A Knight of Spain, page 11
“Anne!” he cried, rocking himself to and fro “Anne!”
He hurled himself face downwards on the pillow and called on her again and again as a drowning mariner might call on the Mother of God to save him; for indeed she was the one thing to which he could turn in his fear and loneliness. The thought of her, the hope of her, and the kindness of the third Queen had been the only gentleness, the only beautiful things he had known in his few sad years.
“Anne!” he murmured. “Anne!”
He sat up, the red lamp casting a glow upon him, his shadow gigantic over the curtains of his bed, the picture held convulsively in his damp hands while he covered it with passionate kisses.
Then slowly he raised his head and listened.
There were footfalls without; light, hushed footfalls, yet unmistakable, and from under the door came a faint gleam of light.
Carlos shuddered but laughed too, for the door was secured beyond any man’s strength by the levers and bolts that he had under his own control.
With every nerve alert he sat erect in bed, still grasping the portrait of his cousin, and waited.
There was a faint sound of metal meeting metal, the rattle of arms, the lift of voices, then the bolts sank into their sockets and the door opened, while the Infant frantically dragged at broken pulleys.
Carlos had been a second time betrayed; the man who had invented the apparatus had put it out of order, and at a touch on the door without it became useless.
At seeing himself thus defenceless Carlos shrieked aloud with a dismal wailing note that echoed in the ceiling.
A man entered carrying a lamp.
“Who is there?” cried Carlos.
“The Council of State!” came the answer.
The Infant saw that the man who spoke and who carried the light was the Duke of Feria; behind him a number of soldiers were visible, the dark face of the Prince of Eboli and the habit of the Prior of Atocha.
At sight of these two men, whom he considered, after the King, as his greatest enemies, Carlos shrieked again, and, leaping out of bed, endeavoured to seize his weapons.
But the Duke of Feria had already secured them and handed them to the lieutenant of the guard.
Now that the Prince was utterly helpless, another figure stepped from behind the others, a figure in a dressing-gown that flowed open on complete armour and wearing a light steel helmet.
Carlos stood face to face with his father. His teeth chattered and a bluish tinge overspread his features.
“Does your Majesty wish to kill me?” he asked.
“Get to your bed,” returned Felipe coldly; “it is a chill night.”
But Carlos snatched a dressing-gown from the chair, flung it over his shivering limbs, and sank on to the stool beside the bed.
“Secure the window and the fireplace,” said the king, “and remove anything that might be used as a weapon.”
Two of the guards entered, and under the Duke of Feria’s orders proceeded to nail up the window and fasten boards over the fireplace.
The King, accompanied by the Prince of Eboli, searched the room in an intent silence; they found nothing worth their attention save a small box containing the Prince’s papers.
Carlos sat motionless, his hands pressed over his face, his elbows on his knees; now and then a long shudder shook his bent body.
The King took no notice of him, only when he came upon the box of papers he asked his son in a matter-of-fact tone for the key, and the Infant took it from the same chain that held the Archduchess’s portrait, and gave it him without a glance or a word, relapsing at once to his former attitude.
Don Felipe opened the casket.
The first paper he drew out was in the Prince’s own writing, and contained two lists marked respectively “My Friends” and “My Enemies.” The two names heading the first list were those of the Queen and Don Juan; under the second title appeared the King, the Prince of Eboli, and the Duke of Alba.
The King folded up this document without any comment, and placed it in the pocket of his dressing-gown. He then ordered Feria to take the casket to his apartment, where, he said, he would presently read the contents at his leisure.
The Prince seemed entirely careless of these proceedings; he remained in the one attitude almost like a creature without sense.
When the chamber had been carefully searched, and all the exits secured, Felipe, a grotesque-looking figure in the steel burgonet and damask dressing-gown, turned to his son.
“It is our pleasure that you remain a prisoner here,” he said.
At these words the Prince roused from his position of inert despair into a frenzy of anguish. He sprang up and threw himself at the King’s feet.
