Chapter XI: A New King--Enrique de Trastamare

Again we are at Toledo, on the banks of the dark Tagus, a river full and strong, flowing for three hundred and seventy-three miles from the lonely mountains of Biscay to the port of Lisbon.

The wild and melancholy Tagus! A very river of fate, now darkly rushing beside blackening rocks, now meandering sweetly by the meadows of the Huerta del Rey, whispering by the Baths of Florinda under King Wamba’s old palace, or turning the Moorish mills which still supply the city with corn.

Many and many a tale could old Tagus tell of races come and gone since the Jews fled to Tarshish when Jerusalem was taken by Nebuchadnezzar, but black and silent it goes its way under the walls of the stuccoed palace of the Taller del Moro, where all the guests bidden to a festival were slain; the Gothic-towered church of San Juan de los Reyes, with its masses of votive chains hung outside, and the ancient synagogues of La Blanca and El Transido, trellised with honeycombed carvings on the walls, the Holy of Holies shrouded by eastern veils. An arch-ancient river, as one may say, looking into streets so narrow that Roman consuls and Gothic kings had to pass on foot or in litters.

Hebrews, Romans, Goths, and Moors have possessed Toledo, but of all it is the Moor who has most left his mark. Moorish is the Puerta del Sol by which you enter, a magnificent Arab arch blazing in the sun, and Moorish is the Alcazar which crowns the hill with its long façade of _miradores_ and towers.

Here the new king, Enrique de Trastamare--by his own election--holds his court, accompanied by that great minister, Albuquerque, who has turned against his late master, Don Pedro, and the powerful northern noble, Don Rodrique Alvarez, who devotes his riches and his weapons to his cause.

From the first, Enrique wisely threw in his chance with the northern powers, and now the repudiation and imprisonment of Queen Blanche has given a new strength to his alliance.

The ire of the French king is greatly roused by the ill-usage of his sister-in-law; Navarre is with him to a man, and Aragon friendly.

To many, Enrique has come as a saviour to a much-tormented land. No one was safe from the attacks of Don Pedro, and his own discontented subjects appealed to the Pope, who has placed Castile under an interdict.

If Don Pedro dies, his brother will undoubtedly succeed him. If he lives, he is strong enough to fight him. As yet but a few of his allies have joined him, but report says he is speedily to be reinforced by _Les Grandes Compagnies_ under the Constable Bertrand du Guesclin, so that the bold step of marching on Toledo was not so foolhardy an enterprise as it appears.

The adjacent hills are white with his tents, and squadrons of horse are posted low down on the banks of the Tagus to guard the bridge and the Moorish mills which supply the city with bread.

His flag--a tower on a red ground--proudly floats over the city, and men-at-arms, bowmen, soldiers, knights, and that promiscuous rabble which follows a camp, pass and repass through the narrow streets, where, side by side with the rich fruits and products of the land are locksmiths and workers in steel blades as thin and fine as a needle, yet more fatal than an axe, the heavier scimitars and broadswords in common use, and hamps and chains and locks; painters who expose gaudy likenesses of saints and madonnas; moulders of Moorish _azulejo_ tiles, the deep rich colour lighting up the dark holes which serve for shops; skilled wood-carvers of roofs and spandrels, crests and medallions; workers in brass with forge and file; and carpenters with planks of wood and heaps of shavings--all these different trades piled pell-mell on each other.

In hot weather an awning is stretched across the _calle_, where a big tree leans out, serving as a lounge for Asturian porters, ready to bear any weight, close to a blank wall, with an elaborate doorway sunk into the soil, and green with mildew, leading to a synagogue up a narrow alley.

In front a _paseo_, or plaza, is planted with rows of trees, overhanging the gorge of the Tagus, and rough benches are set, on which two Jews are seated engaged in earnest talk.

Although under the rule of Don Pedro the Jews are in such favour that it is said by his enemies he has adopted their faith, they still, from habit, wear their national dress, a long, loosely-fitting gabardine with a girdle, long yellow boots lined with fur, and a high, square cap of a peculiar cut.

Such is the costume of the two men; the elder, Father Isaac, with the aquiline nose and piercing black eyes of his nation, his thin features ending in a long beard; the younger, Cornelius, of the same type, but ruddier and stouter, and with far less distinction in his coarse physiognomy.

