Chapter XXV: Doña Ava Outwits Don Sancho and Releases her Husband

Time passed and a new element made itself felt in the struggle between the Christians and the Moors. The powerful tribe of the Berbers had fastened like leeches on the Gothic lands of the north, and Almanzor, by his constant attacks in the south, had paralysed the kings of Leon and Navarre into mere tributaries. But selfish and disloyal as they were, Doña Teresa and the kings of Leon and Navarre never lost sight of their determination to possess Castile, and instead of joining heartily against a common enemy they each summoned every lord and vassal they possessed to appear in arms to march against Burgos.

Don Sancho at least understood his real position, and would willingly have accepted the large ransom offered by the Infanta for her lord, but his mother was not to be persuaded. His dark-browed uncle of Navarre, too, was as violent and as short-sighted as she, so that Don Sancho could only offer up fervent prayers to Santiago, the patron of Spain, whose shrine at Compostela had, to his everlasting shame, been so ill-defended.

Would the celestial knight again appear on his milk-white charger clad in radiant mail and ensure a victory as when King Ramiro, his predecessor, refused to pay “the Maiden Tribute” exacted by the Caliph? Would he come? And never did sovereign put up more fervent _Ora pro nobis Sancta Maria_ than the fat king, and invocations to all the calendar of saints.

* * * * *

In the midst of his devotions a scratch is heard at the door, the curtain is drawn aside, and the head of a jefe appears. At an impatient motion of the king, indicating that he would not be disturbed, the jefe bows low.

“Good, my lord,” are his words, “what am I to do? Here is a pious pilgrim bound for Compostela, earnestly desiring to see your Grace.”

“For Compostela,” answers the king. “Ah! he is welcome, admit him at once. He can tell me, on his return, in what precise condition the sanctuary is left. That last raid of the Moors lies heavy on my soul.”

In a few moments the pilgrim stands before him, his face concealed by a close-fitting cap, heavily charged with drapery, which he wears on his head.

“In what matter,” asks Don Sancho, with a gracious smile, “can the King of Leon advantage you, good pilgrim? If it is within my power, command me.”

“My lord,” answers the pilgrim, in tones which fell caressingly on the ear, “I humbly thank your Grace. I am bound for Compostela, to fulfil a vow concerning your prisoner, the Conde de Castila.”

“The Conde de Castila!” exclaims the king, half starting from his chair. “He is clean forgotten. As well talk of a dead man.”

“I crave your pardon if I have said aught amiss, but the Conde has caused deep sorrow to me. In my wrath I invoked a curse upon him, in the name of the blessed saint, and now I am bound to render thanks for his death.”

“Death!” ejaculates Don Sancho, turning pale, “who talks of his death?”

“I,” answers the pilgrim, with a singular decision. “I know that the death of the Conde is near!”

“By whose hand?” demands the king, greatly excited. (Did this holy person know of some secret conspiracy of Doña Teresa to assassinate him, and had he come to reveal it?)

“By mine,” whispers the pilgrim, mysteriously approaching him. “I have about me a subtle poison, the venom of snakes, given me by a Berber. It never fails; silently it extinguishes life. But it must be properly administered. Lead me to the prison--I will answer for the rest.”

Even Don Sancho is staggered by the proposal of this cold-blooded pilgrim, and replies with caution:

“Should this prove true, I shall not be unmindful of the saint’s claims on me. But, holy pilgrim, much as I honour your design and wish you success, in these warlike times I must demand some sign to assure me of your truth.”

“Signs shall not be wanting, O King,” answers the pilgrim, in whose voice an eager sweetness seems to penetrate. “The Holy Apostle has himself appeared to me in a vision and unfolded deep mysteries concerning Navarre and Leon. The time is not far off when Castile and Leon will be united under one crown, and that union will end the Mussulman rule in Spain.”

“O great and holy seer!” ejaculates Sancho the Fat, folding his hands, greatly impressed by what appears the complete fulfilment of his utmost ambition, “much do I honour you. Disclose, if not bound by a vow, what is your name, that I may impart it to my mother, Doña Queen Teresa.”

