Chapter XXIV: Marriage of Doña Ava and El Conde de Castila--Treachery of Doña Teresa

Burgos was reached without further incident, and in a few days the marriage of the Conde and the Infanta was solemnised with great pomp in the church of Sant’ Agueda on the hill, under a mantle of delicate sculpture which lined the walls.[1]

[1] The beautiful cathedral at Burgos was built later by Fernando El Santo, King of Castile.

Now here it should be said, as in the fairy tales, “They married and lived happily ever after.” Not at all. We are only at the beginning of their troubles.

The rage of Don Sancho of Leon and King Garcia of Navarre, the father of Doña Ava, knew no bounds. Genuine rage, for they had both been caught in their own trap, a thing utterly unbearable to malignant natures, be they kings or commons.

As to the King of Navarre, who not only had lost a highly valuable marriageable daughter, but the half of the kingdom of Castile, he at once assembled a strong army, under the pretence that the Conde had feloniously carried off the Infanta--a curious accusation, considering that he himself had consented to their nuptials.

“Let us wait till he comes to a better mind,” urged Doña Ava, from her palace at Burgos, looking out over those rich plains which are the glory of Central Spain; “after all, I _am_ his daughter, he cannot harm _me_.”

But this Christian point of view was not shared by the King of Navarre, who from his mountains executed such raids on Castile that Gonzales had no choice but to face him.

Near Ogroño was the battle, not far from Burgos, by the river Ebro, and hardly was it fought, and victory only gained by a clever feint, headed by the Conde in person. Don Garcia’s camp was seized and he himself taken prisoner.

Now face to face they stood within a tent, the father-in-law and son. The casque of the king battered, his armour bleared, his chief knights in a like plight, prisoners beside him--the Conde in front brandishing a blood-stained sword, with such a sense of wrong gnawing at his heart as for a time leaves him speechless.

Then the words of reproach came rushing to his lips. “False king, did I not come in peace to Narbonne, and you gave me the royal kiss of welcome? Did I not eat at your board? Sleep the sleep of peace under your roof? Ride with you? Jest with you? Live as man to man of the kinship we are to each other? Did you not” (and here his upraised voice breaks into a softer tone as he names her) “give me your daughter, the Infanta, as my wife, and, while her hand was clasped in mine, her kiss upon my cheek, did you not bind me, vile king, in chains, and hurl me into a dungeon, where but for her help, the angel of my life, I should have died unheeded?”

To all this Don Garcia, with eyes cast on the ground, answered not a word, his armed figure defined against the pattern of rich brocade which lined the tent under the light of torches.

“Now to Burgos with you, King of Navarre, and as you did by me, so be it done to you! That is bare justice!”

“Ah! good my lord,” came the soft voice of Doña Ava into his ear, as she went out to meet him with her ladies to the gate of Santa Maria, beside the river which flows by the walls of Burgos “remember, Don Garcia is my father.”

“Now prythee hold your peace, fair wife,” was his reply, “much as I love you he shall this time meet his due. Nor shall he return to Navarre until he pays me a full ransom.”

But like the gentle dropping of water (and drops, we know, wear even stones, much more the soft substance of which hearts are made) came the entreaties of the Infanta. After all they were married, and Don Garcia had suffered a grievous defeat, which had weakened him for mischief for many a day!

So at the end of a year the prison was unbarred and a great festival held in the old palace of Burgos, of which no trace remains; a throne glittering with cloth of gold was raised in the midst of carpets and screens and awnings of brocaded silk, a luxury borrowed from the Moors--from whom, much as they fought them, all refined tastes were acquired; and afterwards, at the board in royal robes, Don Garcia is seated side by side with Castile (Doña Ava, crowned with a royal diadem, between), as they quaff the generous wine of Valdepeñas in healths of eternal amity and alliance.

* * * * *

Again the Cortes were assembled in haste, in the northern city of Leon, to determine conclusions against the Moors.

