged men sit, so shrunk and old one seems to think death has forgotten them. A low iron-bound door leads you farther into the nave of a noble church, supported by twisted pillars such as Raphael loved to paint as the background of his frescoes.
It is very still and rather dark, for red blinds are drawn over the windows, but you plainly perceive the high altar, gay with coloured marbles, and on the highest step where you plant your foot there is a monumental slab let into the pavement, engraven with these words:
The disappearance of Don Juan from the stormy scene was little heeded by Don Pedro in all the confusion of civil war. He was but a bolder sinner than the rest, and that he had turned from the devil to the priest was a contemptible proof of weakness.
No gallant rode down the bank of the Guadalquivir without launching a sneer at the old Gothic pile where, habited in sackcloth, he tended the sick and the dying to the last day of his life.
A riotous band still remained about the king for midnight adventure, to spoil churches, sack convents, waylay travellers, fight duels, and guzzle good Val de Peñas within the gilded walls of the Alcazar. But even the terrified nobles by-and-by fall away from Don Pedro, who has hardened into such a tyrant men fly from him as from a fiend.
THE time has now come that Don Pedro knows not where to turn. All Spain is divided by civil war. Seville, his own Seville, is full of conspirators, awaiting the arrival of Don Enrique to declare for him; and the Black Prince, on whom he so confidently reckoned, remains absolutely deaf to his appeals.
Even were he willing to repent, he is for ever shut out from salvation in this world and the next. No church is open to him; no priest, however base, dare shrive him for his sins. He is as one accursed.
What those words were, traced by the dying hand of Blanche, no man yet knows—not his closest friends, and they are few; but ever since a strange gloom clings to him which never lifts, and in his sleep he wrestles as in throes of agony.
Events succeed each other with dramatic rapidity. His ally, Charles the Bad, King of Navarre, alarmed at the passage of the French, breaks the alliance and joins with the King of Aragon against him.
Enrique, worshipped by his followers, is again solemnly crowned within the ancient capital of Burgos, in that lovely cathedral, embroidered like a state robe, lately completed, his padrino and godfather being the great warrior Du Guesclin, the first commander of the age, although it is said he can neither read nor write.
The Comte de la Marche, cousin of Blanche, and also of the House of Bourbon, represents the King of France, and stands on his right hand on the steps of the high altar, under that glorious window which floods the space with light, along with marshals and generals, Castilian and French, condes and great lords of Aragon, and a lordly show of knights and caballeros from Leon and Andalusia.
The troops are, as usual in such levies, mixed in nationalities and wanting in unity and discipline, but commanded by Du Guesclin who dares contemplate defeat?
“Remember, most valiant constable,” had said to him his master Charles, the King of France, son of the unfortunate John, prisoner in England, “I shall owe you more than if you gained me a province, if you destroy the murderer of Blanche.”
Nor should this command be forgotten in Du Guesclin’s justification later on; Charles was his liege lord; he had issued his orders, and in the feudal spirit of the age, at any price Du Guesclin is bound to obey.
Open and generous, Enrique makes gifts to all, forgetting he has as yet nothing to bestow. Condes and princedoms drop from his hand on all around (real châteaux en Espagne). There is no end to his largesse, and so successful is this method that in twenty-five days he holds the south and marches on Toledo, where he is received with cries of “Long live Enrique the merciful, who comes to save us from our enemy, Don Pedro.”
Again Enrique is at the lordly Alcazar overlooking the everlasting plains, from whence he was so ignominiously driven by Don Pedro and the Jews. Again behold him, the very picture of a young king whom fortune favours, as he descends the stately flights of stairs and moves once more among the magnificent ranges of colonnades which hold up the great patio, to receive the salutations of long lines of knights and nobles who have flocked from all parts to his standard.
What a tossing of feathers and flash of arms around! True lovers’ knots on shields and shoulders, helmets shaded with waving plumes, lances bound with gaily-embroidered scarves, the inlaid handles of swords and falchions sparkling with gems, and corselets and breastplates bound in with glittering girdles.
Enrique comes in war but he wears the dress of peace, as one at ease, certain of success. Let Pedro flaunt the morions, casques, shields, bucklers, and weapons of conflict, Enrique has already assumed the débonnaire air of a well-established monarch sure of his subjects’ love. (That he is a bastard with no legal right to the throne is forgotten in the general triumph.)