“Kill me rather than make me a prisoner!” he cried. “Nay, kill me!”
The King made no answer but regarded him thoughtfully.
Thereupon Carlos staggered to his feet, and tried to snatch at the dagger the lieutenant of the guards had in his belt, but the Prior, Don Antonio, seized him round the wrist and prevented him.
“If you do not kill me I will kill myself!” cried the wretched Infant, struggling in the Prior’s grasp; “but I will not live your prisoner.”
“To kill yourself would be the act of a madman,” replied the King coldly.
“I am not mad,” said Carlos with the energy of agony; “but driven desperate by the manner in which your Majesty has treated me.”
“I have been too kind,” answered Felipe drily, “too indulgent.”
Carlos broke into passionate sobs.
“My God, my God! if ever You loved me,” he exclaimed, “save me now from this man!”
In a hoarse voice torn with sobs he vehemently complained of the King’s harshness, and inveighed against his present treatment.
Felipe stood immovable by the foot of the bed.
“I have been too kind,” he repeated.
For a while the Infant sobbed in silence, and in silence the King looked on, while the guards filled the doorway, and Eboli, Feria, and the Prior stood gathered together in one corner of the chamber, somehow shuddering secretly, for the two thus opposed were father and son, and it was very plain what the end would be, at least to these three who knew the temper of the King.
Presently the Prince looked up, and stared straight into his father’s dull grey eyes that were fixed on him with a penetrating stare. An evil flame sprang up in his own, and hate gazed at hate, bare and unconcealed.
No veil, no barrier, no pretence, no convention softened, concealed, or disguised the sheer fact of the hate there was between these two; to the very soldiers, impassive at the door, it was a thing obvious and acclaimed. And with the hate of Felipe was mingled triumph, rendering it more terrible, and with the hate of Carlos was mingled fear. Yet he kept his eyes unflinchingly on his father’s face, even though his body shrank. At last he drew back his lip from his teeth and spoke.
“My father,” he said in a terrible tone of despair.
“Henceforth,” answered Felipe, “I am not your father, but your King.”
The Infant remained silent; the gleam and strength of passion vanished from his pale features, which became dull with a look near idiocy; he sat, drooping forward, and pulled at his fingers.
“God pity you,” said Felipe coldly, “and give you repentance.”
Carlos did not look up, and the King left him, leaving Eboli in charge of the prisoner.
It was not yet late and the King and his escort met Juan returning to his apartment. Felipe stopped and took his brother affectionately by the shoulder.
“The Infant’s establishment is broken up,” he said. “I will divide his horses between you and the Archdukes. You always admired Darius, the white stallion, did you not?”
Juan looked at him but could not speak.
The King continued with almost eager affection.
“Don Garcia de Toledo is returning from Sicily; he is old and has resigned his post. I will give it to you, brother, and you shall be Commander-in-Chief of the Fleets of Spain. And I will send you against the Turks that you may gain glory.”
And while Felipe spake Juan could hear the mad screams of Carlos echoing from behind his guarded doors.
Chapter Fourteen – THE LORD ADMIRAL OF THE SPANISH FLEETS
Don Juan of Austria was cruising along the shores of Spain, with the intention both of meeting the fleet, expected from the Indies and frightening the Barbary rovers that continually made descents upon the coasts.
It was early September, and his voyage had nearly come to an end. He had reviewed the moles, the harbours, and the fortifications of most of the towns he had passed, had recaptured a Spanish merchantman from two Turkish galliots in the creek of Los Trifolques, had inspected the new defences at Oban and Marca-el-Quibio, touched at Carthagena, Denia, Nica, and Mallovca, receiving at all these places a princely welcome.
Sailing by Peniscola for Barcelona he heard that a large Turkish squadron were making for Apula, and he dispatched some reinforcements to aid Andrea Doria, the Genoese Admiral, who stood for Christendom in those waters that separate Europe from Africa.
