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

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.

A missal is in her hand, for she is very devout, following the offices of the church religiously, and the Ave Maria has sounded; then she crosses herself and turns to her companion, Doña Beatrix Bobadilla, who rises and kneels at her feet.

Now taken together they are a serious pair. Beatrix, a little older than the Infanta, is already a strong-minded woman, destined to support her mistress throughout her long career; and the Infanta, carefully trained by her mother, the beloved Isabel, in the retirement of Arevalo, not far from Avila, is possessed of that power of inspiring others with the enthusiasm she herself feels for the noble mission which she is called on to perform.

“It is a great risk. Infanta,” Doña Beatrix is saying, “and you are so quiet about it. I am so agitated, I cannot sit still.”

Isabel blushes deeply. “How do you know, Beatrix, what I feel? A calm exterior does not always mean a quiet heart. Do you think I can be unmoved the first time I meet the prince I intend to marry, at night, in secret, at the risk of my freedom? Should my brother discover his presence in Castile——”

“As to that, my princess,” says Beatrix, “the Archbishop of Toledo who brings him, is answerable. Every possible precaution has been taken in passing the frontier. He travels at night, disguised as a servant, tends the mules, and waits on his companions at table. Better Ferdinand of Aragon than those strangers of Portugal and Navarre, whom the king favours, to get you out of the way of the Beltraneja.”

“Yes, Ferdinand,” says Isabel, and she closes her missal and leans back in her chair; “that has been my dream. I will never wed with a stranger. Castile and Aragon must be one. No longer the unnatural strife between these two states of the same blood, and God has chosen me as the means.” She raises her blue eyes, and a radiant look spreads over her fair face, on which the open forehead and brows are as finely moulded as on her mother’s. Already she has all the command of a sovereign about her, spite of her youthful looks.

“But, Infanta, what will that villain Don Beltrano incite the king to do when he hears of this interview? They are in arms in the south, and troops throng the frontier. It is plain that they are alarmed at some news they have received. There is nothing in the world which could so much enrage the king as your affiancing with the Infante of Aragon.”

“I cannot help it,” answers Isabel. “No duty to my brother stands in the way. When the confederate lords, at Alfonso’s death, after his dethronement at Avila, offered me the throne, you know, Beatrix, that I refused it. While he lives, he is my king and my brother. Afterwards, the succession is mine, and I shall defend it to the death. Even if the Infante does not please me, if he agrees to my conditions I will marry him all the same. It is not for love I call him.”

“Not please your highness!” said Beatrix, not altogether so high-minded as her mistress, and looking at the matter in a more mundane light as she vividly recalls the image of the man she loves and is soon to marry, one of the stoutest partisans of Isabel. “I can understand hating such a fellow as the Master of Calatrava. I myself gave your Highness a dagger, rather than you should wed him; and would have seen you use it, too, with joy. But, Holy Virgin! Why not Ferdinand? He brings Aragon with him, and is reputed as a handsome prince, prudent and brave; then coming like a knight-errant to rescue his princess at midnight, disguised, a fugitive, in danger of his life.”

Isabel’s blue eyes fixed themselves on Beatrix, with a curious expression.

“The marriages of princes are not for love, amiga. It is possible that the Infante of Aragon may not consent to my conditions.”

“Oh! you will forget all that when you meet,” cries Beatrix, provoked by her coldness, so different to her own feelings. “You will have a greater power over him than protocols or decrees.”

As she spoke, the evening bells rang out sweetly from the towers of San Pablo. Already the grey pigeons had left their perch on the window-sill, and the twilight had darkened the ancient tapestry on the walls, leaving the outline of the two youthful figures defined against the light.

“He cannot be far from Valladolid now,” said Beatrix, listening to the bells, “if he left Dueñas as was agreed.” Isabel turned pale and sighed. There was a languid action of her hands that told of some internal struggle ill repressed, as the long fingers fell helplessly upon her brocaded robe. After all she was but sixteen. She was playing the part of a royal heroine, but she could not altogether silence the workings of her young heart. Spite of the great soul within her, what she was about to do came over her with dread. Not even her high resolve could reconcile her to that risk of marrying a man repugnant to her. Besides, her serious nature was wanting in that romantic element which, with another girl, would invest the unknown prince with every charm, because he was to appear in an auréole of mystery.