Graceful and polished in his manners as becomes El Rey Caballero, the personal charm he exercises over all who approach him is unbounded, especially when compared to the morose cynicism of Don Pedro, who mocks ere he destroys.
Sir Hugh Calverley and many English knights and esquires of the free companies which have overrun France in the late wars are with him during the present inactivity of the Black Prince at Bordeaux, and his old friend and loyal supporter, the Asturian noble, Don Jaime Alvarez, rules his counsels as heretofore. Pope Urban V., incensed at the blasphemies and profligacy of Don Pedro, subsidises and blesses him. Even the rough warrior Du Guesclin yields to the fascination of his address, an influence destined soon to lead him to the commission of a crime by which his good name is for ever tarnished.
No female element fills in the frame of this chivalrous court. He has a wife, her name casually occurs, but there all information ends. At all events, no woman takes a prominent part in his career, as with his brother Don Pedro.
Meanwhile the king, warned by his ministers that he is no longer safe in Seville, rides out of the gates guarded by a small troop of men-at-arms, commanded by the faithful Emanuel, and accompanied by his chancellor, Fernando de Castro, Don Martino Lopez de Cordova, Grand Master of Alcantara, Don Diego Gomez, Don Mem Rodrigues, a warlike captain who has taken the place of Don Juan de Mañara in his confidence, and some others.
You may count his adherents on your fingers they are so few. Even that pampered villain Garcia de Padilla has forsaken him since his sister’s death, and gone over to the winning side, and along with him are Orosco, Mendoza, and La Vega.
The three daughters of Maria de Padilla accompany him, young girls whose names leave no record on the page of history—Costanza married John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, son of Edward III., and thus established a claim, often asserted but never seriously entertained, to the throne of Castile; and Isabel, the younger, espoused his brother Edmund of Cambridge.
But, dearer than child or friend, Don Pedro carries with him his treasure and the famous ruby (Balax) of the Moors hid in his bosom.
The outlook is not cheerful. Spite of his constant boast of close alliance with the English, the Black Prince at Bordeaux as yet has made no sign. It is true that his daughter Costanza is at this time affianced to her cousin, the Infante of Portugal, and Don Pedro rides straight over the Sierra Morena to the frontier, certain of the protection of his uncle the king.
Don Diego Gomez is sent forward from Talavera, where he waits, to hasten the marriage. The Infanta is ready; with her she brings the crown of Castile, the jewels of her mother, Maria de Padilla, and such dower as is required; anything he has, even the Balax, so that Costanza is wedded!
It is a matter of life or death. All depends on Portugal. An uncle, an ally, a natural protector—it is impossible he can fail.
Don Diego returns. The King of Portugal will not receive him. He declines the marriage with Costanza for his son, the visionary crown, treasure, all—and warns Don Pedro sternly from crossing the borders of his kingdom upon peril of his life.
Many of his followers now forsake him in his need. But the chancellor, Don Fernando de Castro, is faithful, and Mem Rodrigues and Emanuel are ready to offer up their lives.
An absolute fugitive, Don Pedro craves from his uncle a safe conduct into Galicia, the only province in Spain, except Murcia, which still acknowledges him as sovereign.
In this miserable plight he arrives in the fruitful valley of beautiful Monterey in a most disconsolate condition, at the very moment that Don Enrique and Du Guesclin enter the city of Seville.
Yet even now the track of blood follows Don Pedro. As he passes through Santiago, the holy city of pilgrimage, where lie the relics of the Protector of Spain, after dining in company with the Archbishop, he calls him to the gate and has him murdered before his eyes, as well as the Decano or Dean, within the precincts of the cathedral.
Express after express flies in swift-rigged boat across the Bay of Biscay to Bayonne, addressed to the Black Prince and to his ally, that arrant traitor, the King of Navarre, who is with him at Bordeaux.
No answer comes. At last, driven to despair, Don Pedro himself rides forward to the coast, fits out a galley at La Groyne, and sets sail for Bayonne, escorted by all the vessels he can find, to plead his cause in person before the Prince of Wales.
THE Black Prince—so named from the dark colour of his armour, and only fifteen years old when he was made a knight on the victorious field of Crécy by his father Edward III., and named by him Duke of Guienne and Seneschal of Aquitaine,—is the most notable figure of his day. Fabulously brave and romantically merciful, his modesty and generosity are only equalled by his military skill. Bearing in the field the device of the King of Bohemia, killed in the battle of Crécy, three plumes erect, with the motto “Ich dien,” his sword has never known defeat.
