Chapter X: Don Pedro--Alcazar--The Queen-Mother--Maria de Padilla

The Hall of the Ambassadors, literally a blaze of iris hues and gold, is crowned by a lofty dome, and sheeted with a Moorish mosaic of mother-of-pearl and crystal.

Around range the medallions of the ancient Gothic kings, over four golden-barred balconies breaking the richness of the wall, dividing triply-grouped arches, light as dreams, resting on pillars of green and red porphyry, so tall and slender it seems as if a breath would shatter them.

From an open portal is disclosed a palace garden flushed with roses, and bordered by blossoming orange-trees, set in large porcelain pots. Butterflies flutter round delicate fountains banked up with tropical plants exquisite in perfume, and long vistas of bowery walks exclude the sun.

A warm and genial air beats in from without, and permeates around. Nor is the fairness of the earth less than the brightness of the sky--intensely blue, not a cloud visible; and although the Alcazar stands in the midst of a noisy city, the silence and solitude are complete.

Everything in this apartment is disposed for the king. He is greatly changed. A mortal illness has seized him, and he has barely escaped with his life. As he moves feebly along the marble floor, he is supported on either side by Don Juan de Mañara and Garcia de Padilla, then sinks exhausted upon a pile of eastern cushions prepared for him on an _estrado_. Naturally the two favourites, who tend him with anxious care, hate each other with the deadly bitterness of rivals, ever on the watch to turn every word and action against each other; especially Garcia de Padilla, a coarse likeness of his beautiful sister, always on the lookout for his own interests, and ready to pander to the basest vices of the king.

It would really seem as if the prayers and litanies offered up for Don Pedro’s life (especially by his Jewish subjects, whom he greatly favours) have been efficacious in saving his life.

Pale and feeble as he now appears, the steely hardness of his blue eyes is even more remarkable than in health, and the harsh intonation of his voice comes with a strange vigour from one so weak.

As he sinks exhausted on a divan, a waft of music comes from the _patio_ without, a twanging of guitars deftly handled, and the silver tone of viols, with the clapping of hands of the Nubian slaves who swarm in the palace; the music ever and anon broken by the soft tones of a lute, played with infinite skill by a Moorish captive, whose nimble fingers mark and accentuate the rhythm.

“What do the fools mean?” demands Don Pedro, as burst after burst of music penetrates into the hall.

“Rejoicing, my lord,” answers Garcia, “at your Highness’s happy recovery.”

“Recovery--_por Dios!_ and it was time, unless I was to chant the rest of my life in purgatory. Is it true that, counting on the report of my death, the bastard Enrique has had himself crowned at Toledo, and struts at the Alcazar like any peacock? Can it be possible my brain is weak? or was it a dream in my delirium?”

A silence follows, which neither the supple Garcia nor the politic Don Juan cares to break. Absolute quiet has been enjoined. Yet it is as much as their heads are worth not to reply.

“If you do not find your tongues quickly, my friends, the axe shall silence them for ever. Ho! slave,” and with a loud sound, he strikes with a handle of iron on a plate of steel.

In an instant the music ceases, and a gigantic Nubian, perfectly unclothed, appears armed with a marble-hilted javelin.

Something in the sudden apparition of this grotesque figure, as if the earth had opened to cast him forth, so strikes the fancy of the king that he laughs aloud.

“Begone, Hassan,” he says, “I did but jest; the necks of my loving companions are precious. But, _amigos mios_, I counsel you, trifle not with me. I am patient at no time, and now that my reason is scarcely settled from the disturbance it has had, I am dangerous to play with.”

“Play with!” replies Don Juan, who cares little for threats of any kind. “God forbid! Your Grace knows I fear nought. You shall judge of my faithfulness, for I am here ready to answer all you please to ask.”

“How _here_?” asks Don Pedro, reddening with a sudden flush. “Where else should you be?”

“Why, with the new king at Toledo,” promptly answers Mañara, nettled at the mention of the axe. “The new king, who is crowned by right and authority of the Holy Father, Urban V.; Don Pedro of Castile being legally and civilly defunct, by reason of the ban of excommunication pronounced against him, it is the fashion now to cry, ‘Long live _El Rey Enrique el Caballero_.’ Perhaps your Grace did not know that you were already dead?”

As he speaks an ashy pallor spreads over the king’s face, and out of his bloodless lips the words come thickly:

“So, so, at Toledo!” he gasps, clenching his hands in the cushions at his head. “Crowned? My brain turns. It was not a dream?”

“By my faith, no, an army is encamped outside on the Tagus, a garrison within. The troops a little mixed in nationality it is true, but the promise of the support of the great companies under Du Guesclin, to be sent to restore the Lady Blanche----”

“Restore the Lady Blanche? Why, she is locked up in the castle of Talavera, out of which no woman ever came alive. It is you, Don Juan, who play the fool!” exclaims Pedro, raising himself up, and seizing him savagely by the shoulder. “By the living Christ! your life is in my hand.”

