Chapter XXI: Bernardo Learns the Secret of his Birth--Joins the Moors

And now Bernardo is home again in the red-walled streets of Leon. Others long for life, he has sought for death; but the dark angel has not answered to his call.

As he paces along a narrow path bordering the city walls, above him the low turrets which Witica had spared, looking over to the green plains of Galicia, he knows that he has won himself a name as great as that of Pelayo, but a dark frown is on his young face, and gloomy thoughts chase each other through his brain.

How changed from the frank and joyous youth is this dark-visaged warrior! He shuns all his former friends; to no one will he speak, and least of all to the king, whom he justly accuses as the cause of his dishonour.

“What matters the splendour of my deeds,” he tells himself, speaking aloud, “when the mystery of my birth shuts me out from knightly deeds? Who will cross swords with Bernardo, save in the tumult of the battlefield? The fair face of woman never will shine on me; no love token touch my hand, no child call me father. O cruel parents, could not all my achievements move you to own a son so long forgotten? Who are you? Are you dead, to remain unmoved when the name of Bernardo rings throughout Spain? Who knows”--and his mind shifts to another train of thought--“but that my father himself may feel that his name will dishonour me?”

“O Bernardo, wrong not your father,” speaks a low voice behind him. “It is not his fault, the deep vaults of a prison cover him.”

Bernardo, who has not realised that he had been thinking aloud, turns with amazement and finds himself face to face with Doña Sol, an ancient gentlewoman, _camaréra_ to Queen Berta.

“Now may the saints bless thee, venerable Señora,” he cries, seizing her wrinkled hands, “if you can tell me aught of that which never leaves my thoughts.”

“All is known to me,” is the answer. “The king was but a child when I first came to the palace, but,” and she moves to and fro uneasily, and searches around cautiously with her eyes, “if I should be suspected of having disclosed the secret, nothing but my death would satisfy the king. These ramparts are too public for such speech. Come into the shadow of that tower yonder, where no one can hear us.”

Bernardo, who had faced without a thrill the flash of Durindana, grows pale and trembles like a girl.

“Be calm, Bernardo,” says the lady, about whose head and neck a long lace mantilla is folded, disclosing among the folds a worn and gentle face, marked with the trace of many sorrows. “No base blood is in your veins, not a knight in Leon is more nobly born.”

“Go on, go on!” urges Bernardo, wringing her hands, “more than my life is in your words.”

“The blood of kings,” she continues, “is in your veins.”

“Ha!” exclaims Bernardo, “then my suspicions are true? The king has ever favoured me. Is he my father? Why should he conceal it?”

“No, no,” answers Doña Sol, “the king, dear Bernardo, is not your father, but you are of his blood. That keeps every one silent who would dare to tell you, for the king has forbidden it, on pain of death!”

“Then who is my father?”

“Don Sancho Diaz, Count of Saldaña,” answers the Dueña, “the greatest noble in Leon, and your mother is the Infanta Doña Ximena, sister of the king.”

“But the king called me Bastard!” cries Bernardo.

“It was a true marriage all the same,” replies the _camaréra_, “only, as Doña Ximena was destined to be the Abbess of the Convent of San Marcos, the king considered it an adulterous union, she being dedicated to the Church. I should know all about it, seeing I stood by them at the altar.”

“You! you!” exclaims Bernardo, passing from astonishment to astonishment, as, following her step by step, she draws aside, alarmed at his threatening countenance. “Why did you never speak?”

“Because your mother, alas! is dead, and your father”--here Doña Sol stopped, her courage failed. She heartily wished she had never undertaken the dangerous office. She was as one who, having let loose the bulwarks of a mighty flood, stands trembling by, to contemplate the havoc he has made. How was she to tell the truth to this impetuous soldier, standing over her trembling in every limb?

“My mother dead!” repeats Bernardo in a deep low voice, his fingers grasping the hilt of a dagger at his waist, his haggard face turned on her, “and my father, where?”

“Alas! I know not,” sobs the terrified Dueña, bursting into tears. “For long he lay in the castle of Luna, imprisoned, but if he is alive still I do not know.”

“Then I will speedily discover!” says Bernardo, and without a word he rushes from her presence.

