Читать книгу A Knight of Spain - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 10

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When the Court went to Segovia, Don Juan, while the King and his company were at a bull-fight, took a purse of money and two attendants and rode away.

He had two reasons for leaving the Court; first he wished to show by joining the Knights of Malta, who had recently been attacked in their island by the fleets of Solimon, that he was more fitted to be a warrior than a priest. Don Garcia de Toledo, the King's viceroy in Sicily, had gone to the aid of these Christian knights, and Don Juan had petitioned the King to allow him to serve under this commander. But had been refused.

His second reason was, that the words of the Queen echoed in his heart: "If there is any one you love—go to them," and he hungered to see Doña Aña.

At first he rode towards Barcelona meaning to ship to Malta and to do great deeds before he returned to Spain, but presently he doubled on his route and went to Alcalà, riding as a free-lance.

He had strange ideas of what he could accomplish; he conceived himself taking Aña de Santafimia before him on his horse, and placing her in some convent to wait his return.

He wanted to be free, he wanted to get away; he thought with a sense of repulsion of the Court with that immovable central figure of Don Felipe and those other figures, Don Carlos, Elizabeth de Valois, Aña D'Eboli, her husband, the Duke of Alba, and Don Alessandro, bending, bowing, waiting to be used.

The Queen had warned him; he knew they wished to put him in the Church, and he did not trust the Princess of Eboli's sweet words; he was able to carve his own fortune, he thought; he was the son of Carlo Quinto.

Tragedy was closing round the Infant, whose insane behaviour provoked the King at every turn; tragedy was closing round the pale Queen; the fires of the Inquisition burnt fiercely, and the spies of the Grand Inquisitor worked day and night to bring fresh heretics to the stake; there were signs of revolt in the Netherlands, and stubborn uprisings in Belgium; daily the orders for blood and the sword went forth.

Don Juan was not interested; he would always be loyal to the King, but he wished to serve him in his own way, and that was not the way of the priest and the persecutor.

So he set forth with a fine set of horse furniture and a white horse and a suit of Milan armour, and the two servants with the saddle-bags.

At Frasno he fell ill of a slight fever, and before he could get on to his horse again, Don Juan Manuel, sent by the King, overtook him; this messenger bore a letter from Luis de Quixada urging his return; but Don Juan would not listen.

Soon came the Governor and Archbishop of Zaragoza to pay him their duty and to entreat him to go back to Segovia.

The galleys intended for the relief of Malta had, they told him, already sailed.

Juan gave no heed to this statement, he knew from private information that the King's fleet still lay in Barcelona harbour.

Nor would he listen to the plea that he should wait until an escort of fifteen hundred men were gathered to accompany him; as soon as he was completely recovered he set out again.

Yet even at risk of missing the galleys, he rode, not to Barcelona, but to Alcalà it was late summer when he last saw this town; now it was spring, towards the end of spring.

Juan reached Alcalà at setting of the sun; he left his servants at an inn within the gates and rode to the house of Doña Aña.

The iron gates were closed, and though all the shutters had just been opened to catch the cool of the evening there was no one to be seen inside the dark rooms.

Juan had left his horse at the inn; on foot he paced up and down the narrow street, his hat over his eyes, lest anyone should recognize him and whistling a little air that he had learnt in Villagarcia.

When it was dusk (before the rising of the moon), he climbed the gate and gently let himself into the courtyard.

Neither the porter nor the dogs were abroad, and, laughing in his heart, he passed through the still open inner gates and reached the inner courtyard and the little door through which Aña's maid had admitted him before. There was sufficient light still lingering in the pale green sky for him to find the handle, but the door was locked.

He set his back against it, well concealed by the deep shadow of two spreading cypress trees, and waited.

The household was evidently a-bed; the windows were all in darkness, and the only sound was the well remembered one of the gurgle of the fountain in the low stone basin that was upheld by four crouching lions.