“I care not,” is the retort, shaking off the king’s hand, who, weaker than he deems himself, falls back muttering curses. “Your Grace has questioned me, I tell the truth. Don Enrique holds Toledo, the Lady Blanche is with him. Here is Don Garcia, ask him, if you doubt me. The queen, your mother, had no power to march troops against the Conde de Trastamare while you lay between life and death.”

As he speaks, a sullen fury falls on the king. He sits perfectly motionless, his head pressed between his hands.

“Call hither the Lady Padilla,” he says, in a voice so veiled it is scarcely audible.

So quickly did her presence answer the summons it would seem as though she had been hiding near at hand. Her dark face shone out against the glitter of the many-hued hall. A long white robe falls to her feet, and she waits until the king addresses her.

“In my sickness, Maria,” says Don Pedro, in a voice that still sounds unfamiliar to those around (Maria starts with an alarmed glance and looks at him), “you tended me night and day. Why were you silent on what touches me so nearly as the advance of Enrique upon Toledo and the escape of the queen?”

“Because,” answers Maria, her eyes softening into a glance of ineffable love, “your life was dearer to me than all else. What did it matter if the Bastard reigned from the Pyrenees to the Pillars of Hercules if my Pedro died?”

“There spoke the true woman!” exclaims the king. “Now, by my faith, you have conquered me, Maria, quite.” Then taking her hand, he draws her down upon the seat beside him.

“Listen to me, Juan and Garcia,” turning to them, “you know me, I am _El Rey Justiciar_. In evidence of the love I bear this lady, and to put to rest once for all any questions which might arise by reason of the many traitors around me, at my death, I declare as successor to the throne of Castile, the Infante Alonso, Maria de Padilla’s son. At the earliest moment our ministers shall ratify the act, and call on my nobles to do homage to him as my heir. Are you satisfied now, sweet one? This will seal the bond,” and he draws her face, glowing with triumph, towards his own, and impresses a kiss on her warm lips.

“And Blanche?” whispers Maria in an undertone, but not so low but that both Don Juan and her brother hear.

From an etching by Samuel Colman.]

“Ah, Maria, will you still keep me to my bargain?” answers Don Pedro, with a sigh.

“Yes,” quickly responds Maria, “I do, especially now that she is at large.”

“At large? I cannot believe it. But, Maria--Blanche, divorced and dishonoured, cannot harm you. I shall never set eyes on her again.”

“Yes, sire, but as long as she lives, she will raise up France against you.”

“And if she dies, do you think they will let me bide?”

“My sister,” puts in Don Garcia, “leave the matter to the judgment of the king. Urge him no more, I pray you, at a moment he has, by such a signal act of favour, named your child successor to the throne.”

“Truly, I love not Blanche,” says Don Pedro, “I will speedily take Toledo, and imprison her where she shall not escape. But _her life_----”

“Yes, _her life_!” cries Maria, rising from the _estrado_. “It is mine, you promised me. I claim it.”

“Now, _por Dios_, Maria, but you press me sore. Is it that you seek to be queen yourself?”

“Perhaps,” she answers, carelessly. “What if I do? Have you not told me a thousand times I was born to wear a crown?”

“This is no time for trifling,” answers Don Pedro, sternly. “I have made your son a future king. Let that suffice. The blood of Fadique clings to me still. I saw him in my fever, there, outside, in the _patio_, where he fell bathed in blood. And now another ghost will haunt me in that pale-faced _demoiselle_. So nearly had I passed into the silent land beyond the grave that to my weakened brain shadows came to me as real. I fain would add no more to that dim company which rise up in the silent night to curse me.”

As the words pass his lips, a page, fancifully attired as an Eastern slave, appears between the golden pillars of the hall, and, after prostrating himself on the ground, raises his arms aloft in Moorish fashion, and announces: “The queen-mother.”

Hastily advancing, Mary of Portugal stands before her son. On her face are the signs of deep emotion, almost of terror, as she hastily observes the impression her presence has produced.

“My son,” she says, in a low voice, “my son,” and as she speaks the words she stretches out her arms to embrace him. Then raising her head, her eyes fall upon the figure of Maria de Padilla, erect in the shadow behind, and in a moment the words she was about to utter die on her lips, and a tremor passes over her.

“You here!” her face flushing crimson, “you--Jezebel--that come between my son and me. I might have guessed it. I came to speak of mercy, before you who live by blood. Of honour--to one who never knew the word. Well do I know you and the current of your thoughts, and that you would prompt my son to an act of cruelty that will shake his very throne, and place him in the certainty of an alliance of vengeance.”

