CHAPTER III
Don Roderich’s Perfidy
THE court life shifts from the green Sierras of Cordoba to the old city of Toledo. Again we are in the corn-bearing plains, the outlines of the domes, pinnacles, and turrets of the Alcazar before us gay and jocund with the security of two hundred years of Gothic rule. What footsteps have echoed through those courts! What regal presences haunt them! Iberian, Roman, and Gothic; Recaredo, Wamba, Witica, and comely Roderich; to be followed by Moors, and Castilian kings; El Caballero, El Emplazado, El Valente, El Impotente; a red haired bastard of Trastamare succeeding his brother Don Pedro el Cruel, a swaggering Alfonso, Velasque’s, Philip, the staid dowager-queen Berenguela, fair Isabel the Catholic, the widow of Philip the Fourth, the mother of Charles el Soco, Johana el Loca, not to forget the Cid, first Christian alcaide and governor; a palace in old times marking the utmost limits of the known world, beyond which the East looked into the hyperborean darkness of the West; the geographical centre of all Spain – supremely regal, its foundations laid in legend, and its ramparts raised in the glamour of Oriental song; a refuge from Moorish invasion for the defenceless Goth, and the superb residence of later kings. In a hollow beneath rise the towers of the cathedral, and the outline of many ancient synagogues, for the Jews were always powerful in Toledo – El Transito and El Blanco are the principal ones, and hospitals for the chosen race. If Toledo was the Gothic capital, it was also long before known under the name of “Toledoth,” where the Jews came in great numbers after the sack of Jerusalem by Nebuchadnezzar. “The Jews fled to Tarshish,” says the Bible, and Tarshish is the scriptural name for Southern Spain.
Other churches and oratories there were, for the Goths were a pious people, also the house of Wamba over the Tagus, and the mystic tower of Hercules, rising on a rock, the entrance guarded by an inscription setting forth “that whenever a king passes the threshold, the empire of Spain shall fall”; a warning much respected by the Gothic kings – Wamba, Ervig, Eric, and Witica, who each in turn ordered fresh locks and chains to be added to make it fast. Baths there were also, and on the hills summer houses and huertas moistened by fountains and streams, the dark Tagus making, as it were, a defence and barrier about the walls.
One plaisance there was, particularly noted, on a terrace overhanging the river, where the spires and domes of many-painted pavilions uprose, with tile-paved patios, and arcades and miradores open to the sky, which Roderich had formed for Egilona, from the pattern of a Moorish retreat she loved at Algiers. Here soft fluffy plane-trees whispered to the breeze, violets blossomed in low damp trenches, and the blue-green fronds of the palms cut against the sky. A garden, indeed, most cunningly adapted to intoxicate the senses, where every tree and branch was vocal with nightingale and thrush, the soft rhythm of zambras and flutes thrilling through the boughs from invisible orchestras; a place in itself so lovely and so lonely that life passed by in an atmosphere of delight, akin to the houri-haunted paradise prepared for the brave Moslems who fall in battle. Hither came Egilona, as into the solitude of an Eastern harem, shut out from the foot of man. Even Roderich rarely entered to disturb her hours of innocent delight, surrounded by a band of fair damsels, who, like Florinda, had been committed to her care.
It was a delicious evening after a day of fiery heat. So oppressive had been the sun, that even the orange leaves flagged on their stems and the song-birds were mute. In the broad plains without, the rarefied air trembled; nothing but the sharp note of the cicala broke the silence of mid-day.
Now the air was cool in these leafy gardens, over-hanging the river, from which delicate rippling gusts rose up to fan the atmosphere. The dazzling pavilions with open galleries lay in shadow, and only a transient ray from the setting sun lit up some detail of lace-worked panel or gilded pinnacle into a transient flame.
On a broad terrace, from which the roofs of the city are dimmed into vague outlines, a merry party of the queen’s maidens emerge from one of the galleries, amid peals of that shrill and joyous laughter heard only among the young, and running swiftly along scare the peacocks, who drop their tails and fly into the covered avenues beyond. Some of the maidens ensconce themselves in verdant kiosks, others wander into the bamboo-thickets to lie on flowery banks, or wade in the shallow streams which flow around. One delicately limbed girl, oppressed by the heat, divests herself of the light draperies she wears, and like a playful Nereid plunges into a pool, scattering water on her laughing companions.