The strange phases of her life, which had formed her character to a tone of masculine decision, had not yet developed the softer qualities she possessed. Born in the midst of conspiracy, she had been the toy of each party in turn; now with her mother leading almost a cloistered life, then dragged into the fierce magnificence of an abandoned court. Forcibly affianced to any prince who suited the king’s politics, even refusing food and sleep to escape from these toils. Passionately urged by the archbishop to assume the crown on the death of her brother Alfonso, and firmly resisting a proposal she looked on as treason, she had already passed through the vicissitudes of a long and chequered career ere her own life had begun. Yet her innate purity had not suffered from contact with the vileness of others. The secrets of life were open to her. She knew all that should be hid from the mind of an innocent woman, but this only served to form her character to the most rigid virtue and to make of her the great sovereign she became. Isabel’s noble qualities had been developed under two stormy reigns—the feeble, humiliating government of her father Juan II., and the vicious violence and treachery of her brother Enrique. Since the death of her father she had never known what it was to be free. Secluded after the dethronement she had been summoned to Burgos as a pledge of the good faith of the king; but what she had seen there had so deeply disgusted her, that she entreated the Archbishop of Toledo, who had charge of her, to make her a home apart with her little court at Valladolid.

And now the moment has come which will decide her life.

All human lights are extinguished. The moon rides high in the heaven in fields of azure light over the sleeping town of Valladolid. The stars have come out one by one, doubling themselves on the shallow waters of the Pisuerga that flows by the walls through woods of light-branched aspen and elm. Not a breath stirs outside the old palace, so quaint in its homely outlines, except when the sereno passes and rouses the ire of some whelping cur to bay at the full moon. Looking at that quiet front, who could guess that a drama is to be enacted within between two young princes, the issue of which will permanently alter the politics, religion, and government, not only of the Old World but of the New, shortly to be discovered by Columbus?

As midnight strikes at San Pablo, the tapestry is withdrawn, and, under the sudden glare of torches and candles, the Archbishop of Toledo appears, leading in the upright figure of the Infante of Aragon concealed in a cloak. With him enters Don Gutierra de Cardeñas, and, too impatient to wait for the more formal presentation of the archbishop, he presses on Ferdinand in front of the Infanta.

“Look at him!” he cries, “Ese es” (this is he), in memory of which the Cardeñas’ shield still bears the letters S.S.

The more formal introduction of the archbishop follows.

“Doña Isabel of Castile,” says the prelate who has seen so many deaths, births, and espousals in the House of Trastamare, putting aside the too zealous Don Gutierra, “I bring you your affianced lord. May God and Santiago ratify your choice!”

Face to face they stood—the spouses. He is eighteen, she sixteen; both auburn-complexioned with the old Gothic colouring; she, marble-throated, serene, with the shoulders of a goddess and the gesture of a queen; he, bronzed by exposure, bright-eyed, manly, and portly; already incipient lines gather about his mouth, to harden later into an expression of severity and almost of cruelty; but he is gentle and smiling now, and his soldier-like bearing suits him well.

For a moment he stands confused before Isabel, then casting from him the hooded mantle in which he is enveloped, he kneels before her and kisses her hand.

“Oh! my Infanta, what condescension!” he murmurs, in a low voice, a little sharp in its tone from the habit of command. “I trembled lest I had been too bold. But for the danger to your Highness from the opposition of the king, I should not have dared to approach you thus.”

“You are welcome, Infante of Aragon,” says Isabel, raising him to her side. “The archbishop has been the agent of my warmest desire in bringing you. It is time, an armed force is about to secure me. That you have happily passed the frontier, I thank God.” A lovely colour has overspread her cheeks as she speaks. Her eyes are fixed on Ferdinand in an earnest gaze, which softens into a glance of exquisite sweetness. For the first time in her life she feels the thrill of that love which is to last her all her life, one love, entire and single, which comes down to us in history as the fairest example of wedded bliss. The effect she makes on Ferdinand, bold as he is in act and nature, and knowing that he comes as an accepted suitor for her hand, is altogether overwhelming. Night, darkness, the mystery of their meeting—so unlike a royal wooing—the youthful dignity of her presence, her beauty, far exceeding report, come over him in a passionate longing to carry her away and never let her go.