Three years have now elapsed in peace, during which time he has resided in royal state at Bordeaux with his wife, “the fair maid of Kent,” a period of inaction as irksome to himself as to those stormy spirits about him.
Nothing therefore could be more welcome to him than the news that Don Pedro had actually disembarked at Bayonne to solicit his help to regain his crown. As yet the policy of England had been undecided; now his father must take a side, and the prospect of war fills him with joy.
Promptly he despatches the Lord of Payme and other nobles to welcome him when he lands, and to bring him with all honour to Bordeaux.
The sumptuous pavilion prepared for their meeting lies outside the city, among pleasant meadows by the banks of the wide Garonne, that noble estuary which cuts into the land with the importance of an inland sea.
It is shaped in three compartments, the central one occupied by the Black Prince, that to the right assigned to Don Pedro, and that to the left to the King of Navarre, at the present moment paying his court to Prince Edward as holding the winning hand.
The interior is lined with rich tissues and brocaded silks, the draperies of cloth of gold held up by swords and lances, battle-axes and steel helmets—giving a warlike aspect to what would otherwise have been simply a luxurious and splendid bower.
Skins of animals killed in the chase cover the floor and are also attached to the lower portion of the pillars which support the light roof, adorned with flags and banners, the standard of St. George conspicuous in the front. Beneath, on a table, lies a glancing axe, ready, if needful, for all emergencies.
Outside, the building is covered with silken curtains under ranges of feathers, tassels, and streamers flaunting in the light breeze, and at the tented entrance are placed two large shields, one bearing the cognisance of the Black Prince, the other the arms of England quartered with the fleur-de-lis of France.
Around gathers a brilliant court. Seneschals bedecked with chains of gold, chamberlains in rich robes, worked with the escutcheons of England and of Aquitaine, pages, warriors, the captains of companies who have followed Edward in all his wars, hoary soldiers grown grey in many battles, nobles arrayed in historic armour come down from generations of warlike ancestors, bearing great names, Gallic and English, illustrious in themselves and enhancing the greatness of their master. The two younger brothers of the Prince of Wales, John of Gaunt, as brilliant as a popinjay, to be ever known in history as “Time-honoured Lancaster,” his younger brother, Edmund, Duke of York and Cambridge, a gallant young prince—both wearing the blue badge of the new Order of the Garter at their knee, and emulous of attracting the notice of Don Pedro’s young daughters, of whose beauty report says much. The two Marshals of Aquitaine, Sir Guiscard of Angoulême and Sir Stephen Coffington; Beauchamp, Lord of Abergavenny, Lord Ralph Neville of Warwick, Clayton, Sir John Tyrrell, Sir Hugh Hastings, the trusted ally of England Jean de Montfort, and, though last, not least, the manly figure of Chandos, of whom in these wars one hears so much—politician, tactician, and constable of all the provinces of France. Others may assume various modes and fantastic changes in dress and accoutrement, but Chandos never changes and always appears in armour of proof, arrayed to take the field.
In the centre, backed by the fanciful outline of the gay pavilion, stands the Black Prince, ready at the first imitation of Don Pedro’s arrival to advance and welcome him to his domains.
To suit the occasion, he is attired in a costume equally recalling the court and the camp. A loose surcoat of blue velvet, heavily embroidered with the arms of England, partly conceals the light suit of chain armour which clings to his form; at his waist is a girdle to which an axe and sword are attached, and on his head a cap edged by a jewelled coronet, from which rise the three heron’s feathers of his device.
Lofty in nature is the prince, square and solid in limb and chest, his hair cut short as convenient for his helmet, his upper lip, after the Norman fashion, covered with a thick moustache which mingled with his beard, light brown in colour, and long and luxuriant. Somewhat prominent large hazel eyes look out of a well-moulded face remarkable for mildness of expression, his whole personality singularly engaging, an impression only heightened as the fine curves of his lips open with the candour of a natural smile.
“Our ally tarries on the way,” he says, scanning
the bare expanse of the sandy track before him, bordering the Garonne, broken by the lines of vineyards in the more cultivated lands. “Perhaps he would make us feel that we have been remiss in replying to his various messages. Nothing but absolute obedience to my father’s order would have kept me so long silent, in face of the news of his great need.”
The prince addresses himself to Chandos, who stands immediately behind him, his wrinkled countenance already showing marks of the hard life he has led in camps and battles, but, as he speaks, he lays his hand lightly on the shoulder of his brother Lancaster, looking out with eager eyes in the same direction as himself.
