Chapter XXV: The Siege of Granada

Ferdinand, to whom war was a pastime, had taken the field with all the pomp and circumstance of a tournament.

But the heroic defence of the Moors had given a much more serious aspect to their conquest than he had anticipated.

Nature, too, was on their side. Save towards the sea, at the eastern extremity of Spain, the whole kingdom of Granada is fenced in by almost inaccessible mountains, rugged and barren, broken by dolomite cliffs and dangerous precipices, descending sheer into rocky gorges and dimly lighted valleys--the sentinels of the impenetrable fastnesses which shut in the Moor.

Few were the tracks upon the mountains, and difficult to find. Narrow the gaps which cleave these tremendous ranges towards the plain. So narrow indeed, and walled in by such natural defences, that any army could be shut out by a small force, and as the Moors were accomplished warriors, and fought with a courage never surpassed, each inlet into the land was defended at the sword’s point.

Great had been the vicissitudes of the war of extermination on one side, and of enthusiastic defence of nation, faith, and existence on the other. Years have passed, but the vermilion tower of the Alhambra stands firm, and the Moors come and go in their city with the liberty of free men.

Spite of the fall of Malaga, that great city by the sea, where summer ever reigns, where the _Reyes Catolicos_ were very nearly assassinated by a Moor--Loya, Antequerra, and last of all, Baza, besides many castles and fortresses--each with romantic traditions of bloodshed and warfare--Ferdinand is still encamped on the Vega. For thirty days it has been overrun by his forces, and a region once so exquisite in beauty, and fruitful in corn, olives, orchards, and gardens, has become a scene of desolation and ruin.

Now he has just passed the bridge of Peñas, only two leagues from Granada, after a fierce contest--a famous deed in this bloody war.

By this route the Christians have hitherto made raids into Granada, the bridge being capable of strong resistance on either side, from the long, narrow passage raised high on slender arches, and the ruggedness of the surrounding banks.

* * * * *

Now Ferdinand has called a council of war within his sumptuous tent, literally blazing with purple and gold. A plain man in himself, accused even of a parsimony unfitting in a king, he lives in an age of warlike splendour, and politic in all things and wary of the opinion of those around him, he loves the display of magnificence in the battle-field, to strike awe into the enemy, and raise his own authority among his troops.

With a gravity which suits him well, he is seated at the head of a table scattered with maps and papers. Nor is he in countenance or bearing inferior to the famous chiefs and captains around him. His long hair, falling in locks upon his shoulders, is still auburn, though thin, and streaked with grey, his blue eyes are inscrutable, his features set and stern; altogether a countenance which offers an unsolved problem to posterity, as did his character, varying so greatly at different periods of his life.

He is plainly dressed in a cloth mantle, clasped around his neck by a single jewel; on his breast shines a silver cross, as for one engaged in a crusade against the infidels, and his body is encased in steel.

The Infante Juan is at his side. Isabel has borne him several children, but this is the only son, a delicate-complexioned boy, with thin, aquiline features like his mother’s, altogether too frail for the rough campaigns in which he accompanies his father, and singularly out of place among the hidalgos, who are ranged according to their military rank around the table.

At the king’s right hand is Ponce de Leon, Marqués de Cadiz, a great southern noble, almost as powerful as himself; on the left is the Duque de Medina Sidonia, equal almost in townships, castles, and fortresses to a sovereign, hailing from the south also. Both have performed prodigies of valour in the war. The reckless giant called Hernado de Pulgar sits lower--he who rode into the city of Granada at dead of night, and fixed on the door of the great mosque a tablet with the letters, _Ave Maria_, then departed as he had come before the Moors had time to seize him; the famous Gonsalvo de Cordoba, to become El Gran Capitan, and Viceroy of Naples, in this war flashing his maiden sword, already marked by nature in features and bearing as a master of men; the Conde de Tendilla, hero of Alcala; El Rey and Cabra, and many others as illustrious as the chiefs of Troy, but with no Homer to celebrate their deeds.

Now the king speaks, first rising and uncovering to salute the Council, then reseating himself, and replacing his velvet bonnet upon his head, in all of which formalities the Council follow him in profound silence.

“My lords,” are his words, “we are met here to decide as to the course of the campaign. Spite of individual acts of courage, Granada is unconquered. The walls are strong, and Boabdil’s general, Mousa, a leader of prudence and renown, vaunts that he will drive us out by avoiding fixed battles, and harassing our armies by perpetual skirmishes in the mountains, and ambushes on the plain. Noble captains and companions, this cannot thus continue; it is a blot on our arms.”