One of these maidens, Zora, by name, who came from Barbary with Egilona, is of a darker colouring than the rest. Zora can sing to the cither and relate stories like a true Arab as she is. Now a circle of her companions gather about her, and beg her to tell them a tale.
“But you have heard all my stories so often,” pleads poor Zora, whose little feet are tingling with the desire of movement after the confinement of the long hot day.
“Never mind, you must invent a new one, Zora.” A cloud passes over her merry face. “Invent a story! Well, I will try,” and after a few minutes she seats herself on a porcelain bench under a clump of cedars, and begins.
Zora’s Story
“There were once three sisters, I don’t know where, but they were princesses. They had an ugly old father with one eye, who shut them up in a tower high in a wall. They were never to go out, and had an old slave to watch them; her name was Wenza, and there was a eunuch too, who carried a scimitar; but he does not matter, for he stayed out of doors.
“Now the tower was very beautiful, only the sisters did not like it, because they called it a prison. There was a patio with an alabaster fountain, which kept up a running murmur day and night; the walls were wrought in a coloured net-work of flowers, and arches and angles were worked beautifully to look like crystal caves. All around were the sweetest little rooms for the sisters to sleep in, not forgetting Wenza, who, they said, snored, so she was put in the farthest one. The walls were hung with golden tapestry, and the divans worked with shells and stones. So beautiful! Like a casket! There were curtains with monsters and beasts embroidered in fine silk, hung at the doors to keep out draughts, and so many singing-birds in golden cages, that there were times when they could not hear themselves speak. A little kitchen, too, lay in a corner, where Wenza cooked the food, but the sisters lived on cakes and fruit quite in a fairy-like way, which often made Wenza say she knew she would be starved, only the eunuch was kind and sometimes handed in on his scimitar a piece of meat. High up in the walls were barred casemates, but oh! so small, mere slits and the princesses often tore their robes clambering up to look out. They could see the sky – a passing cloud was a variety, but what delighted them most, and, indeed, occupied the day, when they were not playing on lutes and cithers, or teaching tricks to the birds, was a rocky valley, oh! so deep down! They could just see it. The sun never shone there, and the rocks looked always damp. A valley, and a stream with a strange echo like voices, only what it said was past their power to know; and Wenza could not help them, she only pulled them down from the windows and scolded them, and threatened she would call in the eunuch with his drawn sword. But Wenza liked to hear about it all the same, and asked often if the voices of the stream had spoken more plainly.
“The only one who minded what Wenza said was the youngest princess, Zeda. She was much more timid than her sisters, with cheeks as white as a lily. She could touch the stops of a silver lute and sing Moorish ballads. She was so gentle; she would nurse a sick bird in her warm hand for hours and hours, and feed the little starlings that settled on the window edge. All day she was in and out about the flowers, which stood in pots round the fountain and lived on the spray.
“Zoda, the second, was very vain, and looked at herself in a steel mirror twenty times a day, painting her eyes and trimming her hair, and Lindaxara, the eldest, was proud, and would sometimes beat poor gentle Zeda when she offended her.”
“And their clothes?” asked a little Gothic maiden interrupting her, “you have told us nothing of their clothes.”
“Ah! that is true,” and Zora paused and thought a little. “Well! they were all in tunics of white satin with gemmed waistbands and borders, and trousers of Broussa gauze, lined with rose colour, little caps upon their heads twinkling with coins, and necklaces of pearl. Very lovely clothes, I assure you, and they looked lovely, too, standing with the spray of the fountain behind them.
“Well,” continued Zora, growing eager herself as her tale went on, and the eyes of all her companions riveted on her, “you may fancy what it was, when Lindaxara, who was tall and slim, clamoured up one day to the latticed window and saw three Christian knights working among the stones in the valley below. She was so astonished that she gave a loud scream, which brought her sisters and Wenza, to the window. So there was no secret about it, and they all strained their necks as far as the bars would let them.
“Just to think of it! Three adorable knights in the flower of youth. Eyes full of love, and the sweetest heads of hair, not cut and trimmed like the Arabs’ under big turbans, but hanging loose in curls upon their shoulders. Captives, alas! loaded with chains! The tears came into the sisters’ eyes as they gazed. ‘The one in green,’ cried Lindaxara, thrilling all over as she leaned out of the bars, ‘he is my knight. What grace! What beauty!’
