Читать книгу The Cid Campeador - Antonio de Trueba - Страница 15

Table of Contents

HOW MARTIN SET OUT TO AVENGE HIS FATHER

Not far from the river Cea lived an old peasant named Ivan, who had been a crossbow-man, in the time of the last Count of Castile, afterwards lance-page, and finally squire. Tired of the dangerous and agitated life which those of his profession had to go through, and being the possessor of a little money, which, by economy, he had saved during several years, he bought a cottage, with a few acres of land, retired to it with his wife and children, and had lived there for some time, quite ignorant of what was passing in the world, for his dwelling-place was in a lonely valley, the quietude of which was only disturbed once a year by pilgrims who passed through it on their way to the shrine which was near it.

On the night succeeding the day on which the annual festival was held there, Ivan was sleeping tranquilly, for he had taken part in the pilgrimage, when, at the first crow of the cock, someone knocked and called out loudly at the door. The farmer awoke, went to his window, and asked, by no means in a good temper—

"What drunken fellow is thumping at my door? By St. James! this is a nice hour to disturb from their sleep people who have to get up early to go to their field-work."

"Anger of God! what a churl you are, Señor Ivan!" answered the unknown person, who did not appear to be in better humour than the farmer. "Open the door at once, and cease your chattering, for there is no drunkard here, or anything like one. Don't you know me?"

"May God forsake me if it is not that fool Martin!"

"The very same, confound you! Open at once, if you don't want me to break in the door."

The farmer hastened to light a candle, and to let the stranger in. On seeing him he started back, horror-struck: everything showed that the newly arrived had been engaged, a very short time before, in a fierce fight; his hands, his face, and even his clothes were covered with blood.

"Glorious St. Isadore!" exclaimed Ivan, "what is the matter? You are wounded?"

"In the soul!" replied the young man. "The wounds on my body matter little, for they are only scratches that can easily be healed."

"Let me examine them for you."

"It is useless, Señor Ivan. Those which it is important for me to heal are the wounds of my soul; the medicine you have to supply me with is a lance, a crossbow, a sword, some arm or other, for I come to ask nothing else of you."

"I shall give you one with pleasure, for there are plenty of arms in my house, thanks to my old profession, and also to the need I have of them in this lonely place, where I have often to defend myself against bandits."

Ivan approached the light to one of the walls, on which were hung various arms, and added—

"Take whichever you please, for the bravest knight of Leon or Castile does not possess better tempered ones."

The young man took down a lance and also a sword, which he girt on with as much skill as the most experienced cavalier could have used, and said:—

"Thanks, Señor Ivan. God be with you and do not tell anyone that you have seen me to-night."

"But, Martin, won't you tell me what you are going to do? What has happened to you?"

"Some day you shall know, Señor Ivan."

"But where are you going, my son?"

"To avenge my father, who lies dead in the wood; and Beatrice, who has already perhaps been dishonoured by Don Suero—may God curse him, and may this lance soon pierce him through!"

"May it be so!" replied the farmer, embracing the young man, who, throwing the lance across his shoulder, went forth from the house and disappeared in the darkness.

Martin walked a long distance through the dark woods, until he came to another house, situated in the midst of large and fertile meadows.

This house, or rather stable, belonged to Don Suero, and in it was kept a magnificent stud of horses, the property of the count, which also had the use of the meadows, and of which a single groom had the care.

Martin struck a heavy blow on the door of the stable.

"Who is there?" called out the groom.

"Open, if you do not wish me to break in the door, and your head as well."

The groom considered himself too weak to resist a man who spoke in such a way. He opened the door, trembling, and said—

"Pardon, sir cavalier."

"I am not a cavalier," interrupted Martin; "but I want to be one. Get out the best horse you have in the stables."

"I would be delighted to please your honour, but"—

"'Fore God! he addresses me with 'buts'!" exclaimed Martin, placing his hand on his sword.

"Pardon me, sir cavalier," the groom said, terrified, going into the stalls and unloosing one of the best horses; "I only wished to tell you that my master will almost beat me to death when he finds that I have let one of his best horses be sto—I mean taken away. Does this one please your lordship?"