To this request the pilgrim pays no heed.

“Perhaps you will tell me if the death of the Conde prefigures these events?”

“By the aid of Santiago, yes,” is the answer. “Such is the prophecy I have to impart.”

Now had Don Sancho been less eager to rid himself of Gonzales by every means, he would have noted the violent agitation which shook the pilgrim’s frame.

To poison a sovereign in prison--and a kinsman to boot--is a serious undertaking. Already the words of refusal are on Sancho’s lips when the curtains of the apartment fly open and Doña Teresa rushes in.

“What is this I hear?” cries this imperious woman, who has been listening outside, her cruel face darkened by anger. “Shame on your cowardice, Don Sancho; you are no son of mine. What! you would refuse the proposal of this worthy pilgrim? I understand and applaud him. To kill the Conde de Castila is a work of mercy, for by his death the lives of thousands will be spared on the battle-field.”

In the presence of his mother the fat king becomes mute. Against his better judgment he consents to the death of the Conde.

* * * * *

Again we come upon Fernan in prison, a very unlikely place for so brilliant a cavalier, but, alas! adverse destiny has again doomed him to pass many months in this second dungeon--much more rough and dismal than the prison of Narbonne, as the old city of Leon, with its Gothic traditions, was more uncouth and uncivilised than the capital of Navarre.

“Who are you?” he asks in great surprise as a pilgrim is ushered in. “Nor need I ask; coming from the vile king you can only be a foe.”

“I am your friend,” answers a voice that strikes like music on his ear, “your best, your only friend, my lord and husband,” and as the disguise falls to the ground the faithful Infanta stands before her lord.

We will pass over their transports. A decent veil must conceal the mysteries of married life. Naturally the first question he asked was how she came there? Together they laughed while she explained the murderous purpose of the wicked queen.

“But time speeds,” she says, tearing herself from his arms. “You must fly. The courage of our good Castilians is damped by your long absence. Not a moment must be lost.”

“What! in broad daylight?” asks he. “Is it so easy a thing to go?” and he gives a bitter laugh.

“No, love, most difficult, but we must change our clothes! I am you, and you are me. In that bed,” pointing to a straw pallet, “I stretch myself to die. I have swallowed the poison, and you, my noble husband, in the pilgrim’s dress, speed to Burgos. Once under the gateway, you are safe. Oh! greet them well, my dear ones,” and, spite of herself, as she thinks of her child, silent tears gather in her eyes.

“But, Ava,” he exclaims, “greatly as I honour your courage, your fortitude, your skill, ask me not to return to Castile by such means. My sweet wife, the stars in their courses must have willed that I should die; leave me to my fate.”

“Never!” cries the valiant woman. “Here,” and she plunges her hand into her bosom, “is the poison. If you do not fly, I will swallow it before your eyes.”

A gesture of horror is his reply.

“Besides,” she continues, her face lighting up. “What have I to fear? Danger to my life there is none! You cannot imagine my own aunt would murder me! Away, away, or some fatal accident may hinder!”

* * * * *

Meanwhile, what pen shall paint the anxiety of the king? How minute by minute he pictured each detail of the agonies of the expiring Conde. Truly the possession of Castile seemed to his guilty mind at that moment too small a boon to compensate for the throes of his guilty conscience. Had such tortures continued, Sancho would never have come down to posterity with the surname of “the Fat,” but rather have melted into a shadow in the land of dreams! At last, unable any longer to bear such suspense, he called a page, and commanded that the pilgrim should be brought before him.

“He is gone,” replies one of the officers of the prison, who has presented himself to reply.

“Gone!” shouts Sancho, “without my leave? What does this mean? Is the Conde safe?”

“Safe, indeed,” answers the officer; “but half an hour ago I carried him a meal, by special order, and a good one.”

“A meal?” quoth the king, utterly amazed. “Could he eat?”