This afternoon of brilliant sun the young Admiral stood on one of the gun decks of his lofty ship and looked out across the sea.
Above him the massive poop and forecastle rose majestically into the blue air; the masts and riggings stood high and bare, for the sails were furled, the ship being at anchor in Barcelona harbour.
As Juan looked out to sea he could behold the rest of his fleet lying motionless on the still waters of the unruffled ocean—galleasses, brigantines, galleys, and frigates at anchor and fluttering with little flags. He rested his elbow on one of the large pieces of artillery that armed the gun-deck. He wore a light chain cuirass, a carelessly folded crimson scarf and great trunk breeches of olive-green embroidered with gold.
He had removed his elegant burgonet with the long red plume, and the clean fine air that blew off the sea fanned his upcurling hair and his face that was now tanned to an almost Oriental darkness of complexion; round his throat was a deep ruff of thin points of lace, and he wore the chain of jewels presented to him by his sister, Juana, the Princess of the Brazils, on the occasion of the baptism of the last Infanta.
Near the Admiral stood his secretary, Juan de Quiroga, holding a letter that fluttered, a white length, in his slim dark hands.
Over him lay the shadow cast by the dome of the projecting woodwork of the forecastle, but Juan stood in the full blaze of the sun that gleamed on the steel rims of the gun and the thousand interlaced rings that composed his mail corselet.
Quiroga was reading a letter from the Prince of Parma. When he had finished he folded it up, and stood waiting his master’s instructions. He was a creature of the Prince of Eboli, and sent with the young Admiral as a spy upon his actions. Felipe always kept a watch even on those he did not suspect. Juan was aware of this, and had already schooled himself to that Castilian reserve that betrayed nothing, and might equally cover stupidity or deep design.
He maintained his gravity now, though the news Quiroga read aloud had shocked and startled him.
“So the Infant is dead,” he said, still keeping his eyes on the brilliancy of the sea, “and the Prince of Parma does not say of what disease?
“Nay, Excellency,” returned the secretary, “but in the dispatches of His Majesty that I delivered you this morning it was mentioned that His Highness took a surfeit of green fruit and partridge pie and died of it.”
“Since he was a close prisoner,” said Juan, “doubtless it will be difficult to know the exact manner of his death.”
“The Prince of Eboli warns your Excellency that it is not a matter that can be spoken of openly—so painful is it to His Majesty.”
Juan glanced at his secretary; his full golden brown eyes showed no emotion.
“What great interest should this sad news hold for me, Quiroga?” he asked pleasantly.
The secretary bowed his assent.
“There will not be many to mourn the Infant, I fear,” he remarked; “but these advices from Madrid do say that the Queen has fallen mighty sick of grief.”
“Heaven preserve the Queen!” said Juan fervently, “and may she live to give the King an heir in place of the Prince he has lost!”
“Amen,” responded Quiroga piously.
“Answer the lesser of those letters, and presently I will reply to the King and the Prince of Parma with my own hand. I owe His Majesty an account of my cruise.”
Thus dismissed, the secretary took the correspondence below, and Juan moved to the deep gilded rail of the ship’s side and gazed down into the vivid purple waters that lapped in crystal edged waves below him.
So Carlos was dead.
He had died a prisoner in his own rooms, which he had never left since that night in January, when his father had arrested him in his bed.
He had died in the guardianship of the Prince of Eboli, his bitterest enemy; died, no doubt, in horror and despair.
Here in the glorious light and air, surrounded by sea and sun and the proud ships of Spain; here under the sweet open sky, it was difficult to picture that dark room in the palace at Madrid where Carlos had died, difficult to realize the confinement, the gloom, the monotony of that short but sad imprisonment.