Silent, inscrutable, stands Maria, but Don Pedro interposes: “To what action do you allude, my mother?” he asks.

“What!” answers the queen, exasperated by his manner. “The intended murder of Blanche, in order that she may reign.”

“And if so,” comes from Maria, in a deep-toned voice, “Doña Maria, the Queen, what is that to you?”

“I speak not to you,” is Mary’s answer, her passion waxing hot. “I am here to address my son. Think you, sire, the Queen of France will hear unmoved that her sister’s life has been sacrificed to _her_? That the alliance on which you count, of Aragon and Navarre, will stand when the hosts of France, led by Du Guesclin, shall scour Castile? Already a new king has risen in Toledo who rests his title on this royal lady’s name whom this false woman would lead you to sacrifice. Restore to Blanche her rights, and the league against you will fall asunder.”

“Madam,” answered Don Pedro, “I am the guardian of the crown I wear. Meanwhile, I warn you,” and he broke off to give one of those strange discordant laughs, “that, like my sainted father, your husband, beauty with me is paramount. She whom nature crowns is queen. Behold her here,” taking Maria by the hand. “I command you, therefore, Doña Maria, my mother, in my presence to treat the Lady Padilla with the respect her many charms command. To me she is the brightest jewel in my crown, and I will prove it, too, shortly to you and all the world.”

As he paused, the queen’s countenance fell, and her whole attitude changed. Exposed to the full battery of Maria’s insolent eyes, it was _she_ who appeared the suppliant, and _Maria_ the queen.

“My son,” she says, speaking in a very different tone to that she used on entering, “will you not grant me the same power of speech you accord to the least of your subjects?”

“Have you any more to say, madam?” he asks, turning wearily from her. “If not, the audience is ended. When I stood in need of help in my fever and lay between life and death, you feared to enter.”

“Oh, Pedro,” cries the unhappy mother, the tears streaming down her face, “believe it not. On my knees I entreated that fiend who rules you to let me pass, and she barred my access by the guards, whom she had the insolence to command to arrest the mother of their king! It was I, as self-appointed regent, that have kept the realm together when it was believed that you were dead! That you find any troops or treasure is due to _me_.

“Ah! Pedro,” she continues, advancing to where he lay, and seizing one of his unwilling hands, “let us speak together alone. I would convince you that in sparing the life of Blanche you insure your own;” and she turns such an imploring glance at him, that it touches even his hard heart.

“Will it please you, fair lady, to give place for a short space to the queen-mother?” says Don Pedro, addressing Maria, whose attitude has never changed.

“Whatever your Grace commands shall be my duty to obey,” is her answer, the submission of her words contrasting strangely with the dark scowl which knits her brow.

“Be it so, sweetheart. I have that to say touching yourself, which will surprise her. It were best said in your absence.” And rising feebly upright, he leads her by the hand into the inner _patio_, and lover-like kisses her hand.

At this moment, Garcia de Padilla, who has remained an unobserved witness of the interview, rushes forward, and, with effusive courtesy, offers his arm to the king to assist him to his seat, bows to the ground, and is lost to view among the pillars.

Then, resuming the conversation with the queen: “You forget, my mother,” says Don Pedro, as he places her beside him (it is said, he never was more dangerous than when he assumed a gracious air), “that this _demoiselle_ of France, who bears my name, has been convicted of incest with my brother Fadique by a council of bishops appointed for that purpose, and that, far from being a prisoner, she is at this moment free, in the city of Toledo, under the chivalric custody of my rival and successor, Enrique el Caballero. You forget I am superseded, dishonoured. Ha! ha! Yes! dishonoured by these bastards, whom you had not the sense to wring the necks of, when they were young.”

“Yes, Pedro, but I am confident all this will be set right. I have received such assurance during your illness, from Toledo, that I know you will overcome your brother whenever you take the field. As to Blanche----”

“Yes, madam,” interrupting her, “but as yet I am too weak to wield a weapon. I think you can have little to say to me,” he adds coldly, “that the Lady Padilla could not hear. It is her son I have named my successor, and the lady declares she is my lawful wife. What if I proclaim her such to the assembled Cortes?”

“Mother of God!” cries the queen, clasping her hands, a look of absolute horror on her face, “give me patience! To be so mocked at by my son! Such madness is impossible!”

“Not a whit! Not a whit!” he exclaims, facing the infuriated queen. “Now, by the heavens above, Blanche of Bourbon shall die! And speedily too! My mind is made up.”

Alas! The strain upon the unhappy mother is too great. As the king utters these words, she staggers backwards, a deadly pallor overspreads her face, and with a wild cry of “My son! My son!” holding out her arms in the vain hope of his support, she falls fainting on the floor, and is borne away by her ladies waiting without in the _Patio de las Doncellas_.