* * * * *

Alonso, returned from the wars, has resumed his former mode of life. With his armour he has doffed the sentiments of a man. He is too old to change. Again monks and friars gather round him, and flatter him with praises of the virtue of continence which will make his name illustrious. Again he fasts and flagellates himself as before.

The thought of what he owes Bernardo troubles him, but not for a moment does the obstinacy of his resolution relax. Never will he acknowledge him, or liberate his father.

It is evening, the fretted towers of the Gothic cathedral glisten against a bank of heavy mists, rapidly welling up from the south. The clouds deepen with the twilight. The lustre of a stormy sunset is fading out. The sun disappears, and darker and denser shadows gather and obscure the light. Low thunder rumbles in the distance and a few heavy raindrops have fallen.

Again, with rapid steps, Bernardo traverses the Roman court of the palace; again he is challenged by the guards as he passes. Neither Don Ricardo nor Favila is there. Ricardo was badly wounded at Roncesvalles, and the gay Favila has gone to lead a sally against the Moors, those ever-pressing adversaries, not to be wholly overcome for many a long year.

But the dog Poilo is there, the noble hound who forgets neither friend nor foe. Wagging his tail, he leaps forward and with sharp barks of joy flings himself upon Bernardo, licking his hands and thrusting his large nose between his fingers.

But Bernardo passes and heeds him not; nay, in his fierce mood, he raises his hand as if to strike him, as barring his desperate path--but he forbears as he meets a keen pair of faithful eyes fixed on his face, which, if a dog can shed tears as some pretend, are filled with moisture at the rude rebuff; then, retiring to a distance, his tail between his legs, Poilo sadly watches the figure of Bernardo as he strides hastily onwards up the stairs to seek the king.

He is seated at a table, in company with a monk, and is at that moment employed in turning over the leaves of an illuminated missal, on the value of which he is descanting. The same aged chamberlain, who so stoutly maintained the justice of the king’s conduct towards Doña Ximena, peaceably slumbers in a corner, his ivory wand of office in his hand.

Suddenly the monotonous voice of the monk ceases, for, raising the arras which hangs before the entrance, Bernardo del Carpio stands in the doorway. His cap is in his hand, his eyes are turned on the ground, but his compressed lips and tightly knitted hands betray his agitation.

Since the battle of Roncesvalles, Bernardo and the king have not met alone. The debt of gratitude he owes him has envenomed the king’s mind. His tenderness has turned to jealousy and suspicion.

“How now, Bernardo,” he says in an angry voice, raising his eyes from the manuscript, “do you presume so much on your success that you dare to come unbidden into my presence?”

“Perhaps I do,” replies Bernardo, advancing into the room and placing himself at the head of the table in front of the king, spite of the feeble efforts of the old chamberlain, who has waked up and endeavours to prevent it.

“Perhaps I have the right.”

“Ha! what right?” demands Alonso, gazing at him curiously from under the bushy fringe of his eyebrows.

“The right of your nearest of blood,” answers Bernardo, his eyes fixed on the king.

“Now curses on you!” exclaims Alonso rising, and stretching out his thin hands, as if to shut out the image of one who represented to him mortal sin. “It is a lie. Who can have told you?”

“No matter,” answers Bernardo; “suffice it that I know.”

“Talk not to me of kinship. You have no name save that of the traitor who bore you.”

“Nay, drive me not too far, old man. You are my king and I have saved your life. Your horse was wounded under you, the sword of Roland was at your throat, your blood flowed like water when I ventured mine.”

“Seize him, seize him!” shouts Alonso. “Guards where are you? What?” turning to the chamberlain, “do you favour this braggart?” But no one stirs. The monk glided out at the first entrance of Bernardo, and the old chamberlain, whose peaceful life has never led him into scenes of strife, stands with open eyes, transfixed with terror.

“Now listen, Don Alonso,” cries Bernardo,

(Burgos.)]

mastering the rage which, like a whirlwind, seized him at sight of the king. “Either on the instant you promise to give into my hand my father, Don Sancho of Saldaña, or I will fortify my castle of Carpio and take service with the Moor. I am at least near enough the throne in blood not to serve a liar and a hypocrite.”

These words are spoken slowly. His voice has a strange ring in it. “Now, by this blade, which I have proved owes no lord but Heaven and me, King, Conde, or Grandeza, swear, King Don Alonso, to set my father free.”

