Chapter XXII: Enrique IV. el Impotente

The court is at Segovia, that ancient city perched among the romantic passes of the Guadarramas, north of Madrid, said to have been founded by Hercules. The famous Roman bridge, or aqueduct, one of the wonders of Spain, and borne as the city’s shield, joining into the ancient walls at a length of 937 feet.

Although they agree in nothing else, Enrique el Quarto, like his father, loved this quaint Gothic town.

Undutiful and disorderly as a son, he made a bad king. Indolent, licentious, and ignorant, he despised learning and cultivation of all kinds, and was by far the worst of the illegitimate Trastamares, on whom, as has been said, a curse for the murder of Don Pedro really seemed to rest.

Nothing they undertook answered, and it might be said of them, “their names were written in water.” Yet, not to be too hard on Enrique, it must be allowed he so far redeemed himself from the nullity of his father as to lead his armies bravely in the usual campaigns against Navarre and Aragon, besides undertaking a ten years’ crusade against the Moors, authorised by Pope Calixtus III.; in all which, so long as he was assisted by the friends and advisers of his amiable father, his incapacity was concealed, but his later campaigns were unfortunate because fought alone. Nor could his love of pomp and splendid attendance blind his subjects to the fact that his court was a very sink of debauchery.

It seems strange, too, that Don Enrique, who, as Prince of the Asturias, had for years stormed against favouritism, now fell into the same fault himself. Not with such a master of men as the Condestable de Luna, but with an obscure and needy adventurer, called Don Beltrano de las Cuevas, with no merit whatever but his skill in deceiving him.

* * * * *

The court is at Segovia. At this moment Don Beltrano is crossing the Sala de Ricebimento in the Alcazar, a Gothic Moresque apartment, with lofty raftered ceiling and cornices of dark oak, the sides splendidly gilt, setting off rows of royal shields and _bandieros_.

He is a striking-looking man of robust proportions, with a florid face of that full sensual type so little seen among the thin-featured Spaniards.

His love of display is apparent by the rich surcoat of satin and brocade he wears, cut in the latest mode and glittering with jewels, a plumed hat placed defiantly on one side of his head.

But you must not call him by his vulgar name of Beltrano, drunkard, dicer, and reveller, but Sua Grandeza el Conde de Ledesma, by favour of the King, or, more correctly speaking, of the Queen. You must also pay a certain attention to him, upstart and braggart as he is, because it was through his agency that the dynasty of Castile came to be merged in that of Aragon, in the person of Isabel the great Queen, wife of Ferdinand of Aragon, and by her marriage constituting the union of the future kingdom of Spain.

As he passes with a step full of importance across the motes of sunshine striking on the marble pavement from the historic window out of which the late king, Don Juan, was let fall, as a child, by a lady of the court, who lost her head for her carelessness, the vulgar showiness of his dress is in conspicuous contrast to the soberly habited grandees of the old school.

All the court, who are awaiting the arrival of the king, draw back respectfully to make way for him. The alguazils and _ballesteros_ salute him with reverence, and pages doff their plumed caps as he pauses for a moment under the effigies of the early kings of Castile and Leon ranged on either side, life size, mounted on mimic horses, armed, like their masters, in plates of steel.

“_Ese, es el Conde de Ledesma_,” is buzzed about in whispers of approbation, the great man himself affecting not to notice the stir he makes, but fixing his eyes on a group near the door, who take no notice of him. That they are persons of distinction is evident from the badges they wear and the large attendance of pages and esquires and _jefes_.

As the count passes, he draws himself up and casts on them a supercilious glance of defiance, at once returned with smiles of scorn and derision.

“Here comes that wretch,” the tallest of them is saying, no other than Don Pedro Giron, Grand Master of Calatrava.

“Vile parasite!” exclaims another.

“Hush! hush! my Lord of Benevente,” says a third; “keep silence, I pray you, until the right moment comes.”