Nor does the subtle flattery of this hesitation on his part displease her.

Softer and sweeter grows the mild fire of her eyes as she leads him apart and seats herself beside him within the golden estrada under the rich velvet curtains, heavy with gold embroideries, of the royal canopy at the upper end of the apartment, out of sight and hearing of the archbishop, Beatrix, and the rest.

At length Ferdinand finds voice and tongue to speak. The landmarks of court restraint, of tyrannous etiquette have vanished in the mystery of this midnight meeting. He forgets that she is a great princess, that their enemies are many and powerful, fighting for a crown. He forgets all, save that she is there before him, a dazzling presence, sprung as it were out of the gloom, and that if she so will it she is to be his wife. Wild words of passion are on his lips, vague, inarticulated, his hands clasp hers, his arm steals about the slender roundness of her form.

Nor, for a time, can Isabel rouse herself from the gentle violence of his touch to say plainly what is in her mind. But, putting him from her, she speaks at last in serious tones.

“That you have won my heart, fair Infante,” she says, “I will not deny; but had my love and my duty not been agreed, I would have called you to me all the same.”

A shade of displeasure comes over Ferdinand’s glowing face as he flashes a look at her of pain and mortification. So young, yet so determined!

“Aye, but you must hear me!” she adds, rising to a sudden sense of her duty. “As future Queen of Castile, not as Isabel of Trastamare, I wed you. To me my country is more than life; its privileges, customs, laws, all must rest as they are; no foreign intrusion will be tolerated. As you will be in Aragon sole ruler, in which I shall in no way interfere, but with all my soul maintain you, so must I in Castile; and Castile, as the most powerful state, must be your country and your abode. Our cordial union will be the strength of Spain, but must be that of two independent states, each ruled by its own Cortes.”

“Surely, my princess,” urges Ferdinand, who has listened to her with evident embarrassment, “such serious discussions are premature. The Church and custom teach that the husband must be superior to the wife. Even if seated on the throne, a union begun in division may end ill.”

“Not in my case,” answers Isabel, with decision, “for it would be no union at all. We are met to discuss the terms on which we wed. I have seen too much confusion and anarchy not to speak plain. The union of Aragon and Castile would form the unity of Spain. So would I have it between us two. But cost me what it may (and that your loss would cost me much after seeing you, I confess), I can consent to no division of power; I ask none, I give none. The government of the two lands must lie in the Cortes and the fueros, not in our will.” Then, noting the dark look which has come creeping like a cloud over his handsome face, she rises. “It is not too late, my lord, to withdraw from our engagement, should the terms I offer you appear to you unjust.”

“What!” cries Ferdinand, starting up, “you have brought me to heaven’s gate, and now you would turn me out? No! royal princess, not after we have met. Let Spain live in us, and generations of kings to come hail our name.”

“Yes, for Spain!” cries Isabel, an inspired look lighting up her face. “For union and for Spain!” Then, as the tears come gathering in her eyes, she trembles with emotion, and her soft voice but ill expresses the courage of her words. “For myself let me speak. A wife more loving or more humble you shall not find. Husband, father, all, you shall be to me,” and she clasps his hand and raises it to her lips, spite of his protest. She is about to kneel to him, but he withholds her in his arms. “But for any ill to my people I will not obey; this must be clear. Too much have they suffered from ill government, extortion, and neglect; now it must be peace.”

“What ill could I desire to Castile?” asks Ferdinand, provoked at the insisting of the beautiful girl, who speaks like a legislator, which, if maintained, will cross many projects of his own to the advantage of his kingdom.

“I know not,” she answers. “I have seen many strange things happen upon the throne.”

“That you have, indeed, my princess,” he replies, won back by her gentleness. “Ah! how my heart has bled for you! Nor is the succession yet settled as it should be. The king, your brother will never give up the hope of placing the Beltraneja on the throne. For that reason I desire to carry you straight into Aragon, where I can defend your rights. In that desire we are one.”

“Oh! blessed thought!” cries Isabel, clinging to him, as she speaks, with a sense of protection and love she has never known before. “Give me but your royal word, Infante, for the liberty of Castile, and I am yours while this poor heart beats.”