"Yes," answered Martin; "put that saddle on it, which I see hanging up there."

"Sir knight, that saddle is the one which is used in trying the paces of the horses when my master comes to select one, and if you take it what will become of me?"

"Be quick, I tell you; it will be only a few blows more or less," said Martin in a threatening tone.

The groom saddled the horse without further reply. Martin buckled on a pair of spurs, which he demanded from him, and, persuaded that the man had not recognised him, he thought it most prudent to say no more. He then sprang upon the horse, and giving the excellent steed a sharp stroke, he disappeared through the adjacent fields.

Not far from the road which led from Burgos to Leon there was a hill, situated so near it that its course could be seen from it for a long distance; this hill was the resort of a band of robbers who at that time were the terror of travellers who journeyed through that district. Martin rode on to it, and arrived there shortly after daybreak. He advanced a little into a wood which grew on the hill, and cried out, making a kind of speaking-trumpet of his hand—

"Hallo, bandits!"

The look-out, whom the robbers had stationed not far from the place where Martin stopped, had perceived him a short time before he spoke, and as he saw that he came alone he did not think it necessary to give the signal of alarm to his companions.

"Where is the cavalier going?" he cried out in his turn.

"To ask that I may be admitted into your honourable band."

Martin knew that honour is such a fine thing that even bandits like it to be attributed to them.

"If such is your intention," said the look-out, "follow the path you see then, and at the end of it you will find the entire band, whose chief will, perchance, concede to you the honour which you solicit."

The young man then advanced, and in a short time discovered the bandits, who were about twenty in number, and who were lying under trees, to the trunks of which their horses were fastened. Martin could scarcely forbear from shuddering and feeling a sense of repugnance, when he saw the ferocity which was stamped on their visages, and when he heard the filthy language they were using. On perceiving him, one of them arose, who was distinguished from the others by his garb and by the large scars which were on his hands and face. Martin began to make known to him the object which led him thither, but the captain of the bandits, for it was no other, interrupted him, saying—

"Brother, do you think we are deaf? We have heard you and we now know for what you come. Tell me, however, what is it that entitles you to be admitted into the band of the Raposo,[1] for by that name the son of my mother is known?"

"Anger of God, Don Raposo, if it were any other but you who asked me that question, you should soon pay a visit to your friend Señor Lucifer. Do you not see, confound you, the blood which I have on my hands and garments, and the wounds on my face. This blood does not come from slaughtering cattle, nor those scratches from a jealous sweetheart. Go to the place I shall mention to you, and you will find the body of the cavalier whose life I have taken, in order to provide myself with these arms and this steed, and when you are coming back fetch me the dagger which I forgot to draw from his breast."

"You don't waste much respect on him who is to be your captain," said the Raposo; "but I desire to be indulgent towards you as a reward for the good work you have done. I believe what you say, for you could not have become possessed in any other way of these arms and that splendid horse, for your dress and your manner shows me that you are just as much a cavalier as I am a bishop. However, if you wish to become a member of our honourable brotherhood, you must take the usual oath."

"I will take a hundred of them if you like," answered Martin, dismounting.

The captain of the bandits walked over to a tree, at the foot of which were heaped up a great number of sacred vessels and ornaments, which they had stolen that night from a neighbouring church, and taking up a crucifix of considerable value he held it up before the youth, and said—

"Will you swear fidelity to your brethren? Will you swear to carry off women, to enter and plunder houses and churches, palaces and huts? Will you swear to rob and kill priests the same as laymen, poor the same as rich, women the same as men, children the same as grown-up people?"

"Yes, I swear!" replied Martin, firmly resolved, however, not to keep so sacrilegious an oath, for he did not consider himself bound to do so, taking it only with his lips and not from his soul.

"Salute our new brother!" said the Raposo, turning towards his companions. They went up to him and embraced him one after the other.