“The unmannerly cur!” mutters the Lord of Benevente, as Ledesma disappears into the presence chamber. “He never saluted us. Are we, the greatest _ricoshombres_ of Spain, absolute in our freedom, and with the right of life and death, to be insulted by such an upstart? If the queen can spare him [at this there is a general laugh], he will doubtless take command in the crusade against the Moors, and be packed off with a bevy of mistresses and mummers to amuse the king. Castile has fallen under the rule of favourites with a vengeance! The Conde de Luna was a _hidalgo_, but this fellow is a low impostor.”

“A vile shame!” exclaims another Marqués de Villena, who, with his uncle Carillo, Archbishop of Toledo, is again to be found conspiring in this court as in that of “El Enfermo.”

“Presently it will be our turn,” says the Conde de Palencia. “Don Enrique is unworthy, and the queen--well, I do not wish to use foul language, but there is only one word to designate _her_. We are all agreed as to the birth of the Beltraneja, your graces.” The other two bow, and he continues: “A worn-out voluptuary and eight years of sterility require faith in a miracle in favour of our noble king which he does not inspire. She was christened by the public, as soon as she was born, ‘Beltraneja,’ after her real father. Don Enrique insists on her succession, to exclude his brother and sister. Why this imposture has been tolerated so long I cannot understand.”

“Such vice is disgusting; the palace is nothing but a brothel!” exclaims the fiery Pimentel, Lord of Benevente, ever impatient and outspoken, one of the most powerful lords in the kingdom, with broad lands in the north and an ancient castle within the confines of Leon. “Where is our national honour? The king has forfeited our allegiance. For the sake of a miserable bastard he keeps his sister, Doña Isabel, shut up in the fortress here.”

Now the Spaniard is of a silent nature, reserved and proud. His passions are violent and deep; but once aroused he stops at nothing and is capable of extraordinary cruelty and revenge. For one in the exalted position of Pimentel to speak thus of his sovereign, the scandal of his life must be outrageous.

“These are but words, my lord,” is the stern answer of Juan Pacheco, Marqués de Villena, the crafty intriguer all through this reign as his namesake was in that of Enrique el Enfermo, and not a whit behind Pimentel in ancient descent, dating from the Moors. He was the man who fought the duel where, _asi cuenta la historia_, he defied three antagonists, as is still to be seen in marble on his tomb in the Parral at Segovia. His commanding presence and haughty bearing imposed even on the impetuous Pimentel. Old in intrigue and conspiracy, he passed by mere threats as empty sound profiting nothing. “You know your remedy,” he continues; “all the disaffected are convened to meet at the palace of my uncle, the Archbishop of Toledo, come to Segovia for that purpose. Your graces will not fail?”

“We will not fail,” is the answer.

* * * * *

The place appointed for the secret council-chamber was within the precincts of the Cathedral, in the cloisters, where life-like statues of prophets and kings quaintly sculptured stand beside the Gothic arches; Abraham and St. Jaime, and San Fernando holding a ring, and his consort, Doña Beatrix.

The night was dark, and the muffled figures enveloped in ample mantles passed unnoticed through the door with the beautiful triptych carved over it.

In a dark room, lined with a mosaic of wood, with gold pendants on the roof, and lit up with massive silver candelabra, stands the Archbishop of Toledo, dismissed from his office of Minister to make way for Ledesma. This enemy of El Impotente is a man in the prime of life, as turbulent, fierce, and haughty as any feudal baron, his dark eyes sunk deeply in his head, bright with the power of intellect, and unerring and piercing; his ecclesiastical robe hanging loosely about his figure--very different from the dignified churchman who headed the banquet at which the young King Enrique sang as a wandering minstrel.