“How now, my young gallant, are you impatient to behold the Spanish beauties? Who knows if you do not lose your fickle heart to one? These señoritas of Andalusia must surely inherit some of their mother, Maria de Padilla’s boasted charms.”
The downy cheeks of young Lancaster turn to a rosy red at general attention being thus openly called to him. He turns aside, somewhat annoyed that his curiosity has been detected by his brother, and mutters something about a leveret of a certain breed which he expects from Spain. The excuse is received by the prince with a light laugh, and in a lower voice he continues his conversation with Chandos.
“I confess that nothing but the king’s actual presence on English soil would have decided me to look with favour on the expedition he comes to propose.”
“I agree with you, my lord,” is the answer of Chandos. “A campaign in the centre of Spain is a dangerous venture with a nation of enemies at our back.”
“Yet,” adds the Black Prince, and a serious expression comes into his eyes, “the personal appeal of an allied prince is difficult to refuse, especially under the present circumstances of his arrival. But much as I should rejoice once more to draw the sword, I can bind myself to nothing but an interchange of courtesies at present.”
“Right, my lord,” answers Chandos, “I am of the same mind as your Grace. Besides, it appears to my humble judgment that a sovereign rejected by the whole nation cannot have an altogether clean chronicle to show. Report, at least, is not favourable to Don Pedro, who has gained the nickname of El Cruel.”
“Tut, tut,” answers the prince impatiently, “subjects must obey their masters. I myself have no patience with these Castilian nobles who call in a bastard in place of their lawful king. Until I see cause to change, my sympathies are all with Don Pedro.”
“But your Highness will promise nothing, I trust, without direct permission of the king, your father?”
“Of course not,” answers the prince. “Have I not said so? My powers, as yours, are limited to our provinces of Guienne and Aquitaine. A descent into Spain altogether exceeds my instructions; but I shall much marvel if the king, my honoured father, and his ministers do not share my feelings in the matter of our ancient ally, driven to such straits as personally to present himself with his daughters, a suppliant at our court.”
Chandos bowed but made no further observation. It was clear his mind was against Don Pedro, of whose wanton acts of cruelty and bad faith he had heard so much. As far as his counsels were concerned, he would have the King of Castile bound down so strictly that he could not escape from his engagements. He knew that the loyal nature of the prince was too ready to take every man at his own value, especially at a time when he and his young brothers were longing to take the field.
At this moment the King of Navarre appeared, coming from the interior of the pavilion, a ready smile on his lip little indicative of the treachery within.
“Will your Grace join us,” asks the Black Prince, receiving him with the gracious courtesy so natural to him that it was felt alike by all, “in a descent into Spain, which undoubtedly will be the purport of the king’s visit to us here?”
Now, as the King of Navarre has secretly sworn upon the Sacrament an alliance with Enrique de Trastamare, giving him and the Grandes Compagnies of Du Guesclin passage over the Pyrenees at the same moment that he is joining with the Black Prince in the friendly reception of Don Pedro—this question, so frankly put, is difficult to parry. Before the open gaze of Edward his keen eyes drop, and with some hesitation he is understood to say that where the hero of England leads he will gladly follow, but that the smallness of his kingdom, placed between two great powers, will prevent his personal interference in the war.
Turning from him with a frown, the prince again anxiously directs his eyes to the path along the banks of the river by which Don Pedro is to approach. This time he does not look in vain.
In the track of a vivid sun ray, which bursts from a mass of clouds on the western horizon, the brilliant colours of flags and banners break among the green branches of a low avenue of willows, to be caught up and reflected in the broad current of the Garonne; the dark forms of mounted horsemen on caracoling steeds are followed by lords and attendants standing out on the grey landscape, in all the bravery of those romantic times where embroidered devices, crests, arms, and mottoes form a necessary part of dress, along with richly inlaid arms and costly robes edged with fur.
First rides Don Pedro, mounted on a Spanish barb, caparisoned with velvet housings; but as a fugitive and a suppliant he has rejected all the pompous display prepared for him, and appears in a dark cap and sombre mantle which covers his high black boots worn to the thigh.
Close beside him appear Emanuel and Mem Rodrigues, whose watchful eyes never leave him, among friends or foes. Whatever he may be to others, he is dear to them, and they well know in what continual danger he lives.
Behind him come his three daughters, the youngest but a lovely child, each mounted on easy-going jennets, his chancellor, and the few of his court who have not forsaken him on the road.