“Enchantress!” cries Ferdinand, clasping her in his arms. “Who can withstand you? By Santiago! you have conquered me quite, even against my judgment. I give you my royal word that you shall reign in Castile even as in my heart, alone.”

“Then with this kiss do I seal it,” she answers, breaking out all over into a great joy, and with a cry of rapture she kisses him on the lips.

Then, hand in hand, they left the estrada and came down to where the archbishop and Don Gutierra, and Doña Beatrix waited.

“I am ready, my lord, to wed the prince,” said Isabel, with a proud smile. “Give me your blessing. Before you all, I declare that I accept for my consort the Infante of Aragon, whose nobility of soul exceeds all my desires” (1467).

And here it may be noted that the princes were so poor that the archbishop paid the expenses of the marriage and of their journey into Aragon.

At Segovia, Isabel was proclaimed Queen of Castile, December 14, 1474, by her devoted subject the governor, Don Andreas de Cabrera, then husband of her friend, Beatrix de Bobadilla. A noble company of ricoshombres, priests, and alcades, in their robes of office, waited on her in the Alcazar in the Sala del Trono, and escorted her, under a purple baldaquino, through the city, mounted on a Spanish jennet, preceded by an hidalgo on horseback bearing a naked sword.

“Castile, Castile, for the king and his consort, Doña Isabel!” cried the herald.

But it was Isabel alone that received homage as

queen and proceeded to the cathedral to return thanks. How far this omission pleased Don Ferdinand does not appear, but at least he had espoused the fairest woman in Spain—after her mother—and he possessed her entire love.

Of Don Ferdinand, Shakespeare says, “The wisest monarch that ever ruled in Spain”; but the question is, how much of this “wisdom” was due to the far-seeing policy of his adoring wife and to the illustrious servants who so loyally carried out his will?

CHAPTER XXIV

Los Reyes Catolicos

Alfonso, King of Portugal, brother to the bad queen, actually espoused his niece, Juana la Beltraneja, then thirteen, to gain the throne. But he was defeated by Ferdinand, and the standard of Portugal—borne by the gallant De Almeyda first with his right hand, then with his left, when, losing both arms, he held it in his teeth—was torn to shreds. Alfonso retreated, and the Beltraneja, the innocent cause of so much strife and bloodshed, disgusted with a world in which she had found nothing but sorrow, took the black veil at the convent of Santa Chiara at Coimbra.

Ferdinand was, before everything, a soldier. He lived on the battle-field, and the queen, who followed him in all things with devoted love, rode with him in his campaigns, mounted on a war-horse, encased in mail, at the head of her Castilians.

When not engaged in war, she went to and fro in her own kingdom, reforming abuses, founding convents and churches, and enforcing the laws, fallen into much disuse during the riotous reign of her brother; in all assisted by her great minister, Cardinal Ximenes, her friend and secretary, Peter Martyr, Cardinal Mendoza, Garcilaso de la Vega, and, alas! be it added, by her fanatic confessor, Cardinal Torquemada, whose influence brought about the creation of the tribunal of the Inquisition, “To unite more firmly,” it was said, “Church and State, and to discover and extirpate all heresies, Jews, and unbelievers from the kingdom” (1480).

Two such sovereigns could not long leave the Moors in undisturbed possession of the third of Spain. The north of Africa (Barbary) was theirs, with Sicily and, afterwards, Naples. Ferdinand loved conquest for itself, and, to the pious mind of Isabel, the conversion of the Moslem was a duty direct from God. But as they, with a dogmatism equal to her own, despised the Castilians as unlettered boors, and ridiculed their religion, nothing could solve the difficulty but a cruel war.

Nor was a pretext wanting. The tribute of twelve thousand golden ducats, paid by the Moors from the time of San Fernando for permission to inhabit the land of Spain, was refused; and the brave knight, Don Juan de Vega, was despatched from Cordoba to demand the cause (1478).

And this leads us to the poetic city of Granada, successor in learning and civilisation to Cordoba of the Almoravides, vermilion-walled and rich in running waters, snowy patios, domes, peristyles, and filigree porticoes glowing with rainbow tints, where Moslem knights waylaid pearl-crowned sultanas, and turbaned sheikhs clasped jewelled fingers.