Prominent among the nobles who arrive is the Conde de Santilana, in the prime of life, with that soldierly bearing so noticeable in Spain among all who hold military command; Giron, Master of Calatrava, bland and mild, but withal shrewd and acute, as behoves one in his prominent position; Pimentel, Lord of Benevente, with strongly cut features on which many a wrinkle has gathered, not from age, but from the headlong impetuosity of his character, which has aged him before his time; the Grand Admiral of Castile, with a weather-beaten face, showing that he has lived a life of exposure; the Condes de Haro, Palencia, and Alba, besides prelates and _ricoshombres_, all men of commanding eminence in the kingdom.

But one of the number is yet wanting, the archconspirator, Villena, who, although bearing the name of one of the regents, is of quite a different form. He is in reality the leading spirit of them all, a man tormented by the love of power, to attain which he is willing to meet, unmoved, peril, or even death, with the silent constancy of a Spaniard.

No one hates Ledesma more than Villena, who, like the archbishop, was displaced for his sake; no one has more influence over those assembled here, not even the warlike archbishop, armed as for heaven and earth.

As Villena enters, the importance of his mission is impressed upon every movement as he hastens to salute the exalted company, who rise as he appears, with the utmost expression of formal courtesy, then reseat themselves as he takes his seat at the council table beside them.

“Lords of Castile and Leon,” he says, in a full, clear voice, as he rises to speak under the deep shadow of a deep-chiselled altar at his back, “my words shall be short, but my purpose will be long. Let none imagine that private vengeance for the affront put on me by the king, as also on my kinsman, the archbishop, actuates my mind. The existence of the state is at stake. I have a proposal to make.”

“Speak!” comes from all sides.

“I need not tell you, Grandezas, Prelates, and Ricoshombres, that the infatuation of the king blinds him even to his personal dishonour. The only redress lies in two courses, the dismissal and exile of Don Beltrano, or his own dethronement. Since the birth of the child, not issued from the blood of the Trastamares, but the ‘Beltraneja,’ the spurious offspring of Ledesma and the Queen, measures must be taken to insure the rightful succession to his young brother. In her cradle this young offspring of adultery was proclaimed Princess of the Asturias and successor to the throne, and is already affianced to the Duc de Guienne, son of Louis XI. of France. No time is to be lost.”

“And if Don Enrique will not agree to either of these proposals?” asks the quick-tongued Lord of Benevente.

“Then,” replies Villena, with an icy smile, drawing himself up to his full height, “he must be dethroned, and the Infante Alfonso, whom he keeps under observation along with his sister, Doña Isabel, proclaimed king in his place.”

Spite of the esteem in which Villena was held, this audacious proposal staggered the assembly. Many voices were heard in opposition, and amongst much confusion each illustrious noble spoke his mind.

“Peace, my lords!” cried Villena, his tall figure dominating the rest. “I speak in my own name and in that of the Archbishop of Toledo; we old ministers of the throne and councillors of state are agreed. Never was a nation sunk to so low an ebb. The rule of Don Alvarez de Luna was glory to it. The proclamation of the Beltraneja as heir has brought matters to a crisis. It is rumoured among those about him that Don Enrique was so anxious for the birth of a child, that, knowing his own incapacity, he has himself connived at this dishonour. Be that as it may, if the king is incapable of guarding his own honour, we will defend it for him.”

The marquess spoke with passion. Loud acclamations followed his words. The position was so plain, the risk so degrading to a chivalrous people. Had this child, whom all knew to be a bastard, not been born, the insolence of the favourite might have been tolerated, the licentious life of the Queen Juana of Portugal passed unreproved; but in the desperate effort to foist his daughter on the throne, Ledesma had, like a bad player, over-reached himself.

Of the two children of Juan II., by his second queen, the charming Isabel of Portugal, Don Alfonso and Doña Isabel, both were popular in Castile.

All the assembled nobles had not the courage to follow Villena in his bold course, which, if unsuccessful, might bring ruin to them and their families as rebels to their king. All could not reckon on the favour of Don Alfonso, if set at liberty and proclaimed Prince of the Asturias, on which the scheming brain of the marquess counted as the plot. But a sufficient number joined with him. The ardent spirit of the Lord of Benevente, that young warrior of the north, was gained before the archbishop had spoken, who, seeing the hesitation of many, now rose slowly from his chair.