The mournful appearance of Don Pedro and the consciousness that he has been wanting to his royal guest in the attention due to an ally, so move the warm heart of the Black Prince that, bowing to the ground, he advances rapidly to embrace him, while Don Pedro, who has at once dismounted, would only have kissed his hand.
“Welcome, sire, to the territory of England,” cries the prince, addressing him in the French tongue, which both speak fluently. “I esteem myself happy to offer my personal homage to your Grace in my own name and in that of my royal father.”
“I thank you,” is Don Pedro’s laconic answer, turning upon him a curious gaze in which something of the bitterness of the disregarded suppliant appears. That he, an anointed sovereign, had been forced by the prince’s coldness to journey here, raises in his breast a wave of bitter pride which, in his revengeful nature, may in part explain the perfidy of his subsequent conduct.
“And you, fair flowers of Spain,” continues the Black Prince, turning to the Infantas, who had also dismounted and who gather timidly round the prince to make obeisance, “I would welcome you also, and express my deep regret that my consort, the Princess of Wales, to whose tender care I would have consigned you, has by reason of her condition not been able to leave Angoulême to meet you. Meanwhile, my brothers of Lancaster and York, nearer of your age and therefore more apt than myself in judging of your needs, will take her place in all necessary courtesies.”
John of Gaunt bashfully advances to take his place among the young princesses with his brother, both much encouraged by the glimpse of the lovely eyes of Doña Costanza, glowing like stars under the folds of a black mantilla which descends almost to her feet, while Don Pedro gravely acknowledges the salutations of the warriors and the court, and expresses his thanks for the magnificence of the courtesy with which he has been received.
“Can the stricken heart of a sovereign know comfort,” he says, in his high and trillant voice, singularly unpleasant after the agreeable intonation of the Black Prince, “against whom his people and those of his own blood have turned traitors, it is alone at the hands of your Grace. This moment of meeting with you, most illustrious Prince, is the only instant of consolation I have enjoyed since I left my rebellious country, given up to the horrors of civil war. I come in the guise of a beggar, but it is to one who can replace me on the throne.”
Whether Don Pedro, from long habits of hypocrisy, really believed what he said is doubtful, but he had at least the art of convincing those whom he addressed. This faculty of deceit, his specious flattery, his royal air, even under the modest garb he wore, at once fascinated the frank and open-hearted prince, overjoyed at the prospect of a speedy campaign to reinstate him.
As they pass into the pavilion where a sumptuous collation has been prepared, Edward himself, spite of the protest of his guest, not only offers to the king the golden embossed salver of scented water to wash his hands, but during the first course stands to serve him, behind his chair, before taking his own seat at the board.
“I know my place as a subject,” are his words, “and I pray your Grace not to impede me in the fulfilment of my duty.”
Not so Chandos, who observes Don Pedro at his ease, and marks with suspicion the sinister expression of his young face, and the falseness of the smile he calls up in answer to the hearty greetings of the prince.
Adversity and dissipation had already scored with hard lines that yet boy-like countenance. The faultless mould of feature is still there, as we see it perpetuated in the bust at Seville, but a perfidious glance mars its beauty.
Small and thin in stature, Don Pedro is entirely overtopped by the English prince, who sits erect and strong as a young oak beside the willow-like suppleness of his Spanish guest.
Much discussion of ways and means takes place between them after the collation, the Black Prince lending a willing ear to the representations of Don Pedro and his reiterated promises to reinstate the English king in such subsidies as should be advanced to him in order to raise a fighting army to take the field.
From Bordeaux Don Pedro passes to Angoulême with his daughters—in the same state, accompanied by the Black Prince, his young brother, the King of Navarre, and the Duke of Lancaster, in whose young heart the girlish beauty of Doña Costanza has made a serious impression—to salute the princess, who is daily expecting her confinement.
The reticence of the Black Prince alarmed Don Pedro. No decision of any kind as to the support he had come to seek could be extracted from him; open-hearted and honest almost to a fault, he had been so earnestly implored by Chandos to enter into no semblance of an engagement before he had obtained the assent of his father, Edward III., that he absolutely put a bridle on his lips whenever Don Pedro sought speciously to approach the subject so near his heart, until he had received the royal sanction. That such sanction would come he felt convinced, the very idea of an open attack upon royalty (in those feudal times held so sacred and inviolable) would probably have sufficed to ensure the consent of King Edward, but more amply so when united to the political advantages ensured by a close alliance with Castile.
