Читать книгу A Knight of Spain - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 6

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When Don Juan returned to his lodgings in the palace of Cardinal Ximenes, he found the gates open, a number of people with torches and lanterns passing in and out, and every window in the building full of light.

Never before had he seen this commotion so late at night; he sent his servants flying for information, and himself strode up to the principal entrance. Among a group of people standing there he recognized Don Alessandro, who saluted him in his usual quiet manner.

"I have just been summoned," he said. "His Highness has fallen downstairs and is sorely hurt."

"Dios!" cried Juan.

"He would serenade the porter's wench," continued the Prince of Parma, "and the stairway was unlit and old. He is cut above the ear, and very frightened."

Juan was silent; a cloud had been cast over the world, which had seemed clothed in an incredible brightness; he knew that he should have been with Carlos; both the King and Honorato Juan, the tutor, trusted him with the wearisome task of watching the Infant's vagaries, and so far he had been loyal to the trust, but now he had failed, and this had happened.

Alessandro regarded him by the light of the torches the Morisco slaves were holding in the low-arched doorway.

"I thought he had gone to Santofimia's mansion," he began.

Juan paled, and cut him short with a quick gesture.

"Ah, you went," said the Prince of Parma slowly.

"No," answered Juan angrily, "I have nothing to do with Doña Aña. I, too, thought Carlos had gone—"

He crushed tightly in his right hand the blue rose.

Don Alessandro's eyes flickered; he yawned.

"Dios!" he exclaimed wearily, "why did they send for me? There are three doctors here already, and a messenger is dispatched for His Majesty. There is no more to be done, and I might as well be asleep."

"The Prince is sorely hurt?" asked Juan fearfully.

Alessandro nodded.

"And asking for you," he said indifferently. Juan was turning away hastily, when the Prince of Parma called after him.

"Make a good tale to account for your absence to-night, the King will be here to-morrow."

Juan frowned over his shoulder.

"I was in the Church of San Paolo praying," he said.

"Your cloak is very wet," smiled Alessandro; "did it rain in the church?"

Juan drew his mantle, which was indeed soaked with the rain, round him, and passed silently up the stairs.

As he turned out of sight of Alessandro's keen eyes, he placed the blue rose inside his doublet.

It was beginning to assume an almost sacred significance to him, a symbol of another world, an ideal world, a world to be entered and achieved. Famous from great deeds, he would open the door of that world and lay the blue rose at the feet of Doña Aña, who would be sitting there waiting for him....

The Infant's chamber was glaring with the light of half a hundred candles, and the air was thick with the strong smell of aromatic herbs.

Three doctors were standing round the bed, and two slaves upheld a tray on which were bandages, glasses, and bottles.

On the bed itself, that was covered with hangings of purple damask, Carlos lay stretched out, still dressed in his fantastic finery of crimson and silver shot brocade; his enormous ruff had been opened, and curved up either side his head, a half-moon of lawn and lace.

His eyes were closed, his mouth open, and from a wound near his right temple the blood was oozing.

Never had Juan seen him look so repulsive; never before had the hunch on his shoulder been so obvious, nor his right leg so palpably longer than his left.

His face was wrinkled like that of an old man, his small features were pinched and blueish in tint, an imperious look of anger and pride flashed from his eyes.

On seeing Juan he gave a little scream. "Come here!" he cried. "Why did you leave me to-night? I hurt myself—I am ill!"

Juan quickly approached the bed; he trembled lest Carlos should mention Doña Aña. He thought that the physicians glanced curiously at him as they made room for him round the great canopied bed.

"Dios!" he muttered, and made the sign of the cross, first over his heart, then over his lips.

Carlos eagerly motioned him to sit down; he took the chair of black wood painted with wreaths of flowers in scarlet and green, and inlaid with mother-of-pearl, that stood by the right hand of the bed.

The poor Infant clutched Juan's hand, then closed his eyes.

"Now I can sleep," he said.

One of the doctors whispered to Juan that the wound was not dangerous, and withdrew to the back of the room, followed by the others.

Juan sat motionless, his damp mantle over the arm of the chair. He was thankful that Carlos had forgotten Doña Aña, but he hated being in this close, glaring room; he even hated the poor youth whose skinny fingers were clutching at his hand.

He turned his comely head and stared down at the deformed creature who was the heir of the old world and the new, heir of Spain, of the Netherlands, of Sicily and half of Italy, of the Indies and the Americas, heir perhaps to England if the King carried out his scheme of marrying his sickly son to Marie, widow of François, King of France, and Queen in her own right of that northern isle of Scotland.

Juan closed his free hand so tightly that he felt the bones in his palm. He wanted to go out into the moonlight or into the darkness of his own chamber and think over Doña Aña and what he must and would do before he rode in through her father's front gates.

She had guessed he had ambitions; he longed now to confide to her those ambitions. He did indeed desire to be an Infant of Castile, to be a king.

His brilliant eyes remained fixed on Carlos. He had everything that wretched boy lacked—except the birth.

If he had been the son not only of Carlos V but of his Queen—if his mother had been royal instead of a Flemish peasant.

Ah, if!—then surely he could have moved the world.

He meant, however, to move it just the same. Perhaps his feats would have the greater glory through being thus hampered at first. He set his teeth and gazed round the room which was hung with silk tapestry representing the victories of François Premier, the spears and banners, swords and cuirasses, tents and horses, gave him something of the same thrill as the eyes of Doña Aña.

He sat tense and still, grasping the sick boy's hand. The room was very hot, and strong odours of the balms and medicines made his head giddy. He glanced again at Don Carlos, and tried to gently loosen his hand.

The Prince instantly opened his eyes, and turned his head impatiently so that the bandage slipped over his temple.

"You want to leave me?" he demanded querulously. "Ah, you do not care for me at all!"

"I will stay," said Juan.

Carlos clutched more tightly at his wrist.

"They have sent for the King?" he whispered. His eyes glimmered with feverish excitement.

"Yes," said Juan.

"The King will be angry," added Carlos. He chuckled. "But the Queen will be sorry."

Juan did not answer. He knew that it was a sore point with the poor Prince that his father had married Elizabeth de Valois, the Princess destined for his own bride, and he knew that Carlos cherished a pathetic devotion for his gentle stepmother that did not please the King.

"The Queen will be sorry," repeated Carlos. "Juan, will she not be sorry?"

"All Spain will be sorry," answered Juan warily. "If you should be ill—"

Carlos put his free hand to the neck of his crimson doublet, and drew out from his bosom a picture in a boxwood case attached to a gold chain.

Juan knew it contained the portrait of his cousin, the Archduchess Anne, with whose fair likeness Carlos was infatuate.

The Prince pressed the portrait to his lips, and began muttering—

"Why does the King make delays? Why does he for ever put off my marriage?"

He tossed from side to side, still clinging to Juan's hand.

"The King thwarts me—at every turn," he whimpered.

"Highness," said Juan, "there are four Princesses proposed for you, and His Majesty has not yet decided on the Archduchess."

Carlos wrenched his hand away and sat up, the portrait swinging free from his neck; the bandage was stained with the fresh blood that broke from his temple; his face was livid and distorted, he clenched his hands and raised them above his head screaming violently.

"I hate him!" he shrieked. "I hate him! Keep him away! Keep him away! I will not be cheated of my marriage a second time!"

He fell back in strong convulsions, the foam came to his twisting lips, and his heels beat the coverlet.

Juan sprang up and called the doctors, then fell to his knees and prayed for the life of the King's son, till in the heat, with the strong fumes of the sick-chamber, the cramped position, and the weight of his brocaded clothes, he was nearly swooning.