Juan recalled the balcony of the room in which Aña had received him; as he gazed up at the uncertain outline of it the whole memory of the night came, fragrantly sweet, to his mind; the thunder, the drip of the rain, the servant in the brown gown and white cap bringing the wet pots of roses out of the storm, the room with the white walls and the black furniture both softened by the amber glow of the lamp, and above all the rich figure of Doña Aña with that wonderful expression illuminating her gracious face.

He wore the blue rose inside his doublet still; more than ever was it a symbol of the ideal happiness that must be so long sought for, and the perfect success that is so hard of achievement.

He approached her balcony.

Near it was a small chestnut, heavy with dark leaves, that rustled painfully. He thought that he could mount by this, and he put his hands softly on the smooth, cool trunk.

A great trembling, almost like sadness, came over his heart; the touch of the breeze that lifted the chestnut leaves against his cheek, the sight of the last luminous glow behind the dark lines of the roofs gave him a sensation of ecstacy almost unbearable.

A nightingale began a song that was like the fluting on silver instruments of angelic hands.

The full perfume of citron, myrtle, oleander and rose, stained the cool purity of the descending night.

Away above his head, in the deep darkness of the cypress, gleamed through the increasing dusk the dead white of the blossoms of the magnolia tree, that poured languorous scent from their deep cups into the sighing air.

Juan climbed the tree as he had climbed the orchard trees outside Yuste when the Emperor lay dying, and eaten stolen apples in the sweet shade while the long offices of the church went up from within the convent walls.

This was as easy, as delightful, no doubt as wrong as stealing apples. He thought of the Queen's words: "If there is anyone who loves you—go to them." Aña loved him; she was a beautiful creature and she loved him.

That was wonderful; that in a world so blood-stained, a world that Almighty God was punishing so sternly; there should be such things as love—and nightingales.

He put his leg delicately over the balcony and paused to listen.

Once he had heard a holy man say that the devil made the nightingales and sent them to disturb people at their prayers, but that if you prayed hard enough and did not listen they would go away, which was the reason that there were never any nightingales near churches.

He thought of that as he heard the bird sobbing forth its song.

He did not cross himself as he usually did in the presence of anything he considered unholy, he thought—if the devil made the nightingales, perhaps he made love—which left hate to do God's work. Juan laughed under his breath and moved softly among the three pots of carefully pruned roses that he saw filled the balcony.

The window was open, for the night promised to be very hot; Juan entered and stood alone in the dusky room. Again he listened, again there was no sound save the song of the nightingales.

He stood quite still, holding his little sword up in both hands that it might not rattle.

Was she away from home? Or married? Or dead?

His heart was crying for her; he strained his ear to catch the rustle of her stiff silk skirts—then he smiled at himself for imagining her waiting for him. She did not know that he was coming; she was sleeping in her chamber.

He went quietly to the next apartment; the windows of this were completely shrouded and the room was dark—so utterly dark that he could not see his own feet.

"Aña," he whispered softly; "Aña."

He moved forward and struck against something; it must have been a lute for a jangle of strings gave out broken music.

Then Juan perceived a long thin line of fine faint light before him; he thought that it came from under a closed door. Slowly he made his way, feeling along the wall, catching at the arras and at the backs of chairs; when he reached the line of light he felt for a handle and found one; it turned in his grasp and he opened the door.

He looked into a small circular oratory that was full of the heavy perfume of incense.

The arched ceiling was painted blue, glittering with stars, the walls were gilt and scarlet; on the small, many pillared altar stood a white alabaster statue of the Virgin crowned with a wreath of fresh jasmine.

Four thin tapers in agate sticks stood on either side of Our Lady, and the altar cloth and the carpet up the four steps were of a close woven purple.

There was a prie-Dieu of yellow velvet in one corner, a great book bound in crimson on the seat, and standing beside it was Doña Aña de Santafimia gazing at him.

Juan closed the door behind him and slowly went on his knees.

Their only light was that given by the dim blue flame that burned in the silver lamp hanging before the Virgin, and that was but sufficient to illumine the altar and fill the corners with fluttering shadows.