Not only is a formal permission demanded by the Black Prince himself to march into Spain, but it is backed by the official protest of Don Pedro against the manifold wrongs and injuries inflicted on him.
Of gifts the Black Prince will have none. To him jewels and treasures come as ignoble bribes; but in the meantime at least it is open to Don Pedro to lavish presents on the Princess of Wales as an indirect mode of gaining her goodwill. A table of curious workmanship, set with priceless gems, is presented and long preserved in England, and, though last not least, the precious Balax, destined so strangely to find a central place in the English crown.
Nothing could exceed the lavish promises of Don Pedro. The lordship of Biscay, which, as close to Guienne, is important, is conferred on the Black Prince and his heirs for ever, signed with the seal of Castile, a curious state document which remains in England to this day—Pedro binding himself also, by the most solemn oaths, to pay large subsidies to the English troops, and equal parts of the general cost of the war to the Prince himself; a rich dower to the Infanta Costanza, forthwith affianced to the young Duke of Lancaster, already languishing in a not hopeless passion which is, he thinks, to insure to him the crown of Spain—she, in the meantime, as well as her two sisters, to remain at Bayonne as hostages for her father’s word.
All this was concluded in the presence of Charles of Navarre, surnamed “the Bad,” who, having secretly largely facilitated the passage of the Grandes Compagnies into Spain against Don Pedro, now receives from him the grant of the provinces of Guipuzcoa and Alava, the town of Vittoria, and any other he may choose to claim, upon condition that he will serve in person in the coming expedition against Don Enrique.
As to the Black Prince, the martial ardour within him is already at fever heat. There is something inexpressibly attractive to him in the prospect of meeting his ancient rival, Du Guesclin, in the field. The constable had good reason for extolling the magnanimity of the prince in the matter of his brother Oliver, taken prisoner in the battle of Poitiers by Thomas of Canterbury—and though ready to engage against each other in battle, their feeling is of friends.
In these days of mercenary warfare no shame was felt in passing from one side to the other if the pay was good. “To live by the sword” was a noble profession, and the needy knight or commoner must go where battle leads.
From the Black Prince downwards, every English trooper and archer was enthusiastic in the cause of Don Pedro. Even the calm Chandos was infected, if not convinced, in the face of such constant denials, and specious explanations on his part. Like his master Plantagenet he grudged every day that detained him inactive in Guienne until the authority of Edward III. was received.
As a preliminary, heralds were at once sent into Castile to summon the English and Gascon knights who had taken service with Don Henry the Bastard (so was the brilliant Caballero designated in these state papers) “to repair to the prince’s standard with all speed,” an order instantly obeyed by Sir Hugh Calverley, Sir Eustace d’Ambrecourt, Walter Hewitt, and the Lords of Devereux and Neville, to the considerable weakening of Don Enrique’s army.
At length the long-desired decision came from the council, assembled at the Court of Windsor, 1366, which set forth that it was “noble and honourable, as well as just and advantageous, to assist Don Pedro, King of Castile and Leon, in his legal rights,” and that his Highness Edward Prince of Wales, was authorised to march with the forces he might think fit to effect the same, under the command of Lord John Chandos, High Constable of Aquitaine, Sir Guiscard d’Angoulême, Sir Stephen Coffington the great standard-bearer of St. George, Lord Beauchamp of Abergavenny, Neville, Clayton, Tyrrell, Hastings, Cheney, Boteler, Willoughby, Felton, Loring, the prince’s grand chamberlain and bannister, besides his foreign followers, De Buch, D’Armagnac, D’Albert, and others.
WE are in a romantic age of youth and fanfaronnade. Our dramatis personæ are overflowing with the sap of life. Of the three Plantagenets, the Black Prince is in the prime of life and fame, his two young brothers in the heyday of valour and love. Don Pedro, little past thirty, a professed lady killer and seducer, and Enrique de Trastamare, the ideal Caballero, a few years older. Add to these those who have vanished from the scene, Blanche of Castile, but fifteen when she was married, and Maria de Padilla, dying in the flower of her days, there results a circle of youth, beauty, and romance unparalleled in history.
As for a tournament these ardent spirits prepare for battle. Only Du Guesclin is wise and old, also Chandos, who endeavours to allay the universal ferment in men’s blood. But what is their influence against the spirit of the age?
When Don Enrique finds himself on the 3d of