Chapter XIX: Bernardo Leads the Goths against Charlemagne

The day is warm and genial, the landscape flushed with green, and such homely blossoms as hawthorne and elder, briony and honeysuckle, flourish in the fields.

An immense plain spreads around, verdant with pastures, gardens and _huertas_ full of fruit-trees and clumps of planes and oaks, while across it, flung like a silver ribbon, flows the current of the Torio River. Hayfields, ploughed land, and squares of maize and yellowing rye, follow each other in its course, divided by groves and wooded hedgerows rich in roadside flowers--Canterbury bells, pink willow-wand, the humble star daisy, and the wild rose.

Behind rise the turrets and spires of Leon, ruddy in colour, on a gentle slope crowned by the cathedral backed by a waving line of hills fading into the darkness of fantastic rocks, rising to the giddy heights of the Asturian mountains capped with snow.

Nor is the fairness of the earth less than the brilliancy of the sky. Not a cloud floats on the horizon to mar the view,--winding in and out among the trees, the dazzle of glittering helmets in the sun; sleek war-horses, cased in armour, curveting gaily spite of the heavy weight laid on them; flags and emblazoned shields breaking through masses of bright lances held aloft, battle-axes and broadswords--each knight as he passes, followed by his esquire, trumpeter and page, riding forth on the sacred mission, led by Bernardo del Carpio.

As one man the city follows him as he rides forth from the gate on a white charger, the banner of Leon waving before him, a gold lion rampant on a field of red. “It is the standard of Leon,” say those around. “The king allows him to bear it--a high honour to a nameless knight who, men say, never came legally into the world.”

Now cries of “Bernardo! Bernardo!” rend the air; the brazen trumpets sound, the shrill clarion calls to arms--and as he hears the warlike sound, the peasant quits his team to grasp a spear, the shepherd watching his flock by running streams flings down his crook and rushes forward, the youth whose limbs have never felt the weight of armour, the old men who sit at home at ease--all swell the crowd, as mountain torrents receive neighbouring rills.

“We are born free,” they say, “and free we will remain. No Frankish king shall rule over Leon. Anointed cravens may barter the land, but under the lion who bathes his paws in blood we will fight for ‘our land.’”

Three thousand men follow Bernardo to the field, all animated with the spirit of their chief. The secret infamy which hangs over his birth he dares not fathom, nor why his father is concealed, or in what manner he is connected with the king! Some foul injustice has clearly been done him. The thought of it rankles deeply in his soul. With this feeling comes a growing hatred to Alonso, who at least has been privy to this concealment, if not the cause.

Then, ashamed of permitting his own private griefs to intrude on the noble mission he has in hand, Bernardo calls to Don Favila to ride beside him.

“What will the king say to this armament, _amigo_?” are his first words. “Surely he will now understand the vainness of his purpose! In what disposition did you leave him?”

“I think he is much shaken,” is the reply, “but there are secret reasons. You, my lord, best know his mind.”

Bernardo heaves a deep sigh.

“Talk not to me of him,” he exclaims, “he is a hypocrite, unworthy of an honest man’s regard.” Then, seeing the look of amazement on Don Favila’s face, “Yes! by Santiago! such is my mind, and I will fling my mailed glove into his cursed face and tell him so, if I return from the present adventure.”

More and more amazed, Don Favila listens. “If it were not so early in the day, good Bernardo, I should think you had quaffed too many beakers of wine to our success.”

“Do I look like a man who has wine in him?” answers Bernardo, bitterly. “If wine would drown my care, I would drink a sack.”

“Tell me,” continues Favila, burning with curiosity, “by our long friendship, what is there amiss between you and King Alonso? You were wont to love him well.”

“Then it is past,” replies Bernardo, chafing under the questioning. “I hate him now. It is possible you can judge of the reason better than I. I pray you, good Favila, ask me no more; it is useless looking back.”

Don Favila, as a prudent man, held his peace. Although of a gentle and courteous nature, there was that in Bernardo that no one dared to cross. A look of sullen wrath is on his face he has never seen before. Has he at last discovered the secret of his birth and the cruelty of the chaste king?

* * * * *

Now the little army, passing by pleasant hedgerows and fertile fields, reaches the borders of the Ordega, crossed by a wooden bridge so narrow that much time is occupied by the passage of the troops.

A sound of the approach of many horsemen, galloping rapidly, comes from the road they have just traversed, and clouds of dust from the dry soil sweep to the height of the tree-tops. Voices are heard, and the roll of drums and the call of trumpets, but nothing as yet is seen.

“We are set upon by foes,” shouts Don Ricardo, hastily seeking out Bernardo, who, with a set white face, watches, immovable in the saddle, the passage of the knights across the bridge.

“Foes,” answers Bernardo, with a mocking laugh; “methinks, Ricardo, you are suddenly grown blind not to recognise your countrymen. These are no foes, but our own townsmen come out to join us.”

As he speaks, nearer and nearer comes the clamour, and louder and louder upon the breeze rises the cry, “_El Rey, El Rey_,” echoing back from a thousand voices along the line.

“Yes, it is he,” says Bernardo to those around. “I know him by his helmet, set with gems, and the fur collar over his corselet. By the rood, it is well he acknowledges his wrong.”

And as he turns his eyes upon Don Alonso, such a loathing possesses him, nothing but the cause he has in hand keeps his hand from his weapon to avenge his wrong.

Meanwhile the king’s arrival in face of the army is greeted by a shout so long and loud mountain and hill ring with it.

In the tall, thin warrior, with a long white beard, nobly wearing a regal diadem about his burnished helmet, no one would recognise the emaciated anchorite who scourged and starved himself. The words of Bernardo have stung him to the quick. He has cast off the delusions which filled his brain; the French monks have been sent whence they came, the armed messenger dismissed, the pledges given to Charlemagne have been withdrawn. Even the horror of his sister’s sin in the person of Bernardo has yielded to the nobleness of his conduct, and like a man distraught suddenly restored to his right senses, he has ridden out to join him.

The shouts of the crowd (for the distance from Leon has not prevented many of the citizens following the soldiers) for a time drowns every other sound.

Again and again King Alonso bows to the saddle-bow, and again and again from three thousand voices comes the cry, “_Viva el Rey!_ Leon! Leon to the rescue!”

Nor, in this moment of triumph, as he lingers on the brink of the river, proudly contemplating the gallant body of knights, who crowd round him to touch, if possible, the nobler charger which bears him, his mailed hands, his rich saddle-cloth, and the royal standard borne before him, does he forget Bernardo.

Calling to him in a loud voice he commands him to leave the van of the army and place himself at his side.

Then raising the crossed hilt of his jewelled sword before his face, he utters a brief prayer, and turns towards the thousands of eager visages upraised to his.

“O men of Leon,” are his words, contemplating them with moistening eyes, “to this brave knight--Bernardo del Carpio--I confide the land. Where he leads, follow!”