Granada, a name of infinite suggestion in all ages. The Moslem capital and the heart of Moorish Spain. The fastness of the Alhambra rearing its ruddy buttresses aloft over the land. The plaza of the Bivarrambla, the centre of tilt and tourney, the pillared bazar of the Alcayceria, gay with eastern wares, the narrow Zacatin strewed with the ducats of Oriental wealth, the walled-in fortress of the Albaycin commanding the frowning gorge of the Darro, the two gardens of the Alamedas, each with its dashing rivers, backed by the eternal snows of the mountains of the Sierra Nevada.

What a world of beauty! The Vega, emerald green, with orange groves and pasture, huertas and carmens, showing between, where cool airs waft from woods and gardens; the Xenil, like a blue ribbon, wandering to the sea by precipices and defiles, eloquent with song under the heavy tread of hostile hosts; the pale line of the Elvira mountains to the west, and arid sepia-tinted range opposite, to be called in our own day “the last sigh of the Moor,” and the airy palace of the Generalife perched on high among dark cypress groves, backed by the naked outline of a brown hill, “The Seat of the Moor,” under which Boabdil still is said to sit.

By the gate of Elvira Don Juan de Vega entered Granada with a small but well-chosen band, the great banner of Los Reyes borne before him by a herald. And so stern did he and his Castilians look, and so haughty was their carriage, that the Moors, though they hated them, let them pass unchallenged.

As they traversed the narrow streets of Los Gomeles, they passed by the great mosque, now the cathedral, and many palaces, the sound of water ever in their ears, so abundantly is the city supplied.

Nor did Don Juan fail to notice, in his passage, that the city was in a complete state of defence; the walls, of tremendous strength, manned and furnished with the heavy artillery of the day, the outposts guarded by deep ditches, and the Moorish soldiers many and well equipped with steel morions, chain armour, and stout scimitars at their side.

They enter the Alhambra by the three great arches of the Gate of Justice, one within the other, bearing the talismanic signs of the hand and the key, which no one has ever explained, and pass by the rude stone where the Moorish kings administer justice. Challenged by the Moorish guard, a parley ensues as to the errand on which they come.

“To deliver the Catholic sovereigns’ message to the King of Granada,” replies Don Juan, proudly. Upon which the black-bearded Moslems open the massive doors onto a narrow road, with sharp angles to baffle an enemy, a road only for horses and litters, the walls orange-coloured and glowing. And so they follow on to the broad platform where the alcazada (keep) rears its majestic front with quatrefoil arches, bright with gaudy tiles, in the centre of a wondrous group of vermilion towers, each with its tradition of battle and carnage, to the patio of the Alberca, a marble-lined court, bordered by canals and fragrant hedges of myrtle and orange, an arcaded frontispiece at one end, and at the other the sun-dyed walls of the ancient tower of Comares.

And here it must be noted that the Alhambra is a fortress following on round the crown of a broad hill rising over Granada, and is entirely formed of fortified walls and innumerable Moorish towers of extraordinary solidity and various sizes, covering a vast platform divided into arcaded courts of exquisite beauty, and that there is no solid building at all, but lovely suites of halls following on, formed to the taste of an Oriental people living in the open air.

Don Juan is received with much formal courtesy in the court of the Alberca—where the water cisterns are guarded by low hedges of sweet shrubs—by the sheikhs and emirs attending on the king, a glittering band of dark-visaged eunuchs. By them Don Juan alone is led to the tower of Comares, through marvellously worked arches dropping with golden stalactites, a vista of vestibules of scarcely earthly beauty, panelled and embroidered in patterns of roses, bosses, emblems, borders, and arabesques all in pale Oriental shades of red, green, and blue; a scene of enchantment utterly bewildering to the simple mind of the Castilian knight. Then under more snowy arches, set with filigree edges, as of gems, into the Hall of the Ambassadors, glowing with gold and deep azure, with open-pillared balconies overhanging the precipitous banks of the Darro, giving a glimpse of outer splendour to the sombre walls, to prepare the mind of the stranger for the awful presence of Muley Hassan, seated upon a golden throne, inclosed by screens and hangings of jewelled embroideries fringed with pearls. Gold and silver tissues lie at his feet, and at his back a divan of dark heads, dazzling white turbans, and plumed casques with trembling gems; a vaulted artesonado dome over his head radiant with stars scintillating in a ground of crystal and tortoise-shell.

