Читать книгу A Knight of Spain - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 8

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Doña Aña de Mendoza y de la Cerda, wife of Ruy Gomez de Silva, Count of Melito and Prince of Eboli, and the most powerful minister in Spain, sat in her apartment in the Escorial, the new palace the King was building near Madrid.

Her full black skirts spread round her, flounce on flounce, each bordered with a broad silver ribbon; her tight bodice was trimmed with silver braiding and a coif and veil of black stuff concealed her hair.

Round her throat was a string of silver beads and in her ears loops of silver; her clever ugly face was small and sallow, her eyes large and expressive, but neither bright nor lustrous.

Before her stood a large, cumbrous, wooden tapestry frame across which was strained strong threads through which she was deftly twisting a shuttle wound with coloured wool.

By her side was a basket of silks and a small Spanish dog, and behind her stood the King of Spain in black from head to foot and wearing a ruff worked with gold embroidery.

"What are you going to do with these two boys?" asked the Princess of Eboli sharply, without looking up.

"Alessandro will go into the Army and Juan into the Church as was my father's wish," answered the King.

"Ah! the wishes of the dead!" exclaimed the Princess. "We have to consider the disposition of the living."

"He will do well enough in the Church," said Don Felipe coldly.

The wife of Ruy Gomez de Silva kept her eyes on her swift moving shuttle.

"He has been at Court but three days," she replied, "but already I know that he will never make a priest."

"Why, señora?"

"Dios! He is the most pleasing and comely of men and the most lovable—he can win whom he chooses and do what he chooses—an exceptionable youth, Don Felipe."

"Dangerous qualities," whispered the King, biting his full nether lip.

The Princess raised her cold, ungenerous eyes.

"Use them," she said; "use him, bind him to you, win his loyalty, dazzle him, lure him—you can always cast him down when he becomes dangerous."

"He is ambitious," said the King; "he would be safer in the Church."

"He would not serve you well were he not ambitious," she answered quickly. "Use his ambition. Use it for your service and if need be for his overthrow."

"Ah, Aña, you always advise me well," admitted the King, looking at her respectfully. "And if you think I should let this youth remain in the world I will do so."

Doña Aña looked at him straightly.

"You need youths such as this," she said.

Don Felipe paled a sickly hue.

"You think of Carlos!" he muttered. "Dios! Carlos!"

"Will he live?" asked the Princess abruptly.

"He is out of danger from his illness," replied the King. "His mind is set on this Austrian marriage. She is a fair woman."

"The Archduchess?" questioned the Princess sharply.

"Yes."

"You have a fair wife now, Felipe," she said.

"I have had one sour one," he answered sullenly. "And Elizabeth will not live, Almighty God has marked her for His own."

"And whom have you marked, Señor, for the next Queen of Spain?"

He gave her a close glance.

She cast the shuttle down and shut her lips bitterly.

"Tell me no more of fair women," she said in a flashing way. "I am not interested in your dolls."

"Juan and Alessandro are my dolls, too," he answered.

"No—but they may be your pawns, if you handle them well, Felipe."

"Which," he asked jealously, "is the more dangerous?"

"Juan," she replied at once, "for he has the gift of popularity. Alessandro has more cunning and will step more cautiously, but Juan will blaze."

"Belike he hopes to be made an Infant," said the King, jealously. "Could he be so daring as that?"

"There is no limit to the aspirations of youth," said the Princess, with a smile that lit her cold face into some softness. "Surely this boy hopes to be an Infant and—a king."

Don Felipe shuddered.

"A golden delusion is a better spur than a scourge," continued Doña Aña. "Let him keep his dreams How can a base-born boy disturb the King of Spain?"

Don Felipe was silent.

"He who rules the world must have lieutenants," added the Princess, twisting a lemon-coloured thread on to the shuttle. "And Almighty God has put these two in your way to use."

"I think so too," answered the King. "I only hesitate as how to use them to the best advantage—for the glory of Almighty God and the power of Spain."

"Wait awhile," said the Princess. "Let me watch them. It is time that you attended on the Queen for Holy Mass."