Loud sounds of assent come from all round the table. Several of the great soldiers rise to reply, but, seeing that Ferdinand is prepared to continue, sit down and listen with reverential attention.

“The important post of the bridge of Peñas is ours, gallantly gained” (again voices rise in subdued acclamation, and again die away), “and by the complete desolation of the Vega, we may in time starve the city. But, alas! my lords, this is a work of years. Too long already for our fame have we lingered here. The obscure city of Granada is not the only place where the flag of Spain should be unfurled. But,” and as he proceeds, his brows knit, and the subtle look of an unscrupulous intriguer comes into his clear blue eyes, “there are other means beside the sword by which the prudent general conquers. As the lion in the fable disdains not the assistance of the fox, so do I, for my use, keep myself informed of all that passes in the Alhambra. Treason, my lords, will open the gates of Granada to us better than combat.”

The king’s voice drops. He waits to mark the impression of his words among these heroic leaders who, new to the usages of modern warfare, disdain all means but that of the sword. Murmurs of dissent are indeed heard from the Knights of Pulgar and Aguilar, but subdued as towards their commander.

Ponce de Leon rises. “Don Ferdinand, the King,” he says, “I have no more doubt that under your guidance we shall stand within the courts of the fortress rising so defiantly before us, than that the sun will rise to-morrow, and autumn succeed summer on the plain. Stratagem is good in warfare, though some among us think otherwise. But beware of deception, your Highness; the Moor is like the Jew in cunning and deceit. Why not call the queen again into the field? Her gracious presence is ever the signal of success, and animates the soldiers. Let the saintly Isabel exorcise the infidels by the power of her faith. At the siege of Baza it was so. Why not now?”

“Bravely spoken, Ponce de Leon,” cries De Pulgar, swaying his huge body to and fro with excitement.

“Let the queen appear on the Vega,” cries the Conde de Cabra and Lord Rivers, who became so loud in his acclaim, he had to be silenced by those who sat near.

“God is my witness,” cries Ferdinand, moved to some show of emotion by this enthusiasm, “that I would willingly ever be accompanied by my beloved consort; but this is a matter which neither her Highness nor any one else can influence. I promise you, my lords, the queen shall join us, and that shortly; but I repeat that her presence touches not the matter in hand.”

But the warlike councillors had become so possessed with the idea of the queen’s arrival, that for some minutes nothing could be heard.

“It is not for us to judge of your Highness’s actions,” said, speaking last of all, the young Gonsalvo de Cordoba, whose after career showed that he acted on the same system as his master; “your wisdom is our best safeguard. All means are good to conquer the enemy: to plot while we fight, to undermine while we destroy.”

“You speak well, Gonsalvo,” answered Ferdinand, smiling, as conscious of the sympathy of a kindred spirit who can appreciate his rare qualities of intrigue.

“I will disclose so much to my assembled chiefs as to say that I am possessed of the sure knowledge that the powerful tribe of the Abencerrages are about to leave the city, in secret, to join our standard.”

At these words the whole council rose as one man, loudly to acclaim the king; all save Gonsalvo, who, indeed, stood up like the rest, but had already been informed by Ferdinand of this event.

“The Moorish king,” continued Ferdinand, “listening to the suggestions of the treacherous Zigris (always art variance with the rival tribes), believed that his queen was found in dalliance with an Abencerrage in the garden of the Generalife, called the entire tribe together in the Court of Lions, and barbarously butchered thirty-six of their number. Indeed, but for a boy, a _niño_, who gave the alarm, all would have perished. So exasperated are they, that one and all have determined to join our camp. Already after night falls, they will steal across the Vega; the sentries are warned, and Mousa and his master, Boabdil will be deprived of their bravest fighters. What say you to this, my valiant captains?”

“Sir King, we say that we are led not only by the bravest general who ever drew sword” (it was the Duque de Medina Sidonia who spoke, and his armed fist fell heavily on the table), “but by the wisest monarch who has reigned since Solomon. Our confidence in your Highness is complete. Lead on, my Lord, and we follow, even to the gates of hell.”

“God willing, I will not go there myself,” answered Ferdinand, smiling at his impetuosity, which, indeed, was reflected in all around, “therefore you are safe from such a danger. _Hell_, indeed! Into _heaven_, rather, that we hope to gain in this crusade against the infidels!” and Ferdinand crossed himself devoutly, for, sagacious as he was, and cunning, he was capable of the utmost depths of superstition. “But,” he continued, “spite of this important adherence, we must still fight. To-morrow I command a strong detachment to lay waste to the Vega, even to the city walls. Let all come to me who will join it. My lords, the council is ended.”