As the good knight, nothing daunted, stands forth in glittering armour, before the old king, under a battery of hostile eyes, he speaks his message in a loud, clear voice:

“I come, O Caliph of Granada! from the sovereigns of Castile and Aragon, to demand the tribute due, for the permission to occupy the land of Spain, conquered from your ancestors by San Fernando of Castile!”

As he listens, a bitter smile curls Muley’s bearded lips, and his hand seeks the handle of a jewelled dagger at his side.

“Tell the Spanish rulers,” he says, in a voice tremulous with passion, “that the sovereigns of Granada who paid tribute are all dead. My mint coins nothing but dagger-blades and lances!”

War—bitter war—spoke in these words. Nor did the haughty bearing of the turbaned court belie the sign.

So Don Juan accepted it, but he was too discreet a knight to permit this impression to influence the lofty courtesy of his departure, as, with fitting salutations, he returned, filled with amazement at all the wonders he had seen.

Nor was the impression lessened as he passed through the Court of Lions, followed by a band of swarthy attendants, black-skinned Ethiopians and Nubians, naked but for a white cloth about their loins, and noted the giant forms of the marble lions filled with leaden pipes, which support the double basins, to the verge of which the fountain rises; the Arab porticoes and pavilions around the court, light as air, and range upon range of snowy arches, worked with the fineness of a chiselled cup.

If architecture at all, an Oriental fantasia, utterly unreal! the splendour of the Hall of Justice, of the Abencerrages, which follows on either side, with long vistas of many-domed halls opening into other patios, where violets, roses, and orange-trees blaze in the light, entered by portals glowing with brilliant mosaics, a low arch, specially pointed out to him by a noble Moor, more courteous than the rest, in the Hall of Justice, as leading to the place of execution. Whether intended as a hint to him of his danger, or of the swift course of justice towards the condemned, did not appear. At any rate, Don Juan remained perfectly unmoved; he had confessed before he started, and his life belonged to his sovereign—but when he was joined by a flippant emir, oiled and combed, who ventured to enter into an argument against the Christian faith, and especially the folly of believing in the immaculate conception of the Virgin, forgetting all the prescribed bearing of an envoy, he dealt him a sounding blow on the head with his sheathed sword.

In an instant a noise like thunder swept through the court, and the long lines of white arcades, at the back of the pavilion, were darkened by masses of Africans, black as night, stolid, passionless, their silver breastplates and long earrings shining on their dark skins, carrying immense clubs, studded with brazen nails. In advance the captain, the fatal bowstring hanging on his arm, and his eyes turned to obey the gesture of command to torture or to slay.

But Muley Hassan, better instructed in the usages of courts, instantly sent orders to respect the person and freedom of an ambassador while in his court; and so Don Juan departed safely by the way that he had come.

The night attack on Jaén followed the defiance borne by Don Juan—a cruel onslaught on a defenceless town, the fierce old Muley Hassan turning a deaf ear to all remonstrance.

This was succeeded by the no less cruel assault of the sovereigns on the castle of Alhama near Granada (described in the ballad Ay de mi Alhama), by Ponce de Leon, Marqués de Cadiz, one of Ferdinand’s most valiant captains; and the long Moorish war, destined to last ten years, began in earnest.

CHAPTER XXV

The Siege of Granada

Few were the tracks upon the mountains, and difficult to find. Narrow the gaps which cleave these tremendous ranges towards the plain. So narrow indeed, and walled in by such natural defences, that any army could be shut out by a small force, and as the Moors were accomplished warriors, and fought with a courage never surpassed, each inlet into the land was defended at the sword’s point.

Great had been the vicissitudes of the war of extermination on one side, and of enthusiastic defence of nation, faith, and existence on the other. Years have passed, but the vermilion tower of the Alhambra stands firm, and the Moors come and go in their city with the liberty of free men.

