Don Pedro looks on with a strange, fixed smile. Now and then he even joins in the conversation with a loud harsh laugh, which, to say the truth, frightens Blanche, but, delighted at the change in his bearing towards herself, she interprets it all as “men’s ways,” and hopes in time to grow accustomed to him. Every one could not be so gentle as the Grand Master, who, after all, was half a priest, so Claire said; and of the two, ignorant Blanche said in her heart, how much more she admired the rough blunt ways of the king.
Once indeed, when talking with Don Fadique, she turned round quickly to address Don Pedro, and met his eyes riveted on her with such a cruel stare, she grew cold all over. And it was strange that when he gave the signal for the company to separate, instead of leading her to the bridal chamber, as she had been told he would, he made her a low bow and retired attended by Don Juan de Mañara and Don Garcia de Padilla.
“I wonder if I have offended him,” she whispers to Claire, who is in waiting behind her chair. “I am afraid something must be wrong. Surely he ought not to have left me on our wedding night? What have I done? In the morning he was wroth without a cause, to-night he is gracious with still less reason.”
“You might have spoken less with the Grand Master,” is Claire’s reply. “I cannot abide Don Pedro,” Claire says, when they have reached the solitude of the queen’s apartment. “I am sure he has some secret chamber where he hangs up those who do not please him, like Blue Beard in his castle. For the sake of your life be on your guard, my queen. You may depend on the Grand Master, but the king is not to be trusted.”
“Oh, dear Claire, I am sure you are mistaken! Now I am as unhappy as ever, just when I thought all was coming right! Why did not the queen-mother come to the banquet? She is kind and gracious. I could have taken courage to consult her. I have no friend but Fadique, and now I am afraid even of him.”
And once again the tell-tale tears gather in her eyes, as she buries herself in Claire’s arms.
“Mind, Claire, we must not meet Fadique to-morrow. It might anger the king. And oh! he is so charming, I would do anything to please him.”
“Who?” asks Claire, leaning down to where the queen’s curly head rests on her arm.
“Why, Don Pedro, of course,” is the answer. “No one can compare to him! Terrible but beautiful! Oh! if he would but love me! Alas! why did he go?” So, murmuring to each other, the queen calls in her tiring women, and prepares for rest.
CHAPTER VI
Cloister, Valladolid. – Castle of Talavera
ALL sleep, save that within a most lovely cloister of Gothic arches, over which the clustering branches of many vines tremble in the night air, comes the sound of voices, now near, now far, as the speakers pass and repass from opposite sides along the marble floor, and the echo of a harsh, discordant laugh breaks the silence.
“Por Cristo! I will go!” cries a loud voice, desecrating the fair night by its rough accent, as three muffled figures emerge for a moment into the light, where a lofty portal opens into the centre of the cloister, filled with the graves of monks, who even in death cling to the sacred precincts.
“I will go, and no man shall hinder me! With me shall come my trusty Don Juan and our brother Garcia. Ha! ha! Mañara,” addressing the tallest of the three figures, “you are always ready. How many ladies expect you in Seville at the Calle near the Lonja? See how sober a man is your sovereign. One lady love is all I claim. One, ineffable, divine! Now, I ask in all fairness, and I appeal to you, Mañara, can Albuquerque here (who has limed me like a falcon) reproach me if I fly back to the nest of love, after I have seen the baby-faced traitress he has chosen? Sangre de Dio! The thought of Maria makes me mad.”
His speech was succeeded by a dead silence. Don Juan did not answer. There was a brutal coarseness of expression in the king which, as a knight and a caballero, he disapproved. Not so the third figure, Don Garcia de Padilla, standing a little aloof, as waiting to be addressed, who bowed to the ground, then further retreated into the gloom cast by the shadow of the clustered columns.
Then the grave voice of Albuquerque responds: “My lord, you have no just cause of suspicion against the queen. She is very young, and could be moulded like wax in your hand.”
“That is my affair!” answers the king, whose choleric temper is rising. “As facile as a dancing-girl. Nay, more so, for aught I know – for those devils of gitañas have a code of honour of their own. I have proved her. Even in my presence she could not conceal her love for the cursed bastard. I never wanted a wife; you forced her on me. But such a one as this is not worthy to mate with our jester. We will duly dispose of her, were she a thousand times cousin to the King of France.”
“Beware, my lord, what you do,” interposes Albuquerque, with the unhesitating frankness he alone dared use.
But Don Pedro continues without heeding him: “There is a prophecy about me, you say, of which you think much, ‘I must kill or be killed.’ Excellent reasoning! We will see to it by-and-by. For the present, the Lady Blanche shall spend her honeymoon in the strong castle of Talavera, and the Grand Master may find the air of exile favourable to his health.”
To all this, spoken in a hard, grating voice, with the incessant and uneasy movement which always marked Don Pedro’s bursts of fury, Albuquerque, his arms folded under his mantle, listened in silence.
Whether Don Pedro had expected some violent reproaches and was angered that they did not come, or whether, knowing the madness of what he was about to do, he had laid himself out to combat argument and reason, the effect of enraging him was all the same. He trembled with passion, and struck upon the pavement with his heel.
At length, unfolding his arms, Albuquerque speaks: “My liege, I have guided the councils of your kingdom in the time of your father, called ‘the Wise,’ and in the regency of your mother, called ‘the Good’; I have been your own pilot in many a stormy sea. Now I resign these gracious powers with which you have invested me into your hands, much worthier than mine. But before taking my leave, allow me to remind your Highness that the truce with Aragon is expired; that by divers hostile acts you have angered your old ally, the King of Granada, and that Enrique de Trastamare, with his army, is marching on Toledo, where he has many and powerful partisans. His alliance with His Most Christian Majesty was known to me, and therefore I wrought on your Grace to espouse the Lady Blanche, which would have traversed this scheme, and brought France to your aid; but as – ”
“Have you done?” thunders the king, so loud as to send a flight of night birds scudding across the sky.
“No, my lord, I have not done. Behind all this is His Holiness the Pope – long angered by the favour you show Mussulmen and Jews – seeking a cause to place you and Castile under an interdict; the Lady Blanche of Bourbon will serve him well for this. And as to your Castilian subjects, I warn your Highness to proffer no offers of advancement to Cerda, husband of Doña Maria Coronel. To my certain knowledge he is engaged in treasonable practices with Don Enrique; and the lady, my lord – here a cold smile for an instant lit up Albuquerque’s face —will never yield!”
“To hell with them and you,” roars Don Pedro, beside himself with rage. “You too, as report says, hold your papers in the hands of my brother, and will meet other traitors at his camp. Cursed hypocrite and treacherous counsellor, begone from my presence! Tread not Castilian soil again, I warn you.”
“Except as a conqueror,” is the calm reply. “May your Highness raise the glory of Castile as high as my desire, and you will win the world.” And the great minister passed down the dark aisle as tranquil as on a gala day, the shadow of the light vine-trellis clinging to the groined arches striking upon his mantle – the sound of his footsteps