“ ‘No, the crimson one for me,’ said Zoda, arranging her hair. ‘I love him already. He shall never be a slave.’
“Gentle little Zeda said nothing, but heaved a great sigh. ‘No one will ever care for me,’ she whispered, ‘but it is that other one I like best. He has such a heavenly smile.’
“After which, Wenza, suddenly remembering her duty, drove them all down, and shut up the window. But too late, the harm was done; Wenza protested, but she was the worst of all. The eunuch was bribed by her with so much gold, he put up his scimitar, and did all that he was bid.
“The Christian knights were told that three beautiful princesses, daughters of the one-eyed king, loved them. It made them very happy in spite of their chains. They managed to talk together by signs and to arrange their plans.
“One night, when the moon was sinking, and all was still, a whistle, heard from below, struck on impatient ears. The bars had been sawn from the window by the eunuch, who was strong, and Wenza had cut the sheets into strips and tied them all together into a long rope; then one by one they went down, at first trembling, but quite brave and glad at last, as they fell into the arms of the Christian knights, Wenza into the arms of the eunuch, who took care of her – all save poor little Zeda.
“When it came to her turn to descend, she had no courage to move, but stood at the window clasping her hands, and casting down wistful glances on her sisters. Now her fingers were on the cord, then she withdrew them; she saw her Christian knight beckoning to her; listened, listened as the stream called Zeda. Again she grasped the cord. In vain, her heart failed her.
“ ‘Too late, too late, dear sisters,’ she cried. ‘Go forth and be happy. Think sometimes of the poor little prisoner left behind.’ And so,” concluded Zora, evidently at a loss how to finish her tale, “Ansa, the one-eyed king, her father, coming to visit his daughters, found her alone, and condemned her to die of hunger in the tower.
“Poor little Zeda! But she still lives in the spirit of the fountain, when it boils and bubbles at night in the form of a Moslem princess, flower-crowned, singing to a silver lute, ‘Ay de mi Zeda!’ ”
A great clapping of hands, and many thanks to Zora for the story, greeted its conclusion. The little Gothic maiden, who was very fond of Zora, cried at the fate of the poor princess starved to death. She is sure none of them were comelier than Zora; and in this she speaks truly. An African sun had dyed her skin to a ruddier colour, given symmetry to her limbs, and a dark fire to her eyes. As a stranger Zora is by turns laughed at and petted. And as the setting sun now catches the swarthy ebony of her long hair, and blazes on the rich brown of her cheek, the difference between her and the rest suddenly strikes a lively little playmate, who is forming a pattern on the ground from the coloured petals of roses.
“I should like to know,” says she, contemplating Zora, “which is prettier, dark Zora with the flashing eyes, or pale Florinda with the chestnut curls. In my opinion Zora is worth a whole bevy of us white-faced Goths.”
“No, no, no,” echoes from all sides, while poor Zora, put to shame, blushes under tawny skin and retreats to the farthest corner of the garden.
“I will not give the palm of beauty to Zora,” cries another voice, “but to Florinda. Where is she?” A general search is made for a long time in vain, but at last she is discovered fast asleep under a palm. Slumber has lent a lustre to her cheek, and her white bosom rises and falls under the transparent tissue of her bodice.
“Look!” cry the maidens exultingly, “can you compare Zora with Florinda?” And in their eagerness the giddy group tear asunder the sheltering draperies which cling about her.
Alas! little did they know, these joyous maidens, that the fate of the Gothic kingdom turned on the balance of their childish games, and that, mere puppets in the hands of fate, they were destined to be the instruments of destruction to their country!
In the gloom that precedes the setting of the sun, amid the dusky shadows of huge-leaved plants and myrtle hedges which broke the space into squares in every direction, Don Roderich had stolen from the Alcazar to enjoy the evening freshness and to visit the queen. Hearing from afar the bursts of girlish laughter, at the contest of beauty between dark and fair, he looked out from the latticed mirador of the pavilion, and beheld the undraped form of Florinda before she could escape from the hands of her companions.