Juan recalled the time of the Prince’s sickness at Alcalà, the close chamber, the perfumes of the drugs, the ominous figures of the priests and doctors, and the distorted form of the Infant as he lay on the glittering coverlet of his bed, revealed in his deformity, clutching with convulsive and senseless fingers the boxwood case that contained the portrait of the Archduchess Anne.
And now he was laid in his shroud, some monk’s habit, with eyes and lips sealed for ever by the finger of Death, and a crucifix lying where once his wild and wilful heart had beaten.
Juan wondered if anyone had placed in his dead hand the likeness of the woman whom he loved but had never seen. It was not probable, for he had died surrounded by enemies.
A horror was upon Juan. He recalled the unhappy Prince’s last words to himself—words of insult and reproach; they lurked in his heart like the echoes of an ill-omen.
Carlos had known that he was trapped to his death; that night he had gone furious and shuddering to his fate, accusing Juan as a traitor.
And Juan could not feel wholly at ease in this matter, though no action of his could have stayed the King’s vengeance from falling on his son, and though to have aided the Infant would have been disloyal ingratitude that would only have meant his own ruin. Still there was the fact that Carlos had loved him, had trusted him, and he had helped deliver him into the King’s hands, delivered him, now the hideous truth was clear, obviously to death.
And by this means he had bought the favour and confidence of Felipe as in no other way he could have secured it; he occupied one of the finest positions in the kingdom, and the way looked fair and open to those ultimate glories that his soul longed for so passionately.
Yet he wished that the deformed corpse of Carlos had not been one of the stepping-stones to this greatness.
As he stood now alone leaning over the side of the great ship in the almost unbearable radiance of the noontide, the sea-birds flashing among the cordage, the Spanish flag above him, before him the fleet resting on their gilded shadows, behind the white palaces of Barcelona rising from among palm, pine, cypress, and myrtle, he thought again of Doña Aña and meditated on what she would say if this action of his in the matter of the Infant was reported to her; would she not think him smirched? Yet how idle to refer himself to a mere shadow, to a woman he would never see again, to a creature who had always seemed composed of fancies and moonbeams!
He saw now how true her words were; she knew much wisdom in her cloistered innocence.
“When you find the blue rose on a living tree you will return,” she had said. And this was how it must be; his path had turned sharply away from Doña Aña; he was the King’s brother and the King’s servant, and his destiny was glittering; the dream-world of peace and simplicity into which he had for a few moments entered in her gracious company had now vanished for ever.
Nor would he ever find it again. He knew that.
As he stared down into the brilliant waters, sorrow enveloped his heart, a nameless regret; he wished Carlos had not died, he wished he had not lost Doña Aña.
There were other women as fair, as he had since discovered, and there must be women as good (what, after all, did he know of the daughter of Santofimia?); nor was he one likely to be denied in his wooing wherever he might besiege a lady’s heart; yet he regretted Doña Aña.
No one had spoken to him as she had; he felt that, despite the flattery that was now his daily food. No one had so truly admired him as she, or so sincerely loved him.
Loved him—the reflection sent a delicate shiver through his veins; in some strange way, known only to women, she had truly loved him, loved him beyond all, and was content to live and worship his memory.
He wondered if she was married; he hoped that she would take the veil; he wanted to keep her praying for him, loving him always.
He would be Infant of Castile, a king; he would wed with royal blood and the world should ring with his name; but he wanted to think of Doña Aña, immaculate, consecrated to him, always there besieging God with pure petitions for his prospects.
He knew that he could never go back to her nor send her word nor sign, and he counted this as honour in himself since he said in his heart he valued her above the mere plaything any woman, save a princess, must henceforth be to him. Yet though she must wait without the comfort of even a message and live the life of a nun in the house at Alcalà, spurning all gallants for his sake, he did not doubt that she would fulfil this test; he could not doubt, it seemed to him blasphemy.
“You do not love her,” the Queen had said. He wondered; surely if he had loved her he would have gone back at whatever cost to herself and him; at least he had never loved anyone more, but he could conceive a different strength of passion.