“I, too,” he said, and as his full voice made itself audible a religious silence reigned, “as metropolitan of Spain, must raise the standard of the church against this Ahab, who has soiled the sanctity of the cloister by imposing a second Jezebel, in the person of his unfaithful mistress, as Abbess of Santa Maria de las Damas, and banishing the reverend mother to make room for this harlot. Spite of the excommunication of the Church, the Condesa de Sandoval still rules in the chapter. What malediction does a prince not merit who thus traffics with the devil and leads his people into mortal sin? Anathema maranatha on Enrique de Trastamare!”

The archbishop’s solemn imprecation carried many who had trembled at the impetuous proposal of Villena. A deputation was named to wait upon the king, at the head of which was the Archbishop of Toledo; but Villena himself remained in the background. As the principal conspirator, it behoved him to be cautious.

* * * * *

“What!” cried Don Enrique next day, when the prelate at the head of the deputation of nobles appeared before him in the Sala del Trono, when, surrounded by his attendant lancers, splendidly equipped, he sat under the _baldaquino_ on the chair of state, the whole room glittering with gilded panels, _retablos_, and mirrors, doubling the array of hostile figures before him, “What! you dare dictate to me--your king? How long is it, my lord archbishop, that you, our metropolitan, set the example

of disobedience? And you, my Lord of Benevente,” as according to his vehement nature, Pimentel had thrust himself more forward than the rest, “who come of such ancient stock, are you not ashamed to appear as a rebel? And you,” addressing the rest, “go back to your homes and learn obedience. What! I am to depose my daughter Juana at your bidding?”

A loud murmur here interrupted him for a moment, and the name of Beltrano was distinctly heard.

The colour mounted furiously to the face of the king, who, like all of his family, was a fair and comely prince; his eyes grew dangerously bright, and he laid his hand on the hilt of the dagger at his side.

“My lords! my lords! you try my patience too much!” he cried. “Why am I not to have a child like any one of you? Answer! Especially after--” here his voice dropped. They all knew what he meant, but no one believed it. Like every member of his family, Don Enrique was unable to sustain his passions. The awe inspired by his presence had passed. Every eye was fixed menacingly upon him. Each noble recalled the scandal of his life and the treason of which he was guilty in acknowledging the Beltraneja as his heir. Face to face with the king, the indignation they felt blazed out. No words were spoken, but the menace was clear. Don Enrique quailed before it. He stood before the chief nobles of Castile as his accusers. He was judged and found guilty. The expression of their conviction was instantaneous.

Then the archbishop, with dignified calm, became the spokesman.

“Your Highness, we are here to declare that we will never acknowledge Doña Juana as your successor. Civil war will be the result of your insistence. Be advised, my good lord, not to drive your subjects to extremities. Banish that vile adventurer Beltrano de las Cuevas. Call your brother Don Alfonso, and your sister Doña Isabel to adorn the court, and trust to your faithful subjects for the rest.”

The king maintained a stony silence. He had become ashy pale. The hostile bearing of his nobles, the fearless words of the archbishop showed him his danger. Like all weak natures, he was obstinate. Never would he renounce the succession of Doña Juana; never would he dismiss Beltrano. He must temporise, but how? As his eye passed slowly down the ranks of those gathered before him, and he remembered that the most powerful chief among them was not there, a feeling of defeat came over him.

At this moment the Master of Calatrava intervened. The evident distress of the king touched him. Attacked in his life, in his consort, the old feudal feeling came to his rescue as to his chief.

“Cannot some accommodation be found,” were his words, “without imposing too severe conditions on the king? Don Alfonso, his brother, can marry the Infante Juana. This would content all parties.”