That glance is fatal. Forgetful of the sacred pledges given to her father, forgetful of his honour as a knight and his gratitude as a king, a mighty passion rises within his breast. But Florinda gives no response; his fervid glances are met with downcast eyes, and a blush rises on her cheek as she involuntarily approaches him. This does but serve to fan his lawless love; and so great is his infatuation he cannot persuade himself that she does not return it. His whole soul is as a furnace, which consumes his life. Speak to her he must, and a wicked hope whispers it will not be in vain!
Meeting her one day, a little later, by chance in the queen’s antechamber, he called her to him, and presented to her his hand.
“Sweet one,” says he, in a voice he can scarcely command, every pulse within him beating tumultuously, “a thorn has sorely pricked me, can you draw it out?”
Florinda, who unconsciously has come rather to fear him, kneels at his feet and takes his hand in hers. At the touch of her light fingers a tremor runs through his frame. Is this slight girl to resist the transports that shake his being to the core, as the fury of the tempest shakes the light leaves?
As she kneels the tresses of her auburn hair fall as a veil around her, and blush after blush flushes her cheeks. Vainly she seeks for the thorn in Don Roderich’s hand. In her surprise she lifts her eyes to his, which are bent on her with ill-controlled passion; then, starting to her feet in confusion, “My lord,” she says, retreating from where he stands leaning against a painted pillar, his jewelled cap pressed down upon his brows, “there is no thorn.”
She turns to go, filled with an apprehension she cannot explain, but he catches her hand, and presses it to his heart.
“Here, here is the thorn, Florinda; will you pluck that out?”
“My lord, my lord,” cries the alarmed girl, “I do not catch your meaning.”
“Then I will teach you,” he answers, fast losing command over himself. “Do you love me?” and he draws her to him so near that his quick-coming breath plays upon her cheek.
Ever farther and farther she strives to retreat; ever nearer and nearer Don Roderich presses her, his glowing eyes resting on her like flames.
“My lord,” she says at last, trembling from head to foot, “my father told me to revere you as himself. I was to be to you and to the queen as a daughter. To your protection I look, may it never fail.”
A terrible fear possessed her of coming danger, as she shaped her words to this appeal, and had a spark of loyalty remained in the heart of Don Roderich, her reproof would have brought him to a better mind, but an evil destiny had doomed him to work out his own ruin.
“Florinda,” he cries, seizing her by both hands so as to draw her to him by force, “innocent as you are, you must understand me. It is not the love for a father nor the submission to a king I ask of you. It is love. Ah! tremble not, fair one, there is nothing to scare you. None shall know it. Deep in our hearts it shall lie. Nor does the love of your king degrade you like that of a common man. All the power of the Gothic throne shall compass you with delights, and I will make your father Julian greater than myself.”
At these base words the rising terror of Florinda gave place to indignation. Her soft eyes kindled with a fire far different from that which Don Roderich would have desired.
“I understand, my lord,” she answers, in a firm voice; “but none of my race hold power by evil means. My father would rather die than accept such dishonour. But,” and an ill-assured smile plays about her mouth, “I believe you mean but to try me; you think me too stupid and childish to serve the queen. I pray your pardon for taking a jest in such foolish earnest.”
The blanched face of Florinda ill-corresponded with the words which her quivering lips could scarcely articulate.
“May I die,” cries Don Roderich, “if I speak aught but truth. My heart, my kingdom, are at your command. Be mine, fair angel, and the Goths shall know no rule but yours.”
But now, the courage of Florinda, timid and girlish as she was, rises up within her. “My lord, I am in your power,” are her words. “You may kill me, but there you stop. My will you can never force.” Then, casting up her arms with a gesture of despair, she flees, vanishing among the long lines of pillars in the hall; and such was the power of her anger that the king dares not follow her. And here we must leave her with a wonder whether the assiduous worship paid her by Roderich was always repulsed with a like vigour, or if the opprobrious name of La Cava with which she came to be branded in the legends of the time was not undeserved.
That the king was so depraved by the indulgence of his life as not to be haunted by the shame of what he had done is difficult to believe. That he counted, however, on the secrecy of Florinda would seem certain from the indifference he displayed to the consequences of his action as affecting his relations with Julian, at that very time leading his army against the Moorish hosts, commanded by the veteran general, Mousa, in the neighbourhood of Ceuta.
