Blanche was but a child, cause and effect were unknown to her; but love, first love, that blessed light direct from heaven, had transformed her whole being, and from a simple, tranquil-hearted girl, content to pass her days joyously as the birds do, without thought, she had become a sensitive, anxious woman, trembling beneath that terrible prescience that comes with the first lesson of life; and when Fadique, after a long silence, asked her again: “Are you sure you love me? Say it once more, Blanche, and that you will never love another man,” in a low voice she answered earnestly: “Yes, I love you. I did not know what love was, until you came to Narbonne,” and then, unable to bear the strain upon her, she hid her pale face on his shoulder. “What will Don Pedro do to me?” she cried, trembling all over with a sudden revulsion. “What will he say to me? I feel so treacherous and wicked, and yet it is not my fault.”
“No,” answers Fadique, pressing her slight form to his and still holding her imprisoned hand. “It is the fault of those who forced you into such a marriage. That is the sin; but remember, my own Blanche, though silent, I am ever near you at the Court. One heart at least bleeds for you.”
“I am sure I hear footsteps!” cries Blanche, starting back and standing upright listening – “What will Claire say? Am I indeed such a sinner?”
“Claire? By Santiago! what has she to do with us? Claire? Ah! do not look at me so, Blanche, or you will break my heart.”
“Oh, that mine was broken too, and I were dead!” she sobs.
“Then let us die together,” replies Don Fadique.
They are standing hand in hand, backed by the high Gothic casement. The fretted frame, filled with devices, crowns, and coats of arms, casts a pale reflex on them. The sun is setting behind the castellated towers of San Pablo, opposite, and soft fragrant shadows gather in the chamber. Both in their hearts are longing that this moment may last for ever.
Deeper and deeper the shadows fell, engulfing the two young figures in its gloom, save where a shaft of vivid light fell upon them like a sword, the point turned towards them.
“My love,” murmurs Don Fadique, passionately, “do you hear me?”
As Blanche moved in response, a sudden light was in her eyes that had never been there before – a Moorish scarf Claire had placed around her fell from her waist.
“This shall be my talisman,” cries Don Fadique, stooping to pick it up, “the token of your love, and my safeguard in battle. You will not refuse me?”
“Oh! hide it, hide it,” whispers Blanche under her breath. “Claire may come in and miss it.”
Then there was a dead silence which neither of them broke.
Suddenly, with a crash like thunder, the clatter of horses’ feet rises up from the patio; the clang of armed men is in the air, the roll of cumbrous equipages, and the shrill voice of drums and clarions. Now a single horseman rides in and challenges the guard. Then there is the sound of marching of many feet and the far-off blare of trumpets.
Blanche rose to her feet, speechless with terror. Was the king already there? Where could Claire be?
Then comes the echo of many steps in the antechamber, and Claire rushes in through the arras as Don Fadique disappears by a door on the other side.
Following Claire appears a tall and stately jefe, holding a white wand of office, with many crosses and decorations on his breast, and a high plumed hat in his hand, which he doffs, bowing low.
“Madam, the Queen,” says he, in a sonorous voice, again inclining himself to the ground, “it is my duty to apprise your Majesty that the king is now passing the drawbridge outside the city. A royal page bears his greeting to your Grace.”
“Claire, oh, Claire!” sighs Blanche, casting herself into her arms. “Oh! why did you leave me?”
CHAPTER V
Marriage at Valladolid
THE ancient city of Valladolid lies on low ground and is watered by the Pisuerga, a broad river for this waterless land.
Although so far in the north, Valladolid was at this time considered the official capital of Castile, and therefore it was there that Blanche had come to meet her much dreaded bridegroom.
A more uninviting city does not exist in Spain, as we see it now, and although it suffered cruelly from the invasion of the French in the Peninsular War, uninteresting it must always have been. No charm leads one’s thoughts lovingly to Valladolid. The cathedral is hideous. Only the front of San Pablo and the Collegiata de San Gregorio, a magnificent gift of Cardinal Ximenes, dwell in the mind.
Of course, with the exception of San Pablo, these buildings were erected centuries after Don Pedro’s reign, and one asks oneself what Valladolid could have been then?
There are no environs. The river flows through flat banks with no timber except long lines of thin poplars, the poorest of all trees, and beyond, the eye wanders over endless plains towards Burgos and Salamanca to the borders of Portugal.
But now, forgetting the present aspect of the city, we must go back to the 3d of June, 1375, the day on which Don Pedro was to arrive to meet the new queen, espoused in his name by his brother, the Grand Master of Santiago, to be kept as a great festival, for which thousands had assembled from all parts of the kingdom. For indeed, in those days of perpetual warfare, a fiesta was well esteemed, as they were very rare, especially in the north, inhabited by a more serious and impassioned race of hardy men than the lighthearted southerners of Andalusia.
Now this occasion had been seized as a gift from heaven, especially as it was to take the form of a tournament, in which the Infante Don Fadique was to take part, as well as the Infante of Aragon, and Don Juan de Mañara, known in all ages as “Don Juan,” the favourite of the king, gambler, reveller, and seducer, and that graceful but treacherous knight, Don Garcia de Padilla, brother of Maria, both being in attendance on the king. The queen-mother, Doña Maria of Portugal, had also journeyed from Seville to welcome the young queen, and Albuquerque followed her, full of alarm for the result of the alliance he had brought about.
Much had been heard of the strange qualities of the young king, about whom men’s minds were divided. Such mysterious crimes were attributed to him, such unheard-of brutalities, that it was generally supposed he acted under the influence of magic spells, wrought on him by his mistress, Maria de Padilla, held by the populace as a witch accursed by God and man.
Those who had not seen him, and they were many, and the women especially, who had heard harrowing tales of his misdeeds, crowded into Valladolid, where, accommodation not being easily obtained except for the rich, the season being summer, had built themselves huts of branches along the river, and camped out there, as near as possible to the green vega where the tournament was to be held.
And a wonderful sight it is, and almost beautiful to behold, under a heaven one sheet of unbroken blue, golden lights resting on the gaudy colours within the enclosed space, carpeted with grass; lofty gateways, making the four entrances, adorned with coloured tiles in blue and gold; tents of variegated rich stuffs, luxuriously fitted up for the convenience of each knight about to take part in the tilt; galleries hung with brocade and cloth of gold; turreted towers in silk striped black and yellow, from which hang banners; fountains furnished with bowls of silver to refresh the knights, over which court pages keep guard; stands for the musicians, covered balconies for the ladies, where the sparkle of dark eyes and rounded arms peep out of delicate draperies; and in the centre, the gaudiest of all, the royal pavilion, “as high as three lances,” blazing with cloth of gold, trimmed with feathers and flowers, the flag of Castile and Leon floating overhead, beside the emblazoned Nodo of Castile, and the French lilies impanelled on the same shield – the interior protected from the sun by tinted awnings, under which rise three crimson thrones, for