"Brother," continued the captain, "when this ceremony was ended, you now must know that he who is honoured by being received into our band, is obliged to celebrate his admission by giving a skin of good wine to all the members of the confraternity. I suppose that the late owner of your arms and steed had also a well-lined purse, full of gold coins, and therefore, I expect that you will be generous towards us."

Martin was rather perplexed at this requirement, for he had no money whatever; knowing, however, that with such people he must show himself a braggart in every way, he replied—

"If another had expressed a doubt of my generosity, he would lose his tongue for it. I have not a single miserable coin about me; what do I want with money? By all the saints in heaven and all the demons in hell, do you imagine that I am one of those honest peasants who only drink when they can pay for it?"

All the bandits pulled out purses full of gold, and exclaimed—

"Brother, take as much money as you want; we will lend it to you until we make our next haul; you can then pay us back out of your share of it."

"I thank you," replied Martin; "but I won't take it, for I don't want it. You will see, by Señor Noah, that I'll manage to get wine enough to make half Castile drunk, even if, to procure it, I have to send to the devil all the innkeepers within ten leagues round us."

Thus speaking, he gave spurs to his horse, rode through the thick wood, and disappeared, light as the wind, in the direction of a lonely hostelry, which could scarcely be distinguished on the distant horizon. He paid no attention to the voices of his new comrades, who called after him, cautioning him of the risk he ran of falling into the hands of a patrol of the Salvadores,[2] bodies of armed horsemen who, by command of the king, requested to give it by the Count of Carrion and other grandees, wandered through that district for the purpose of protecting travellers from the attacks of the highwaymen.

We know not how Martin arranged matters with the innkeeper, but two hours had scarcely passed when he returned, bringing, thrown across his saddle-bow, a large leather wine-bag, which contained fully twenty gallons, according to our modern measures. Shouts of joy and loud applause received him on his return.

"He is a good comrade, and will be the pride of the band of the Raposo."

"What an aroma that wine has! It is three years old, at least."

"I'd like to have some of those Moorish dogs here, to see if they would turn up their noses at that gift of God."

"The monks of Sahagun never taste better."

"Thunder and lightning, what a night we'll have with it!"

"I'd turn Moor at once if Mahomet were only as good as it is."

"The innkeeper was a heretic, and kept it without baptizing it."

"Yes, yes, the wine-bag is a Moor—it is a Moor!"

"Then let us attack him. To arms—to arms! War, war!"

"War to the Moor! Up for St. James and Spain!"

Such were some of the exclamations which followed the arrival of Martin.

Having uttered these cries, the bandits took several sacred vessels from the heap whence the Raposo took the crucifix on which he had administered the oath to Martin, and the sacrilegious ruffians filled them with wine and lifted them to their impure lips.

Martin shuddered at the sight of this impious profanation and did not take any part in it.

The Raposo noticed this, and said to him—

"Brother, you would make a bad priest if you can't drink out of a chalice. Is it because you have not taken orders?"

"By Lucifer!" exclaimed Martin, placing his hand on his sword, feeling persuaded that he was lost if he did not put on a bold face. "Know, Don Raposo, or Don Villain, that if I have not orders I at least have a sword, and that if I do not drink wine, I'll drink the blood of anyone that insults me as you do."

"So, low peasant," replied the Raposo, also placing his hand on his steel, "you dare to speak thus to your captain! I'll resign my honourable position if my dagger does not teach you to be respectful."

The two opponents held their naked swords, and were about to rush on each other; all the bandits, however, hastened to make peace, trying to persuade the Raposo that their new comrade, instead of meriting punishment, deserved praise, since by his audacity he showed what might be expected from him when occasion should arise. These reasonings appeared to be satisfactory to the Raposo; he laid aside his vexation and stretched out his hand to Martin, saying—

"Pardon, brother; I only wished to try your mettle, and I am satisfied with it."

"You, señor captain, must pardon me," replied the young man, clasping the rough hand of the bandit; "but know that I cannot bear being calumniated, by being supposed incapable of doing what my comrades do. Do you think that it is scruples of conscience that prevent me from using these vessels? I want a big draught of wine to satisfy my thirst, and I shall not drink it from a nutshell, as you do."