“Surely,” is the answer, “and glad he seemed to get it.”

“Did he not appear to suffer? Was he--well--did nothing ail him?”

“Nothing, my liege. I never saw a prisoner more _débonnaire_, but he seems grown strangely short to my eyes; he certainly has dwindled.”

“You are a fool!” cries the irritated king; “I must look into this matter myself. Bring him to my presence.”

“By the rood, but he does seem strangely altered,” mutters the king, as the prisoner stands before him. “Surely”--and a suspicion shoots through his mind, to be dismissed at once as ridiculous, as they approach each other.

“Well, Sir Conde, are the prisons of Leon better guarded than those of Narbonne?” he asks, with a sneer.

“Much better, Sir King, one can escape more easily. For a sovereign so versed in plots and conspiracies--_murder_ even”--(at this word the king gives a great start)--“you are marvellously at ease.”

King Sancho became so bewildered, his head was going round. Was he bewitched? Was this the Conde or not? And if not, _who_?

Then Doña Ava, speaking in her own natural voice, broke out into peals of laughter.

“Surely, Don Sancho, a bachelor like you cannot be so ungallant as to imprison a lady.”

“A lady! A woman! God’s mercy! what does this mean? Who has dared to deceive me?”

“I,” answered the Infanta. “Shower your wrath on _me_, your kinswoman. May I not be a deceiver when so many of my blood excel? The queen, for instance? Now look at me, Sancho, and let this folly end.”

And the king did look, and into a most towering passion he fell, using more bad language than I care to repeat.

“A curse upon you!” are his first intelligible words. “Where is that villain, your husband?”

“In Castile,” she answers, “or far on the way. Never fear, he will soon return to settle accounts with _you_.”

“False woman,” and the king, fuming with a sense of intolerable wrong at having been made such a fool of, lifts his hand as if to strike her, “learn to fear my vengeance!”

“Not I,” is her answer, laughing again. “You dare do nothing to _me_, and my loved lord is free, skimming like a fleet bird over the plains. I fear you not, you dastard king!”

* * * * *

Consigning the Infanta into the hands of the palace guards, Don Sancho rushed off to the apartments of the queen. For once that wicked woman was powerless. No one dared harm Doña Ava, especially as rapid news soon spread of the wild joy with which Fernan had been received in Burgos, and that, at the head of his army, he was marching on Leon.

On the other hand, the dark King of Navarre, hard pressed by the Moors, executing forays into the north, as the safety of his daughter was at stake, refused to use his troops for her capture; thus the King of Leon was left alone to bear the brunt of the attack, pillaging, demolishing, and burning in true mediæval style.

But Queen Doña Teresa still held good.

“Keep her close. She shall not go, without the ransom of half his kingdom,” were her words.

“Now, by Santiago!” exclaims the exasperated king, “ransom or no ransom, she _shall_ go. You ruined the kingdom in my father’s time, but, by heaven! you shall not play the same game with me!”

For once the fat king insists. The Condesa de Castila is to be restored to her husband, on condition of the withdrawal of his troops. All seems accommodated when an unexpected difficulty arises.

That little account for the horse and the hawk, which had so pleased the King of Leon on his cousin’s first visit, accepted on the condition of making payment in a year or of doubling the price, had never been settled, and it had grown so enormous that King Sancho found himself at a loss to find the money. Convenient Jews did not exist in those days as we read of later in the time of the Cid. Now, even a royal debtor looks round in vain for help.

It was in vain that King Sancho cursed the horse and cursed the hawk, then cursed them both together; that did no good, the debt remained unpaid. In this world from little causes spring great events. That horse and hawk, so innocently purchased from the bright-faced Conde, were finally the cause of the independence of Castile. Not able to discharge the debt, King Don Sancho agreed to free Castile from all vassalage to Leon. And the Conde and the Infanta rode back in triumph to Burgos, as the founders of that dynasty which became the most powerful and glorious of the Peninsula, to merge at last in the royal crown of Spain.