She finished twisting on the thread and laid the spool down, then rose. As she moved it was noticeable that she was very lame.

She went to the door and raised the sombre curtain from before it.

The windows were shuttered against the heat and the room and the passages without were all dark with shade. As the Princess of Eboli lifted the curtain, a door at the other end of the corridor opened and the Queen of Spain came forth with a crowd of old women about her and a few French ladies. She approached slowly, fair from head to foot in her dark surroundings; her pale blue gown, with tight bodice and enormous sleeves and skirt, was ornamented across the breast with buttons of pearl, her white lace ruff came so high as to completely encircle her face and conceal her ears.

Her blonde hair was gathered on the top of her head under a little silver caul; round her neck were a collar of jewels and a long linked chain of gold.

Her dark appealing eyes looked out of a face pale, frail, and exquisitely lovely; her whole slender body drooped with the weakness of extreme delicacy.

Don Felipe regarded her steadily; when she saw him and the dark figure of the Princess of Eboli behind him, she winced and shrank back.

The Princess made her formal salutations, then withdrew into her chamber, leaving the curtain looped back over the entrance.

The King took his place by the side of the Queen and accompanied her to the chapel.

The Princess of Eboli had her own oratory; despite the stern rules of the most formal Court in the world she did much as she liked and was but seldom seen in the royal chapel.

She returned to her tapestry frame and with precise and careful fingers wove the coloured silks and wools in and out of the taut threads and pressed them down firmly into place.

She sat so still, her face was so expressionless, the movements of her hands so steady, that she looked like a mechanical figure, until a footfall presently caused her to lift her head.

Framed in the draped doorway and outlined against the shaded passage stood Don Juan with a branch of pomegranate in his hand.

His bright bearing, his sweet, gay face and noble carriage, made him a figure as notable as any at the Court of Spain.

"Come in and talk to me, Don Juan," said the Princess of Eboli.

He entered with graceful ease, he knew that this sallow woman was Aña de Mendoza, the greatest heiress in Spain and the wife of the King's favourite minister, and he was politic enough to wish to keep her favour. She pointed to a little stool beside her and he took it, stretching out his shapely legs that were encased in rose-coloured silk.

"So you do not want to be a priest?" asked the Princess.

"No, señora."

Juan sighed; he was thinking of that other Doña Aña in Alcalà, to whom he had been able to send no message before his abrupt departure in the King's train for Madrid.

"You wish to be a soldier?"

"Surely, señora."

"Perhaps it is Almighty God's will that you should serve His Majesty that way."

"I hope so, señora."

She stole a covert glance at his unusual and wholly charming face, with its vivid grace, its health, its expression of energy, courage, and strength, and she compared him to Carlos—Carlos, heir to Don Felipe's immense power.

"The King has been a good brother to you," she remarked.

"I know," he answered with real gratitude, "and all my life I shall be loyal to His Majesty."

Again her glance flashed over him.

"Why are you not in chapel?" she asked.

The blush that suffused his face answered her; she knew that he was not allowed inside the royal curtain in the chapel; this was one of the few privileges of an Infant of Castile that had been denied him, and she guessed that his pride wished to avoid the humiliation of it as much as possible.

"You are very proud," she said meaningly.

At this, seeing that she read his thoughts, his blush deepened.

"Serve the King well," continued the Princess, "and you may become greater than you dare dream."

He caught his breath.

"Carlos loves you," added Doña Aña. "The Queen and the King both love you; you should be great and happy."

Juan looked at the pomegranate spray, at the long-pointed gray-green leaves, and the hard, thick buds bursting over the crumpled flame of the scarlet flower.

"I cannot go into the church," he said, and his voice shook a little.

Doña Aña changed the lemon thread for one of a clear blue; Juan noticed that she had little, quick-moving dark hands, long in the fingers.

"Would you be grateful to me," she said, "if I persuaded the King to let you be a captain instead of a cardinal?"

Juan flushed again; this time with pleasure. He knew that she was the greatest lady at the Escorial, more courted than the gentle Queen, and with a strong influence over the King, but he did not know that she believed his gratitude would be a valuable political asset.

