Old Court Life in Spain; vol. 2. Elliot Frances Minto Dickinson

silence sat upon the king. The voice of his guardian angel rose within him, and on his lips was the cry, “Return, return, Albuquerque;” but the good impulse promptly vanished, and with a mocking laugh he turned to Don Juan. “Have the horses saddled and the escort ready, I ride at break of day.” Then, striding down the aisle, he disappeared.

      Poor Blanche! Her dream is over. She awoke to find Don Pedro gone – Don Fadique fled – and a bench of bishops appointed to consult upon her supposed misdeeds. Proof there was none against her – not even of witchcraft, which was the popular accusation at times when all others failed. But, for all that, the bishops were much too terrified at the king not to pronounce her guilty.

      The Duke of Bourbon, her father, and the most Christian king, her brother-in-law, by the mouth of a herald sent to Seville, storm and threaten – but what could be said against the judgment of these holy men?

      Both justice and knowledge in those days lay in the Church, and Don Pedro had managed so cunningly, and Maria de Padilla had so carefully spread abroad diabolical accusations, that Blanche was held to be guilty of incest.

      If the marriage by proxy common among kings and great princes were not respected as a point of chivalrous honour, by the person selected by the husband to represent him in the sacred rite, no crowned head would be safe. It was usual for a man of mature years to be chosen on such occasions, not a gay young infante like Don Fadique; but, on the other hand, his near relationship to the king was deemed sufficient guarantee for his honour, and knightly honour in those days was much more considered than either virtue or religion.

      Thus this accusation against Blanche appealed to the most violent prejudices of the time. She was supposed to have offended against that unwritten code which is the safeguard of kings.

      No one cared for details. Degraded into a criminal, laden with contempt, she was sent under a strong escort to the castle of Talavera de la Reina on the Tagus, not far distant from Toledo; and Don Fadique saved his life by flight into Portugal.

      Vainly did the queen-mother warn her son of the risk he ran in thus offending a French princess, and endeavour to procure for Blanche some gentler treatment. Don Pedro mocked at her as he had mocked at Albuquerque. He told her plainly that if she importuned him she should follow Blanche into a prison. “There were plenty of castles,” he said, “in Castile for troublesome queens, as there were cords and daggers for traitors!”

      Had Claire not been left her, Blanche would have died. Her horror of the king returned greater than ever. “He will kill me! He will kill me!” she kept repeating, “with a Moorish bowstring. His cruel blue eyes pierce me like a knife. Oh! Claire, I wish it were over!”

      Then she raved of Navarre and Narbonne. Called on Don Fadique for help, and implored Claire to carry her to the convent, and bury her out of sight.

      For two days they rode over the plains, avoiding the steep defiles of the Guadarrama Mountains, expecting death at every halting-place. The faint hope of a rescue haunted the mind of Claire, but she did not speak of it to Blanche. Where were the Grand Master and all the noble knights of Santiago? Surely they would not allow such a crime? But no white-mantled horsemen came galloping over the plain; no flag of knight or esquire fluttered in the grey atmosphere. The same dull lines seemed endless.

      At length they descended into the gorges of a deep treeless valley, through which the broad Tagus flows by rocky boundaries, very different from the laughing river which runs by the leafy groves of Aranjuez, and reflects that bright and elegant palace of the Bourbons in its crystal flood.

      On a height, to the right, rose the castle of Talavera de la Reina, built of small bricks faced with stone, an irregular fortress of Gothic times.

      As the portcullis was raised to admit Queen Blanche, Claire, whose eyes were everywhere, was delighted to observe that it was in a ruinous condition, having lately sustained a siege, and that it appeared slenderly garrisoned for a royal fortress. A wild hope of escape possessed her, especially when the governor, who advanced to hold the queen’s bridle on bended knee, appeared in the person of a gracious young cavalier, wearing on his breast the cross of Santiago.

      Even Blanche roused herself to bestow on him a sweet smile, and graciously replied to his words of welcome.

      Conducted by him, and followed by serving-men and seneschals, Blanche casting uneasy looks around, mounted the narrow turning stair, which led to the dreary suite of rooms known as “the royal chambers.” At every door stood a man-at-arms, halberd in hand, immovable as a statue.

      “It seems I am considered a dangerous prisoner,” she said, turning with a winning smile towards the governor, who walked at her left hand. “What care two poor women require to keep fast locked up! A good watch-dog, such as we have in Narvarre to guard the sheep, would be sufficient.”

      “Madam, I grieve in aught to displease your Highness,” is the reply; “but I act under strict command, as the king’s officer. The presence of armed troops near Toledo gives some alarm – ”

      “Armed troops!” interrupts Claire, arresting Blanche’s progress with her hand; “and who commands them?”

      The governor hesitated. Claire’s eyes, a pair of brilliant orbs with glancing Gallic fire, were turned full upon him.

      “Oh, tell me, is it the Grand Master of Santiago?” cries Blanche, thinking that Don Fadique might be near. “You are not bidden to imprison our souls.”

      “Madam,” answers the young governor, bowing to the ground, “I dare not refuse the command of the Queen of Castile. The armed bands I speak of are the skirmishers of Don Enrique de Trastamare, who is advancing from the north on the city of Toledo. It is said that some French mercenaries are with him.”

      “Oh! thank the blessed Virgin for that,” ejaculates poor Blanche, clasping her hands and uttering a silent prayer. “They have thought of me at last. Oh, the dear French; it seems to me I could embrace the roughest of the soldiers! Oh, that I were with them, and had never left that pleasant land! Are they far off? Can I see them pass? Is there no tower or battlement from which I could wave a greeting to them? Oh, say – ?”

      “Madam,” answers the governor, gravely – Claire finds him extremely sympathetic, with his dark moustache and pointed beard, small aristocratic head, and dark black eyes, capable of saying so many things – “I have already overstepped my duty. Your Grace must be merciful, and press me no further. Believe me, madam, did it depend on me, not only this wish of yours, but all others, would be met even before expressed. I, too, come of French blood. My mother was from Bayonne.”

      “Your name?” asks Blanche. “The king is happy in possessing so loyal an officer.”

      “Alvarez de Varga,” is the reply. “As a boy, I was reared at Seville, as one of the pages of the queen.”

      “What queen?” asks Claire, hastily. “Not – ”

      “No, madam; my gracious mistress was Mary of Portugal. I was chosen among many as the companion of Don Pedro.”

      “Oh! the Saints protect me! then you love him?” exclaims Blanche, shrinking back against the wall.

      “Not more than is set down in my duty, madam,” is his quick reply. “In my hands you are as safe as in the palace of Narbonne. Rather would I sever limb from limb, than that harm should come to your Highness under my charge.”

      “Thank heaven!” was all that Blanche could murmur, for her lips had turned bloodless from terror.

      “Tell me, Don Alvarez,” asks Claire, who never let a propitious occasion slip, “did you know Don Fadique, the Grand Master, at the Court?”

      “Right well; he is my master. We were playmates together, until the death of his mother scattered the Infantes far and wide. Don Fadique,” he adds, reading the breathless interest expressed in both the fair ladies’ eyes, now riveted upon him, “is of a temper to attach all who approach him. Even the queen, with so many causes of displeasure against the children of Doña Eleanor de Guzman, who led away the fancy of her consort, always cherished him.”

      “Tell me,” says Claire, in her eagerness placing her hand upon his arm,