Upon this the knights rose and withdrew with all that grave and stately ceremonial which Ferdinand exacted from his followers. Only the young prince remained.

“Juan,” said Ferdinand, casting on him a look of inexpressible affection (deep down in his heart he was a tender man, and this only son was an object to him of almost adoration), “early and late the Infantes of Spain should learn the lesson of policy. It is a new science come in with modern times. Formerly, kings and princes could only fight. Now they use stratagem, which means the knowledge of the balance of power--state against state, noble against noble, Church against State, all of which would have been formerly despised, but in future will rule the world. You see, my son, these notables of Spain? They are the brightest jewels of my crown, but it is for me, their king, that they should unite their brilliancy. The queen, your honoured mother, and I, have by our entire union formed a mighty monarchy which will descend to you, Infante. But it must be maintained, not by brute force, but by knowledge. Santiago! by knowledge!” and as he spoke he seized Don Juan’s delicate fingers and pressed them in his own hard palm. “You look annoyed. Am I too fierce in my words? But by the blessed Virgin! I love you well, Juan. See, I will conquer Granada for you. But not a lizard runs on the painted walls of the Alhambra, but I know it. So in Spain. All is unfolded to me within our joint kingdom. I balance the great nobles as the player does his dice. I am called wise, my son, this is my wisdom.” Here he again crossed himself devoutly. “Ave Maria,” he said, “the blessed Virgin knows the hearts of men.”

Juan listened with a weary attention to his wise father, little consonant with the statecraft to which these lessons tended. He was a soldier who loved to march with the army and cared not for tortuous policy.

“But I love my mother’s ways best,” said the gentle prince, suppressing a yawn, as he sank back into his chair, “with her Grace all is truthful and open.”

“May Heaven bless her!” cried Ferdinand. “She is a noble wife. But it is our _union_ which makes the strength of Spain.”

* * * * *

In the early summer Queen Isabel sets out from Cordoba to join the army, accompanied by her eldest daughter, Isabel, to become Queen of Portugal, attended by prelates, cardinals, and friars. Her younger children, Juana and Catalina, remain behind.

With her, also, are Beatrix de Bobadilla, now Marquesa de Moya, her loving friend, her secretary, Peter Martyr, the Boswell of her life, her Almoner, the Bishop of Talavera, who, when offered the See of Salamanca, replies he will accept nothing but the See of Granada!!! Garcilaso de la Vega, and her court of dueñas and ladies.

The lovely Infanta has now become a stately matron, exceedingly fair, and somewhat inclined to stoutness, spite of the constant activity of her life. All feel the majesty of her presence, and the sway of the enlightened mind that dictates all her actions. Mistress she remains of herself and of her kingdom, spite of Ferdinand’s continual interference. But her love for him is unchanged, although he is far from being the faithful husband she deserves, and she is much tormented by jealousy.

As Queen of Castile she has assisted him in the war to the utmost of her power. The united Cortes of Castile and Aragon have been invoked by their own sovereigns, and each has made independent provision for the Moorish war “_to be pursued to the end_,” as necessary to the well-being of the nation.

It is a lovely valley she traverses on her way from Cordoba to Granada, now followed by the rail. Here is Montilla, famous for its white wines; old towers and castles succeed each other on the hills, and the sunny slopes are lined by vineyards and pomegranate woods. Olive-trees, big as ancestral oaks, make avenues as far as the eye can reach, and the damp wind sounds like music among the reeds at the Puerte del Xenil. At the town of Bobadilla, now a station, the huge mountains of Granada shut in all the plain, impregnable barriers between the Christian and the Moor.

* * * * *

The queen travels mounted on a mule, seated on a golden saddle--a rich kirtle of velvet with hanging sleeves forms her robe, cut square on the neck, and a long mantle and a black hat complete her attire.

As she advances through the defile, the Rock of the Lovers (_Pina de los Enamorados_) opens to the sight, so called because a Christian knight, who loved a Moorish maid, flung himself from the summit to die with her in his arms.

Higher up in the mountains the queen is met by a splendid train of knights, headed by the elegant Ponce de Leon, courtly as he is brave--indeed, from his actions in this war he has been named the second Cid--and Lord Rivers, the English volunteer, mounted _a la guisa_ (meaning with long stirrups), wearing over his armour a velvet cloak and a French hat and feather, attended by pages in silk, and foot soldiers.