Spite of the fall of Malaga, that great city by the sea, where summer ever reigns, where the Reyes Catolicos were very nearly assassinated by a Moor—Loya, Antequerra, and last of all, Baza, besides many castles and fortresses—each with romantic traditions of bloodshed and warfare—Ferdinand is still encamped on the Vega. For thirty days it has been overrun by his forces, and a region once so exquisite in beauty, and fruitful in corn, olives, orchards, and gardens, has become a scene of desolation and ruin.

Now he has just passed the bridge of Peñas, only two leagues from Granada, after a fierce contest—a famous deed in this bloody war.

By this route the Christians have hitherto made raids into Granada, the bridge being capable of strong resistance on either side, from the long, narrow passage raised high on slender arches, and the ruggedness of the surrounding banks.

Now Ferdinand has called a council of war within his sumptuous tent, literally blazing with purple and gold. A plain man in himself, accused even of a parsimony unfitting in a king, he lives in an age of warlike splendour, and politic in all things and wary of the opinion of those around him, he loves the display of magnificence in the battle-field, to strike awe into the enemy, and raise his own authority among his troops.

With a gravity which suits him well, he is seated at the head of a table scattered with maps and papers. Nor is he in countenance or bearing inferior to the famous chiefs and captains around him. His long hair, falling in locks upon his shoulders, is still auburn, though thin, and streaked with grey, his blue eyes are inscrutable, his features set and stern; altogether a countenance which offers an unsolved problem to posterity, as did his character, varying so greatly at different periods of his life.

He is plainly dressed in a cloth mantle, clasped around his neck by a single jewel; on his breast shines a silver cross, as for one engaged in a crusade against the infidels, and his body is encased in steel.

The Infante Juan is at his side. Isabel has borne him several children, but this is the only son, a delicate-complexioned boy, with thin, aquiline features like his mother’s, altogether too frail for the rough campaigns in which he accompanies his father, and singularly out of place among the hidalgos, who are ranged according to their military rank around the table.

At the king’s right hand is Ponce de Leon, Marqués de Cadiz, a great southern noble, almost as powerful as himself; on the left is the Duque de Medina Sidonia, equal almost in townships, castles, and fortresses to a sovereign, hailing from the south also. Both have performed prodigies of valour in the war. The reckless giant called Hernado de Pulgar sits lower—he who rode into the city of Granada at dead of night, and fixed on the door of the great mosque a tablet with the letters, Ave Maria, then departed as he had come before the Moors had time to seize him; the famous Gonsalvo de Cordoba, to become El Gran Capitan, and Viceroy of Naples, in this war flashing his maiden sword, already marked by nature in features and bearing as a master of men; the Conde de Tendilla, hero of Alcala; El Rey and Cabra, and many others as illustrious as the chiefs of Troy, but with no Homer to celebrate their deeds.

Now the king speaks, first rising and uncovering to salute the Council, then reseating himself, and replacing his velvet bonnet upon his head, in all of which formalities the Council follow him in profound silence.

“My lords,” are his words, “we are met here to decide as to the course of the campaign. Spite of individual acts of courage, Granada is unconquered. The walls are strong, and Boabdil’s general, Mousa, a leader of prudence and renown, vaunts that he will drive us out by avoiding fixed battles, and harassing our armies by perpetual skirmishes in the mountains, and ambushes on the plain. Noble captains and companions, this cannot thus continue; it is a blot on our arms.”

Loud sounds of assent come from all round the table. Several of the great soldiers rise to reply, but, seeing that Ferdinand is prepared to continue, sit down and listen with reverential attention.

“The important post of the bridge of Peñas is ours, gallantly gained” (again voices rise in subdued acclamation, and again die away), “and by the complete desolation of the Vega, we may in time starve the city. But, alas! my lords, this is a work of years. Too long already for our fame have we lingered here. The obscure city of Granada is not the only place where the flag of Spain should be unfurled. But,” and as he proceeds, his brows knit, and the subtle look of an unscrupulous intriguer comes into his clear blue eyes, “there are other means beside the sword by which the prudent general conquers. As the lion in the fable disdains not the assistance of the fox, so do I, for my use, keep myself informed of all that passes in the Alhambra. Treason, my lords, will open the gates of Granada to us better than combat.”

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