The Caliph Almanzor, coming from Cordoba, had penetrated north as far as Santiago de Compostela, in Galicia, sacked the shrine, the very Mecca of Spain, where countless miracles were wrought by his bones; and, insult of insults, pulled down the bells and hung them (oh, horrors!) in the Mesquita of Cordoba, where they still remain! So that Fernan gladly hastened to obey Don Sancho’s summons, along with the kings of Aragon and Navarre. Years had passed, a son had been born to him, and many acts of courtesy exchanged, as between royal kinsfolk.

To recall the past was by no means in harmony

with his forgiving temper. “Perhaps he will pay the debt he owes me,” was his thought, “for my horse Sila and the hawk he bought of me so long ago; the sum must by this time be a big one.”

It was night when the council ended, and the royal company assembled in the hall, having exchanged their heavier garments for fanciful doublets and mantles of tissues woven in Eastern looms, set off with fur and gems--graceful _toques_ to correspond, replacing helmet and head-piece, a feather lying low on the shoulder, or peaked caps encircled with garlands of jewels, the badge of his house embroidered on each knight’s breast. As each guest took his place with that solemn demeanour common to Spaniards, a flourish of trumpets sounded, a side door opened, and Doña Teresa appeared, upright to stiffness, wearing her crown upon her head, her son Don Sancho advancing with respectful courtesy to place her on his right hand.

All eyes were fixed on Don Fernan Gonzales, the youngest of the princes. Happiness and loyalty looked out of his comely face, grace was in every movement, as he exchanged compliments with his royal kinsmen--Aragon, a broad-shouldered man, frank and true in nature; Navarre, dark and preponderant, his eyes bent significantly on his son-in-law; and his nephew of Leon, Don Sancho the Fat, grown so obese he moved in his royal robes with difficulty.

The feast, spread on oaken tables covered with scarlet cloths, blazed with the sheen of precious candelabra, cups inlaid with rubies, and silver figures trimmed with posies of flowers, aromatic herbs and green boughs from the wood, the walls hung with damascened draperies and a fair Moorish carpet on the floor. The fish, flesh, and fowl served in heavy silver platters were offered entire to each guest, who with his dagger cut his own portion, drinking from silver goblets placed at his side.

At the conclusion of the banquet, to the blare of trumpets, King Don Sancho rose to lead his mother to her retiring room, with the same state as she had entered.

Already the kings of Navarre and Aragon had passed on, and the Conde de Castile was preparing to follow when an armed hand was placed on his shoulder and a voice uttered in his ear: “You are my prisoner.”

“Your prisoner?” cried he, looking round to behold a circle of armed men, who had silently gathered behind his chair as he was in the act of making obeisance to the queen, “by my troth! this is an idle jest. You have mistaken your man, my masters. Look elsewhere.”

“Not at all,” cried Queen Doña Teresa, disengaging her hand from that of the king, the old malignant smile glittering in her black eyes. “Did you think, Sir Conde, we were as green as you, who come unarmed a second time among your foes? The bird that had flown is recaptured! Ha! ha!” and she gave a bitter laugh. “I think I can prophesy you will not escape this time! The dungeons of Leon are better guarded than those of Narbonne!”

“Queen Doña Teresa,” was his answer, his arms already bound by fetters, “_I_ take no shame for _my_ lack of suspicion. Rather is it for _you_, so royally born, to blush at such baseness. _You_,” and, spite of himself, his eyes flamed with rage as he realised that he had again fallen into the power of his remorseless kinsfolk, “you are a disgrace to the royal lineage you represent. See, even the king, your son, casts down his eyes. Don Sancho is ashamed of his mother!”

Stung by his reproaches the queen raised her hand as a signal to the guards to bear him away.

“What manner of man is this?” she said, turning to the king, who, though he had joined in the conspiracy, now stood irresolute and pale, a silent witness to his mother’s treachery. “He dares to jeer at me with the chains about his neck. But a long life passed in a Gothic dungeon will bring down his pride. Fear not, my son, what can he do? When the half of his kingdom is in your hands you will thank me.”

“But our kinswoman the Infanta will offer a large ransom. Can you refuse _her_?”

“Refuse!” retorted the queen, her tall figure drawn up to its full height; “there is no treasure in the world that shall buy off the Conde de Castila. His death alone will satisfy me.”

And with a menacing gesture in the direction by which he had disappeared, she swept out of the hall as she had come, followed by her retinue.