The relief this proposal gave to Don Enrique was very plain. His whole aspect changed. Again he was the reckless prince who lived in the midst of revellers, flatterers, and buffoons, and, dissolute by nature, tolerated the licentious conduct of the queen. Here was the opening he longed for, but dared not propose. An accommodation such as this would give him time to defy this outrageous insolence with arms in his hands and an army behind him.

A grateful smile lighted up his face; like all of his family, with large, prominent eyes under sharply curved eyebrows, long, pointed nose and irresolute lips which gave a shifting character to his face.

“I am ready,” he said, “to listen graciously to the desires of my subjects. The House of Trastamare owes much to its supporters. Foremost among them you are, my lord archbishop, and your nephew, the Marqués de Villena, though at the present time one would not say so.”

This shaft, levelled at the archbishop, was met with a severe reprimand.

“Your ancestors, my lord, reverenced the Church. You have defiled it.”

“Let us not fall into recriminations,” cried the Grand Master Giron, “but rather seek how our conditions can meet the king’s desires, and rebellion be avoided.”

Then Don Enrique passed his royal word, standing before the throne, his hand in that of the archbishop, that his brother, Don Alfonso, should, with his sister Doña Isabel, be received at court with the honours which were their due; that Don Alfonso, under the guardianship of the Marqués de Villena, should be affianced to Doña Juana, and the Conde de Ledesma be banished to his estates.

* * * * *

Time passed; but, excepting the liberty of his brother and sister, Don Alfonso and Doña Isabel, who were, however, closely watched by the queen and Ledesma, none of these conditions were fulfilled.

Every abuse continued. The Conde de Ledesma lorded it as before in a court where vice and disorder reigned paramount. Don Alfonso was not affianced to the little Juana, and the queen continued to scandalise all Castile. Then the Marqués de Villena decided upon action. This time he would make his presence felt. Don Enrique, fourth of that name, must be dethroned, (1464). His brother Alfonso proclaimed king in his place. On the plains of Avila the nation was summoned to ratify the act.

* * * * *

Avila stands on the summit of a wild mountain gorge, grey, colourless, and arid. Below are piled up heaps of huge granite boulders, as if washed by the water of the deluge. Then, beyond, line upon line of rough and scattered rocks lead the eye to the far-distant horizon.

At first sight the town seems to be but a dolomite crown fixed on the cliffs themselves, until the eye discerns a circle of granite walls, broken at regular intervals by machicolated towers, to this day in perfect preservation.

All is severe, wind-bound, arid. A mountain fortress looking towards the fastnesses over the Escurial. War trumpets, arrows, and catapults seem in the air; lances rattle and blood-stained banners wave. Beneath, the eye ranges over a vast region bounded by the snow-capped mountains of the Guadarrama. A prospect such as is seen nowhere but in Spain, where the plains take the semblance of an earthy sea, in the large lines of alternate sun and shade and streaks of vivid colour that undulate as on the perpetual agitation of the waves.

And now a strange sight presents itself. On a level _vega_, a sheet of green, illumined by the full rays of the mid-day sun, filling all nature with a glorious light, a huge platform rises, on which stands a throne. On it is seated a gigantic semblance of the king, wearing the pointed crown of the Goths, the sceptre in one hand and the sword of justice at his side. No detail is wanting to render it more real. Jewelled collar and chain sparkle around his neck, pearls, emeralds, and rubies glow at the girdle, confining a sumptuous robe under a royal mantle lined and faced with miniver.

In front is planted the banner of Castile, and a whole army of men-at-arms, crossbowmen, and lancers, guard the mimic sovereign as in life.

All those dignitaries and prelates who took part in the conference at the archbishop’s are there also, to a man, gathered round the platform, to judge the king.

Beyond, a vast multitude spreads over the plain. The nation has been summoned and it has come, and great disappointment is expressed not to find also figures of the queen and Don Beltrano exposed for judgment, as well as of the king.