He saw that she wore a black lace shawl, and that through the filmy net of the lace gleamed the long gold wheat ear-rings he remembered.

Her embroidered dress seemed to shade and blend into the wall and to become one with it in gorgeous pattern.

Her feet were in shadow, for the floor seemed all darkness, from which she rose into the light that culminated in the pure glow of the Virgin's lamp on her grave face.

So he saw her, and by the inner light of some great illumination in his heart he knew her every loveliness, shrouded as she was; she flashed at him like a jewel in the dark or a star in a midnight sky.

On her part she beheld him kneeling in thick shadow, his hands folded in all humility, and the light twinkling from the steel and gold of the toison d'or, even as she remembered it. His head was uplifted towards her and outlined by the close edging of his white ruff; dark and ardent she saw it with the long sloping eyes and sweet mouth of her memory picture.

"So you have come," she said, and sighed.

"I have come," he repeated, and they remained gazing at each other, the alabaster Virgin with her starry crown of jasmine between them.

Afar off could be heard the nightingales, many singing together; and behind Juan, from the open window on to the balcony, through the bedchamber and into the oratory, came the vagrant scents of the night-smelling flowers.

Aña moved, and to Juan it was as if the birds and flowers came near. He heard the heavy hems of her gown strike the floor as she came, and he held his breath.

He rose.

She bent before the Virgin, then took one of the eight candles from beside the Image and passed him, holding the light before her; he turned and followed her across the bedchamber which the rapid passing of the little candle flame left obscure.

He saw the green curtains of her bed glimpse from the darkness, and the lute he had knocked against lying, a thing of painted rose-wood, on the floor.

When she reached the outer room where she had before received him, she placed the candle on a shelf in one corner and stood meekly beneath it.

Juan was aware of a brightness in the chamber far beyond any candle light, and he saw in one corner, fastened by pulleys to the ceiling, a square of gold tapestry that gave back the feeble rays of the taper a thousand fold.

It showed the visit of Saint Anne to Saint Elizabeth, and the figures stood out as if they had been sculptured a foot deep, gold on a gold ground.

Aña approached it.

"My mother, blessed be her memory!—began this, and I have been finishing it since I was five years old. When it is complete it is to be sent to the Holy Father in Rome for an altar cloth," she said.

Juan came up to the tapestry and saw that the bas-relief was gained by millions of patient stitches, one on the other, all in pure gold.

"It is so heavy," explained Aña, "that it takes two men to raise it by these ropes." She laid a thin dark hand on the pulleys.

The nightingales were singing loudly; Aña trembled and kept her eyes down.

"I am going away," said Juan.

"Away?"

"By a galley from Barcelona. To help the Knights of St. Juan against the Infidel."

"You have come to say good-bye?"

"I have come to tell you that I shall return."

"That may be beyond your power, Don Juan."

The music of the birds, the scents of the flowers, the glow from the gold tapestry all became one to Juan; sound, scent and colour, blended into one essence poured around the figure of Aña.

The lace mantilla had fallen from her head and hung on her shoulders; her hair shone with threads of light in the loops her high tortoiseshell comb upheld.

"Aña!" said Juan; "Aña!"

She stood still, only her ear-rings trembled with her earnest breathing.

Juan seated himself on the long low bench before the tapestry.

"Sit beside me," he said. "Sit near to me."

She obeyed and placed her hand on his; she was grave and quiet, but he trembled from head to foot.

"You will go back to the King," she said.

"No! I shall go to Malta. Then I shall come back to you."

"If love could bring you, you would," she answered. "Does the King love you as much as I do?"

"How much do you love me, Aña?" he asked brokenly.

She replied gravely—

"I have never thought of anyone else since I first saw you."

Her eyes turned slowly to his face.

"And you are the King's brother. And you will leave me soon. I am very tired."

He put his arm round her and pressed her slight figure to his brocaded doublet; he thought that the nightingales must be singing in her heart, for so loud was their music when he held her that the very air was alive with melody.