The earl, as eccentric as he is brave, bare-headed makes a reverence to the queen, which she returns, at the same time graciously condescending to compliment him on his valour in the siege of Loja, further condoling with him on the loss of his two front teeth, knocked out by the hilt of a Moorish scimitar.

“But Earl Rivers might,” continues Isabel, in her soft voice, bending on him the calm lustre of her blue eyes, recorded as such a beauty in her faultless face, “have lost the teeth by natural decay, whereas now their lack will be esteemed a glory rather than a shame.”

To which the earl, bowing to his saddle-bow, replies that he returns thanks to God for the honour her Highness has done him in allowing him to meet her; that he is contented, nay, even _happy_

in the loss of his teeth seeing that it was for the service of God and of her Highness; for God having given him all the teeth he possesses, in depriving him of _two_ has but opened a window in the house of his body, the more readily to observe the soul within.

As the royal cavalcade approaches the great gonfalon of Spain, the queen makes a low reverence and passes to the right hand, awaiting Ferdinand, who appears in state, armed _cap-à-pie_ in mail so wrought with gold it seems all of that metal--a snowy plume waving over a diadem on his neck, a massive chain, the links inwrought with gems of the rough workmanship of Gothic times when everything was ponderous, mounted on a chestnut charger, and attended by the Christian knights. But as they approach each other, these royal spouses, in the presence of the army and in a hostile land, it is not in the guise of mutual lovers, but as allied sovereigns that they meet. Three formal reverences are their salutation, the queen taking off her hat as Ferdinand approaches and formally kisses her on the cheek. He also kisses his daughter and blesses her, and so they pass into the camp to the lofty tent prepared for Isabel. In the centre of the camp, not, indeed, a tent, but a pavilion in the Oriental taste, formed of sheets of cloth of gold, divided into compartments of painted linen lined with silk, each compartment separated from the other by costly arras. Lances make its columns, brocade and velvet its walls, and it covers such an extent of ground as might have been occupied by a real palace.

* * * * *

All lay in profound repose, the gorgeous pageant was over, the shades of evening deepened, the stars came out serene in that large firmament, and lighted up the streets of tents, gay with banners and devices, where the camp-fires burned.

Alone, the queen had not retired to rest, and was offering up her fervent prayers for the success of the war and the safety of Ferdinand. In an instant a vivid and startling blaze burst forth beside her. The tent was in flames. The light materials fed the fire. She had barely time to escape from the burning embers falling about her, and to rush to her husband’s tent. Into his arms she cast herself--the valiant queen for a moment all the woman--in her alarm.

“The Moors have done this!” cried Ferdinand, as he listened to her confused account. “They will be on us. Let the trumpets sound to charge,” and hastily wrapping himself in his _manto_ he made his way through the blazing camp to command his forces.

But no Moors were there. The towers of Granada rose white and placid in the night. The only light, the beacon fire in the high outpost of the Vega. No sound came from the city. For a moment the thought of magic floated through Ferdinand’s mind. He was superstitious, and the Moors dealt much in necromancy, but it was evident that in its course the fire was associated with the queen (whether by purpose or accident), and he was resolved to take advantage of this to rouse his indignant army to action.

“Heaven,” said he, as his knights came rushing round him, “has saved the queen. Let this danger to her life break up the camp and lead us to the solid walls of Granada. Let us lodge her safely within the walls of the Alhambra. Woe to the Moslem and his wiles!”

At these words lances rattled and swords leaped from the scabbard.

“Woe to the Moslem!” echoed from every side.

With the morning light a vigorous assault was made, and a fierce battle fought among the charred wrecks of the smouldering camp. But Ferdinand’s cold and sober policy was principally bent on restraining the fiery spirits he commanded. Mostly he contented himself with skirmishes and closing all the issues through which provisions could reach Granada.

* * * * *

It was the accident of the fire which led to the building of Santa Fé (the city of Sacred Faith) in the Vega, as a permanent refuge, to convince the Moors that nothing would turn the Christians from the conquest.

The ruins of Santa Fé still remain on the slope of a line of low hills opposite Granada, close by the castle of Rum or Roma, granted by Ferdinand VII. to the Duke of Wellington in the Peninsular War.

At Santa Fé Isabel appeared in complete armour at the head of the Castilians. She inspected every tent, reviewed her troops, consoled, exhorted, encouraged, a very Christian Bellona, who carried victory in her hand.