“By the God of Abraham, El Caballero Don Enrique shall rue it!” speaks this one in a louder tone, seeing that the plaza is utterly deserted for the street, the hum of which reaches them dimly, broken by the continual chiming of the bells from the cathedral close by. “His entrance into the city was a surprise. Without that renegade Ben Hassan’s help, he could not have kept his unruly troops together--already the Aragonese had threatened to go back. And now he is safe in the Alcazar, and refuses to meet the bond. ‘_He will pay when he is at Seville_,’ he says,--very fine!”

“At Seville he will never be,” answers the elder Jew in a lower tone, a gleam of hatred lighting up his deep-set eyes, “at least, while Don Pedro lives. At no better interest can we place our gold than to maintain him who is the rightful king and the friend of Israel. Ben Hassan is a traitor, and deserves to die as a scapegoat for his people.”

“You speak well, Father Isaac,” is the rejoinder. “Think you that Don Pedro will ever forgive our tribe? His spies are everywhere; and he is sure to know, though _he_ now lies sick at Seville.”

From long habits of caution, to this direct question the old Jew for awhile did not answer; then, with a cautious glance round to see that no one lurked among the trees, replied:

“A trusty Hebrew is on the way to Seville, to offer the king the supplies he may require; also charged with rich presents of jewels, and a crown of fine gold to Maria de Padilla. Were _she_ queen, Israel would return to its ancient glory in the land.”

“They say Blanche of Navarre has escaped, and is in sanctuary in the cathedral. Is this true, Father Isaac?”

“I know not, for certain; but if she expects help from France, by the body of Moses, son Cornelius, before it comes Enrique will not be here.”

“I understand the will of our nation is to expel him, Father Isaac; but have they the _power_?”

“Gold, my son, gold is the axle on which turns the world. By this the humble Israelite is often stronger than kings. Our only danger is lest the destroying angel strike Don Pedro dead. While he lives, the protector of the Hebrews shall be richly furnished for his enterprise, and we of the tribe of Levi within this city will spread ducats broadcast to pave the way. Had it not been for that renegade Hassan (whom the Almighty consume in Gehenna), our conspiracy were already ripe.”

“And do you think this great outlay of our hard-won substance needed?” asks the younger Jew, a hungry look in his eyes, like a dog robbed of his bone. “Father Isaac, Don Pedro is not sure. May not Samuel Levi have misreckoned? A man who turns against his own blood and dabbles with Moorish superstitions is little to be counted on.”

“Impossible,” answers the elder man, his black eye lighting up with the fire of youth. “By the great Jehovah! let no such miscalculation mar our action. The oppression of ages on our nation has made us cowards. A craven race we are. We will--and we will not--if it costs us gold. Now our very existence in this land of Castile hangs on Don Pedro; Don Enrique hates us. The French will torture us and spoil us, as do the hunters for the soft fur that wraps the bosom of the hapless hare. Once let us have news from Samuel Levi that the king is recovered, and has marched from Seville upon Toledo, these hands of mine,” and he holds up his pointed, delicate fingers, “shall open to him a postern.”

“There will be much bloodshed,” answers Cornelius, thoughtfully, “and our dwellings may be sacked.”

“Bury our treasure, then, son Cornelius, we must bear that. The Hebrews in Toledo, once masters before the Moors, are still numerous. Our foes are divided. All is prepared. The bribes are ready. He can raise no gold. Already the ground is mined under his feet, and then"--and he stretches forth his hand and points to the vast expanse of river, mountain, rocky gorge, and undulating plain, the white tents of the pretender visible through the foliage--“this alien camp shall give place to the royal standard, and the Hebrew name again be raised high among the nations. Then, son Cornelius, we shall receive what interest we choose to ask for our gold.”

“But blood will flow in rivers, my father, before that comes; who knows if not ours?”

“Speak not of it, my son,” answers the older man, veiling his face with his hands, “I love neither danger nor poison. If Blanche dies"--but what he was about to say is drowned in a tumult of voices rising from the street, and soon a rabble of boys and men fill the _paseo_, while below, the music of trumpets and fifes thunders through the close alley, as a gallant body of knights, attended by their esquires, march towards the old square of the Zocodover (restricted as to size, as is all else in Toledo), where the lists have been prepared for a passage of arms between the chief officers of Aragon and Navarre.