Thus speaking, Martin took the helmet from the head of one of the robbers, poured wine into it and emptied it at a draught, amid the applause and acclamations of the bandits.

They continued without ceasing their libations, the wine-bag was getting emptier and emptier, and drunkenness was overmastering all of them, including the captain. Notwithstanding, Martin kept his head clear, whether it was that he was more accustomed to wine, or, which is more probable, that he drank very little, although he lifted the helmet often to his mouth, taking advantage of the condition of his companions.

The state in which they then were was horrible to see; their lips only uttered blasphemies, obscene expressions, and disconnected phrases; and in the end sleep took possession of the greater part of them. Even the look-out had abandoned his post, seeing that his comrades did not come to relieve him, and as he was desirous of participating in their libations and uproarious merriment.

It appeared to Martin that he heard the sound of the footsteps of horses in the direction of the main road, and, turning in that direction, he cried out—

"The Salvadores! Up, comrades! the Salvadores!"

Five or six of the bandits arose on hearing that cry, and, following the example of Martin, hastened to mount their horses. Some of the others, including the Raposo, were fast asleep, and the rest, having tried to rise, fell back again on the ground.

The danger was imminent, the situation was desperate; the hill extended in its entire length only about fifteen hundred paces, and was surrounded on all sides by an extensive and bare plain. The only exit from the wood was the path which led to the road, for the roughness of the ground and the closeness of the trees and bushes made it impossible for horses to proceed in any other direction. If Martin and his companions abandoned their steeds, and hid themselves in the brushwood, they would be very soon discovered; if they tried to go on foot across the plain, they could easily be overtaken by the Salvadores, who were mounted on swift horses. What course should then be adopted? This question was asked him by the robbers, when the band of the Salvadores, only about forty paces distant from them, was advancing in their direction as quickly as the nature of the ground permitted.

"Companions," said Martin, placing himself at their head, "no other resource remains for us but to break through them, sword in hand, and endeavour to reach the plain, whether we are killed or not."

"Yes, yes, forward!" they all cried out, knowing that Martin had indicated the only means of escape left for them, and they put spurs to their horses. As that of Martin was the best, the least fatigued, and the lightest, the young man preceded his comrades by a short distance, and rushing, with sword in hand, into the midst of the Salvadores, he unhorsed one of them with almost each stroke, and the others followed him, and broke through their opponents, not less boldly and promptly. At last they succeeded in gaining the main road, from whence they heard the death-cries of those whom they had left in the wood, struck down by the swords of the Salvadores; they then fled across the plain in the direction of the mountains of Oca.

Martin had received several wounds, although none of them were serious, and was losing much blood. After some time they arrived at a small hill, surrounded by trees on all sides, and from which the surrounding country could be seen for a considerable distance.

"Brother, let us dismount here, that we may examine your wounds," said his companions to Martin.

They at once dismounted, and all the bandits embraced Martin, calling him their deliverer.

"You shall be our captain," said one of them, "for you are worth more than a hundred like Raposo."

"Yes, yes, you shall be our captain, brother. Long live our captain!" they all cried out unanimously and with enthusiasm.

"I thank you, comrades," replied Martin; "and I swear by those dogs of Salvadores whom my good sword has sent to the other world, that I shall prove myself worthy of the honour you confer on me. You have heard the cries of agony of our companions, who have been cowardly butchered by those fellows?"

"Yes, yes, we have heard them! Poor Captain Raposo!"

"Well, then, it is for us to avenge them. You do not yet know the name of your new captain. I call myself the Vengador,[3] brothers. Let the band, then, of the Vengador be as much feared as was that of the Raposo; war to the death against the grandees who urged on the king to institute the brotherhood of the Salvadores. At present we are weak, but in a short time we shall be strong; we are persecuted to-day, to-morrow we shall be protected everywhere, if you will only obey my orders and be guided by my advice."

"We shall be your slaves, brother captain. You are skilful and brave, we owe you our safety, and we trust in you to avenge our comrades."