At Santa Fé she met Columbus, and after refusing him what he needed for his enterprise, sent after him, when he had crossed the bridge of Peñas on his return, and consented to find funds for his departure to the New World.

* * * * *

Now nothing in the siege was so fatal to the Moors as the building of Santa Fé.

While their enemies were revelling in the plenty of the land the supplies of the city were cut off. Autumn brought them no crops, the Christians spoiled them; all their sheep and cattle were lifted, and famine began to be felt.

Then Boabdil, who had succeeded his father, Muley Hassan, called together the heads of the city--the alcaides, dervishes, alfaquis, and imams of the faith, within the great Hall of the Ambassadors, where his father had sat. By his side his mother, Ayxa la Horra, just middle-aged, of commanding stature, in long, ample robes, worked with jewels, her dark hair shaded by a turban diademed with gold--and asked them, “What is to be done?” At the momentous question every face grew white, and they who had fought so many years so manfully, hung their heads and wept.

For a time no voice answered until an aged alcaide rose and with a faltering voice uttered the word “_Surrender!_”

As with one voice all joined in: “_Surrender!_” echoes up to the domed roof, glittering with crystal damasked in deep-coloured wood--the arabesques and the fantastic devices echo it, the fairy-like arcades bordered with orange and lemon-trees carry it on to the women’s quarter beyond the Court of the Alberca, where wails and shrieks repeat it.

“_Surrender!_” sounds from the towers upon the cliff down to the deep valley of the Darro where the bubbling waters foam.

“_Surrender!_” is carried by the winds into the narrow streets of Granada, where want and famine stalk, tangible to the eye in sunken faces of famished men.

“_Surrender!_ Yes!” cries the aged alcaide, taking up the word. “Alas! we have no food. None can reach us since the armed walls of Santa Fé command the place. We are 200,000 young and old. We are all starving. Of what avail are the Alhambra walls? The Christians are at home, well defended. Allah has willed it. Kismet! It is done. We must surrender.”

They know it, these hard-visaged Moslems sitting round on ancient seats, hiding their eyes under their vast turbans, swarthy warriors grizzled with toil, and silken, effeminate courtiers, and the imperious queen standing erect, her arms folded on her breast, yet resolute to the last.

Meanwhile, Boabdil, calm but ashen, eagerly scans each face, but speaks not. Then the fierce Mousa, the most valiant of all the Moorish knights and they are many, starts to his feet.

“_Surrender!_” he shouts, in a voice like a clarion. “Who dares say that word is a traitor. _Surrender_ to whom? To Ferdinand, the Christian king? to Isabel, his slave? They are liars, invaders, giaours! Death is the least evil we have to fear from them. _Surrender_ means plunder, sacking, the profanation of our mosques, the violation of our women, whips, chains, dungeons, the fagot, and the stake. This is _surrender_! Let him that has a man’s heart follow me to the Christian camp. There let us die!”

But the words of Mousa brought no response. Boabdil el Chico yielded to the general voice, and the venerable dervish, Aval-Cazem, was sent out to Santa Fé to treat for terms with the Catholic sovereigns.

* * * * *

Alas! Then came a night of mourning and of wailing, as the sun went down over the Alhambra in clouds of blood.

Within the walls where they had been born and lived, there they would linger! Among those enchanting courts, beside gushing fountains, the song of birds, the scent of flowers. The soft shadows of pale groves, and those painted halls, the very picture books of history and of song.

Now, all is to be abandoned. The royal treasure packed, the inlaid walls stripped of their hangings, the gold vessels set with pearls, the carved platters for perfumed water, the turbaned crown and royal robes and garments woven in Persian looms, the accumulated treasures of centuries, unknown to the outer world, unspeakable, garnered in the lace-walled recesses of the harem.

At break of day all must depart into a cold and arid world--the stately Sultana, La Horra, and Boabdil’s large-eyed queen, in robes of death and mourning, bearing ashes on their heads, followed by all the pomp of an Eastern court. Guards, slaves, mutes, and eunuchs, passed out of the gate of the Siete Suelos, the conquered city sleeping at their feet, while on the opposite side, by the Gate of Justice with the mystic hand, rode in a dazzling company of Christian knights, lighted up by the rising sun--Aragonese and Castilian horsemen with round casques, knights in chain-armour rattling their spears, gold-tabarded trumpeters, men-at-arms and arquebusiers with hedges of lances and bucklers, led by the primate of Spain, bearing in his hand the silver cross to be planted on the signal tower of the Vega.