Who never yet did keep thy troth, evil in word and deed,
The only boon I crave is but to have thee where my sword
May cut the false tongue from thy throat and cease thy lying word.”
“Enough, enough,” Alfonso cried, “I give thee my consent
To meet each other in the lists; so ends this Parliament.”
The tumult which the King had endeavoured to abate had hardly died away when two cavaliers entered the Court. The new-comers were ambassadors from the Infantes of Navarre and Aragon, who had come to request the King to bestow the hands of the Cid’s daughters upon their masters. Alfonso turned to the Cid and requested his permission to ratify the marriage at once, and when the Campeador had humbly given his consent he answered to the assembled nobles that the espousals would duly take place, adding that the combat between the disputants would be fought out on the morrow.
This was right woeful news to the Infantes of Carrión, who, in great fear, requested him to permit them some delay to procure fitting horses and arms, so that at last the King scornfully fixed the day of combat at three weeks from that date, and the place where it was to be fought out as Carrión itself, so that the Infantes should have no grounds of excuse for absence or be able to plead that the champions of the Cid had been granted any undue advantage.
The Cid then took his leave of the King, and on parting pressed him to accept his courser Babieca. But Alfonso refused the proffered gift, saying courteously that if he accepted it Babieca would not have so good a lord. Turning to those who were to uphold his cause in the lists, the Campeador bade them an affectionate farewell, and so he departed for Valencia, and the King for Carrión to see justice done.
The Trial by Combat
When the time of truce was over the contending parties sought the lists. The Cid’s men did not waste much time in arming themselves, but the treacherous Infantes of Carrión had brought with them a number of their vassals in the hope that they might be able to slay the Cid’s champions by night, when they were off their guard. But Antolinez and his comrades kept good watch and frustrated their design. When they saw that there was no help for it but to meet their challengers à outrance, they prayed the King that the Cid’s men might not be permitted to use the famous swords Colada and Tizon, for they superstitiously dreaded the trenchancy of these marvellous weapons, and bitterly repented that they had restored them. Alfonso, however, refused to listen to this appeal.
“Ye have swords of your own,” he said brusquely. “Let them suffice you, and see that you wield them like men, for, believe me, there will be no shortcoming on the side of the Campeador.”
The trumpets sounded and the Cid’s three champions leapt upon their impatient destriers, first having made the sign of the Cross upon their saddles. The Infantes of Carrión also mounted, but none so blithely. The marshals or heralds who were to decide the rules of the combat, and give judgment in case of dispute, took their places. Then said King Alfonso: “Hear what I say, Infantes of Carrión. This combat ye should have fought at Toledo, but ye would not, so I have brought these three cavaliers in safety to the land of Carrión. Take your right; seek no wrong: who attempts it, ill betide him.”
The description of the scene that follows has more than once been compared with Chaucer’s description of the combat between Palamon and Arcite in The Knight’s Tale, and, as will be seen, a resemblance certainly exists.9
And now the marshals quit the lists and leave them face to face;
Their shields are dressed before their breasts, their lances are in place.
Each charger’s flank now feels the spur, each helm is bending low,
The earth doth shake as horse and man hurl them upon the foe.
The echo of their meeting is a sound of meikle dread,
And all who hear the deadly shock count them as good as sped.
The false Ferrando and Bermuez strike lance on either’s shield,
The Infant’s spear goes through the boss, but the stout shaft doth yield
And splinters ere the point can pass thorough the other’s mail.
But Pero’s shaft struck home, nor did the seasoned timber fail;
It pierced Ferrando’s corselet and sank into his breast,
And to the trampled ground there drooped the Infant’s haughty crest.
Bermuez then drew Tizon’s bright blade; ere ever he could smite
The Infant yielded him and cried, “Thou hast the victor’s right.”
While this combat was proceeding Antolinez and the other Infante came together. Each of their lances smote the other’s shield and splintered. Then, drawing their swords, they rode fiercely against one another. Antolinez, flourishing Colada, struck so mightily at Diego that the good blade shore its way clean through the steel plates of his casque, and even cut half the hair from Diego’s head. The terrified princeling wheeled his courser and fled, but Antolinez pursued him with mock fury and struck him across the shoulders with the flat of his sword. So had the hound the chastisement of cowards. As he felt the blade across his withers Diego shrieked aloud and spurred past the boundaries of the lists, thus, according to the rules of the combat, admitting himself vanquished.
When the trumpets of the pursuivants sounded, Muño Gustioz and Asur González ran swiftly and fiercely together. The point of Asur’s spear glanced off Muño’s armour, but that of the Cid’s champion pierced the shield of his opponent and drove right through his breast, so that it stuck out a full fathom between the shoulder-blades. The haughty Asur fell heavily to the ground, but had enough of life left in him to beg for mercy.
King Alfonso then duly credited the Cid’s champions with the victory, and without loss of time they returned to Valencia to acquaint their master with the grateful news that his honour had been avenged.
Shortly afterward the espousals of the Cid’s daughters to the noble Infantes of Navarre and Aragon were celebrated with much pomp. The Poema del Cid, however, concludes as abruptly as it begins:
So in Navarre and Aragon his daughters both did reign,
And princes of his blood to-day sit on the thrones of Spain.
Greater and greater grew his name in honour and in worth;
At last upon a Pentecost he passed away from earth.
Upon him be the grace of Christ, Whom all of us adore.
Such is the story, gentles, of the Cid Campeador.
The Real Cid
Cervantes’ summing-up upon the Poema del Cid is perhaps the sanest on record. The Cid certainly existed in the flesh; what matter, then, whether his achievements occurred or not? For the Cid of romance is a very different person from the Cid of history, who was certainly a born leader of men, but crafty, unscrupulous, and cruel. The Poema is thus romance of no uncertain type, and as this book deals with romance and not with history, there is small need in this place to provide the reader with a chronicle of the rather mercenary story of Roderigo of Bivar the real.
“Mio Cid,” the title under which he is most frequently mentioned, is a half Arabic, half Spanish rendering of the Arabic Sid-y, “My lord,” by which he was