"Now listen, brothers," continued Martin; "I wish to explain to you what our conduct is to be from this day."

"But, captain," interrupted one of the band, "let us first bandage your wounds, for you will lose much blood if we don't do so."

"No, by Beelzebub! My blood must run till the venom, which the cowardly conduct of those vile Salvadores has put into it, has all left it."

This answer of their bold captain captivated more and more the hearts of the bandits, to whose eyes tears came—tears which they would not have shed on hearing the pitiful wailings of poor peasants from whom they had stolen the small store with which they had hoped to support their families; of unhappy parents whose daughter was about to be their victim; of the sad wife whom their swords had condemned to widowhood; of the weak children whom they had made orphans, without means of subsistence.

"Hear me, brothers," continued the Vengador; "from to-day, war to the strong and help to the weak! If we go near the poor, it must be only for the purpose of alleviating their misery with what we shall have taken from the powerful. Have any of you daughters or a wife?"

"Yes," replied one of the robbers; "I have a daughter who is worth more than those of the king, and I love her more than the apple of my eyes."

"I have a wife," answered another, "and, although a peasant, she is of more value than the most noble dame in Castile. For this I love her as well as people say the son of the Grandee of Vivar loves the daughter of De Gormaz."

"Well, then, what would you do if your daughter were torn away from you?"

"Anger of God! If such were done, I would never rest till my dagger was buried in the heart of him who took her from me, even were he hid in the bowels of the earth, even if he fled to the ends of the world! Brother captain, say no more, for God's sake; thinking only of such a thing makes my blood boil."

"And you," he said, turning to the other, "what would you do if your wife were taken from you and dishonoured?"

"If such happened," he exclaimed, placing his hand on his dagger with an instinctive movement, and his eyes flashing fire, "my sword would pierce a hundred hearts and then my own! But for what reason do you ask us such questions, captain?"

"Because I wish to put you on your guard,—you on account of your wife, and you, of your daughter, if they live in this district; for there is in it a ruffianly count, who carries off wives from their husbands, and daughters from their fathers."

"Who, then, is that count?" asked all the bandits, full of indignation.

"The Count of Carrion," replied Martin, repressing with difficulty the joy he felt on seeing how successfully he had disposed his companions to aid him in his projects of vengeance. "The Count of Carrion," he continued, "is the most cruel, the most treacherous, and the worst of men; when you return home to clasp your daughters or your wives to your hearts, perchance you will find that he has stolen them from you."

"May the earth open and may we sink into hell, if we suffer such a wretch to live any longer!" exclaimed the robbers; and Martin continued, more warmly and solemnly—

"Yes, yes, comrades, let the Count of Carrion die, if we ourselves do not desire to die like the Raposo and the greater part of his band. It is that count who has sacrificed our brothers, for to him is due the creation of the brotherhood of the Salvadores."

"Let us attack his castle!" all exclaimed; "let us bury our swords in the breast of that traitor count!"

"But Don Suero, for such is his name, will be able to say to us, that if he carries off young girls and married women, we also do the same; that if he attacks and wounds poor people, and deprives them of their means of subsistence, we also do the same."

"But from this day forward we shall not do such things. Let us all now swear that we will plunge our daggers in the breast of any comrade who dares to commit such crimes." Thus spoke the bandit who had a daughter.

Without the slightest hesitation, they all then took a solemn oath, that in future they would not ill-treat women, or injure and rob the poor and helpless.

Martin now began to feel weak on account of the quantity of blood he had lost, and considered that he should not delay any longer the binding of his wounds.

One of the bandits gathered some herbs that were abundant in that country, and applied them to the wounds of his captain, having first washed them in water brought in a helmet from an adjacent spring. They were bound up with bandages, made from a handkerchief which was torn up for that purpose.

The much reduced band of the Vengador rested under the trees of the thick wood, where the horses found abundant pasture; and when the vesper bells began to ring in the surrounding villages, the bandits mounted their horses and, according to the orders of their captain, continued their way towards the Sierra de Oca.