“Those whom the gods forsake, they blind,” says the Pagan proverb. It is certainly impossible to explain the inactivity of the once valiant Roderich by any rational course of reasoning. Not only had the rumour of approaching battle come from the African shores, but swift messengers had brought to Toledo the news that the rock of Calpe (Gibraltar) in Spain bristled with scimitars, led by the ferocious old Berber, Tháryk, with his single eye.
“Tell Roderich the Goth,” ran the message, “that Tháryk has crossed the Straits to conquer his kingdom, and that he will not return until he has made the Goth lick the dust before him.”
Whatever blindness had fallen on Roderich, the consciousness of her disgrace soon forced itself on the mind of Florinda. Guilty or not, despair at last took possession of her. For a time she was silent, but unable to endure her shame, and horrified at her treason towards the queen, who ever tenderly cherished her, in a paroxysm of remorseful grief she caught up a pen and wrote to Julian:
“Would to God, my father, that the earth had swallowed me ere I came to Toledo! What am I to tell you of that which it is meet to conceal? Alas! my father, your lamb has been entrusted to the wolf. She were better dead than dishonoured. Hasten to rescue your unhappy Florinda. Come quickly.”
Tying this brief missive in a square of silk, and fastening it with a ribbon, she called to her a young page, bred at her father’s court, who had been especially appointed to her service.
“Adolfo,” said she, and sobs were in her voice, “saddle the swiftest steed you can lay hands on, and if ever, dear niño, you aspire to the honours of a belted knight in the service of my father, or hope for lady’s grace in the tourney; if ever – ” here she burst into a flood of tears, moved by her own vehemence. “Oh, sweet Adolfo, dear little page, reared up in my home, for the love of Christ, ride day and night until you reach the sea. Then, at the price of gold, which I give you,” and she placed in his hands a heavy purse, “take the best boat and the swiftest rowers, and with flowing sail speed to my father at Ceuta, nor eat nor drink until you have placed this writing in his hand.”
Before the eager Florinda, whose every feature spoke the deadly anxiety she felt, the page, cap in hand, bowed low.
“Trust me, noble daughter of my honoured lord. I will truly execute your trust. Swiftly will I ride, nor turn aside for aught but death, either by land or sea.”
Placing the letter in the bosom of his gaudy vest, he kissed her hand and sped his way, mounted a fast horse he found in the patio of the Palace, galloped down the declivity, through the Golden Gate, and so on into the eternal plains which gird about Toledo, until clouds of dust concealed him from Florinda’s anxious gaze.
Meanwhile, Julian, fighting valiantly in Africa, had just repulsed an attack of Mousa on the castle of Ceuta, standing on a cape which juts out into the Straits, the nearest point to the Spanish mainland. It was a desperate struggle; the Moors, under the command of the famous Arabs, rallying again and again.
The news of such a success spread round not only in Africa but over all the breadth of Spain. The landing of the Moors in Andalusia was a constant subject of terror on the mainland. Men knew that the Gothic nation no longer held together as under the early kings, and that each chief looked to himself alone, caring but little what became of his neighbours. The castles were dismantled by the selfish policy of Witica and Roderich, and the army was sunk into the same luxurious ease as the rest of the nation.
The name of Julian was soon on every lip. He was hailed as a saviour, and blessings invoked on him as the bulwark of the Cross.
With the sound of this homage ringing in his ears, the page arrives at Ceuta, bearing the letter from Florinda. Julian at once summons him to his tent, as perchance the bearer of some signal honour bestowed upon him by the king, or of some royal recompense for his services.
“What tidings from Don Roderich?” he asks.
“None, my lord,” is the answer. “I rode in haste away, without seeing the king. What I bear is a letter from the Lady Florinda.”
“Florinda – how fares she?”
“Well, my lord,” answers the page, as he takes the silken packet from his bosom.
Cutting the ribbon that binds it with his dagger, Julian reads the miserable lines; word after word brings a terrible certainty to his mind; he stands in speechless anguish, then, flinging the parchment from him, he folds his arms, while one by one the burning remembrance of each act of devotion to Roderich stings him to the soul. It is a terrible reckoning; a dark and malignant fury enters into his soul, not only against Roderich, but against all Spain, the scene of his dishonour, the home of his disgrace.
“And this,” cries he, when words come to his lips, “is my reward for serving a villain! This is the return he makes me for the hostage of my child! May I die a slave if I rest until I have given him full measure in return!”