Each craft and profession is arrayed in the costume of its order, distinctive at that time. Monks and mendicant friars, Moorish sheikhs from Granada and belted knights stand shoulder to shoulder with ecclesiastics and learned professors, the military orders of Santiago and Calatrava in half-clerical costume, and _estudiantes_ from Salamanca, the cockle-shell on their large hats.

Nor are the picturesque peasants wanting from the northern provinces with cloak and staff. Aragonese with hempen sandals, the heavy-mantled Castilian who dreads the cold, and the men of Leon who till the fields.

* * * * *

At the roll of the drum the troops march forward, the colours are lowered, and a solemn Mass is celebrated by the Archbishop of Toledo before the sham king, while martial bands thrill the souls of men.

Then to the blare of trumpets the young Infante Don Alfonso (only eleven years of age) is borne in--a tall, slender boy of the delicate type of his family, brother of Doña Isabel, who declines to appear.

His appearance is announced with deafening shouts, and countless voices welcome him as king.

The archbishop then advances in the midst of his tonsured chapter, the censers around him filling the air with a fragrance more intense than the wild thyme and lavender of the Huerta, and mounts the steps of the platform, the other nobles standing with drawn swords.

A loud trumpet-call sounds a long and melancholy note, prolonged into infinite echoes to command attention. Every voice is hushed, every eye directed to the platform, where a herald in his parti-coloured dress appears, and standing between two alguazils, proceeds to read the sentence of dethronement.

“Ye Castilians, Grandees, Ricoshombres, Prelates, Hidalgos, Esquires, and Citizens, hear, oh! hear! The King Don Enrique the Fourth, being unworthy of the crown, which he disgraces by many crimes, it now pleases God, by the agency of his confederated nobles, to punish him by a well-merited dethronement for the following reasons:

“_He is unworthy_ of a crown he cannot hold, for it is the pernicious Don Beltrano de las Cuevas, known as the Conde de Ledesma, who rules Castile.

“_He is unworthy_ of the sword of justice, because he administers none among his subjects.

“_He is unworthy_ of the throne, because he is a traitor in naming a bastard child of the queen and Beltrano de las Cuevas as his successor, instead of his brother, his rightful heir. Let Henry the Fourth of Castile be therefore hurled from the throne he disgraces.”

As the herald retires, the fierce-eyed metropolitan again comes to the front, and, with great solemnity unlooses the glittering crown from the brow of the figure and hurls it into space.

Next the Conde de Palencia mounts the platform and, less calm and collected than the churchman, with a furious gesture tears the sword of justice from its side.

Now it is the turn of the fiery Lord of Benevente, who presses forward, and, with words of passion on his lips, rends the sceptre from the hand of the image.

No sooner is this done than Don Diego Lopez de Zuniga seizes the figure and flings it headlong from the throne to be torn and burned by the common people, who think it a fine thing to fall upon even the semblance of a king.

At the same moment the confederate nobles lift the Infante Don Alfonso on their shoulders and place him on the vacant throne.

To the crafty statesman and intriguer, the Marqués de Villena, falls the honour of investing him with the insignia of royalty. The archbishop does

homage and kisses his hand, followed by each noble in his turn, advancing towards the blushing prince, who had been with difficulty prevailed on to act this part during the life of his brother.

The new king then mounts on a milk-white charger, covered with gold trappings, nets, feathers, and ribbons, and attended by all the confederates (or conspirators, as they might be called), and the vast multitude, passes up the hill to Avila, amid universal acclamations, to the Cathedral, where the apse forms a strong bastion in the city wall. And here he is blessed under the gloom of deeply stained windows, while bishops pronounce warlike orations in his honour to the boom of cannon and the firing of arquebuses.

* * * * *

But an unforeseen misfortune befell the confederate nobles. The young Alfonso died. Nothing daunted, however, they at once named his sister, the Infanta Isabel, Princess of the Asturias, heiress to the crown.