“Nay, Bernardo,” answers the king, putting by the weapon with his hand. “Not in this guise let us speak.”

His look and manner have suddenly changed. He is roused into alarm at Bernardo’s threat of taking service with the Moor, not in his case only but in many others the last refuge of disappointed patriots.

“Your father shall be free, according to your desire. I give you my royal word. On the seventh day from this, you yourself shall meet him at Salamanca. Of the imprisonment of the Conde de Saldaña and my treatment of--” (even now he could not bring himself to pronounce Doña Ximena’s name), “I am answerable to God and to the Church alone. My conscience absolves me; my reasons are my own. No oath is needful,” seeing that Bernardo still holds his sword. “Let us part friends.”

“No, by the Holy Virgin of Compostela, we never can be friends. You have blasted my life and that of those who bore me. I would die a hundred deaths ere such a thing could be.”

“Bethink you of my former kindness to you,” urges the king. “You bore the standard of Leon in the wars.”

No answer comes from Bernardo. There was that in the sudden change of the king’s demeanour which roused his suspicions. He liked not the smoothness of Alonso’s speech nor the smile he had called up. Could he be mocking him?

“You hesitate!” cries Alonso. “Are you bold enough to doubt a king’s word?”

Still no answer, but Bernardo’s eyes gather upon him, as though he would read his soul. Then, boldly as he had come, he turns on his heel, and raising the arras, passes out.

* * * * *

Upon the broad corn-bearing country about Salamanca a pavilion is erected, by order of the king, at the spot where Bernardo is to meet his father.

With him are Don Ricardo and Favila, by the king’s command, and a company of knights “to do honour to the meeting of a father and long-parted son.”

As they draw near the city walls, the noise of timbrels and trumpets sounds on the breeze, and a glittering band of fifty guards with naked swords, and a troop of knights wearing their vizors up, are seen advancing along the Roman bridge of many arches which crosses the river.

Foremost among them rides a splendidly accoutred figure in a coat of mail; long sleeves of crimson velvet fall from his shoulders, a shield with his cognisance catches the light, a hood and collar of mail conceal his face; his lower limbs are sheathed like the body in plates of steel, a broadsword and poniard hang at the saddle-bow, and his horse, a massive charger, is enveloped, like his master, in plaited mail.

When Bernardo beholds this superbly armed cavalier slowly passing the bridge, the linked bridle of his war horse held by two pages, and an esquire behind carrying his lance and shield, “O God!” is all he can say; “it is the Count of Saldaña. He is coming at last--my father,” and he spurs his horse into a wild gallop.

Already he has dismounted to kiss his father’s hand, already he clasps his mailed gauntlet and looks into his face. Great God! It is the livid countenance of a corpse! The dead weight of Bernardo’s hand causes the body to swerve and fall forward upon the saddle-bow.

Alonso has kept his word, the Count of Saldaña is given free into his hands, but he has been secretly murdered in prison, and it is his dressed-up body that appears before his son.

A cry of agony comes from Bernardo.

“O father, Don Sancho Diaz,” are his words, as he reverently replaces the body on the saddle, “in an evil hour did you beget me; I have given everything for you, and now I have lost all.”

* * * * *

To his stronghold, the castle of Carpio, Bernardo carries his father’s corpse, and places it in the centre of the chapel before the altar. Beside it he kneels, a broken-hearted man.

There lies the parent he has so long sought in vain, and whose existence was a mystery to him from his birth. Dead he is, and yet to this lonely man something tangible is before him even in his corpse--something with which he can commune as with his own.

After a while rising up, his eyes fixed on the bier, Bernardo unsheathes the sword with which he slew Roland and saved the king at Roncesvalles.

“O sword!” he cries, “my trusted blade. In my hand you have drunk the blood of France, be strong for my revenge! Never in a more sacred cause was weapon drawn. My father thirsts for your sure stroke, and his son can wield it. Go up, go up, thou blessed spirit, into the hands of God,” and he stoops to kiss the dead man’s hand, “and fear not that the blood flowing in Bernardo’s veins shall be spared in vengeance on Alonso.”

* * * * *

Here the _romanceros_ leave him. He did not kill the king, but he made good his promise of joining the Moors in revenge for his father’s murder, and died fighting against the king.