"I should be grateful to you all my life," he said earnestly.

"Carlos comes to Court soon," she answered. "Ask him to speak to the King, and I will speak for you too."

"I wish to fight the Morisco," said Juan simply. "I wish to please Almighty God by carrying the Cross into Africa."

"Carlos will go against the Moors."

He answered with a bold flash of smiling contempt.

"Carlos is sick. Carlos never can be strong."

"He is cured now. Either through Our Lady of Atocha or Fray Diego."

"Dios!—but he could not go against the Moors."

"That is as the King commands."

"He will be King," said Juan jealously. "King!"

His eyes widened and brightened, then he drooped his lids.

"Ahè," he added. "Who knows what fate is ahead of him?"

He rose and laid the vermilion blossoms to his lips; his dusky skin was flushed and his finely curved lips dipped to a smile. His young figure was firm and responsive as a taut bow, the steel and gold of the toison d'or was like an embrace of fire round his body, for the sun was just striking through a small upper window and falling full on his breast.

Doña Aña looked at him with appreciation and calculation.

Don Felipe was great; he was feared, but he could never be popular. Carlos offended all who came in contact with him. The Queen's infant child was a girl. Some such figure as that of Don Juan, some such youth and grace and magnificence were needed to support the awful and far-reaching policies of Spain.

The Princess of Eboli saw that. She believed in a rule of terror, but she also believed in the use of other weapons than those of fear.

Her keen glance had seen in the son of Carlo Quinto the makings of a Prince far more splendid than any in Europe, and in the Duke of Parma's son something of the same splendour and more intellect.

"Juan," she said kindly, "if you are humble towards Almighty God and dutiful to the King I shall be your friend."

She rose, and the silver ribbons round her flounces glimmered like the light on water. "You must always obey the King," she added.

His frank eyes met her calculating glance.

"How could I be so base as to be disloyal?" he answered with great sweetness.

"Surely you could not," she said. "I will speak to the King for some military post for you."

"Gracious lady, I am for ever at your service."

She smiled at him and passed into an inner room.

As she opened the door he caught a glimpse of maidens in stiff dresses seated round a dais and tying fresh lavender into bunches and turning the stalks back over the flowers and twisting them with blue silk.

Then the Princess closed the door, and Juan went out into the corridor. He knew that Don Alessandro and his other young nephews, the sons of the Emperor who were visiting the King, were waiting for him in the tennis court.

But though it was his favourite game he did not hasten his steps.

Slowly he wandered through the still unfinished corridors of the Escorial.

The place was not gay nor beautiful, nor could it ever be so. Juan felt lurking in the sombre chambers the spirit of gloomy piety, of secretive cruelty, of silent pride that distinguished the character of the King who had built them.

It was at once a palace, a monastery, and a grave-yard, or would be when complete. For here were to be laid all the Kings of Spain and their families as each in turn put off their earthly crowns and went to seek in heaven the reward of their maintenance of the Lord's rule on earth.

Here, when the building was completed, the remains of Felipe's and Juan's father, Carlo Quinto, were to be brought and placed within the smooth walls of the dark vault, there to be enclosed until the trumpets of the Last Judgment should break the walls of palace and hut alike.

Juan wondered if he might ever dare to hope that one day his bones should be placed beside those of his father, to rest for ever inside the splendid gloom of the Escorial.

The thought thrilled him; it would be a fitting end to a tremendous career—a career such as he meant to have. He went to one of the windows and looked out on to the gardens that were disfigured with scaffolding poles and blocks of masonry and all the confusion of building.

He longed for Aña de Santofimia's gentle company; he wished to confide to her his hopes and ambitions; he wished to take her gently in his arms and tell her she was more wonderful than any woman at the Court of Spain.

He resolved to marry Doña Aña.

He was sure that she would wait for him in that quiet room in Alcalà with the white walls and the yellow and red floor.

A breeze rippled the hot air that lay over Madrid; it lifted the hair on Juan's brow and fluttered the leaves of the pomegranate spray.

Juan began to sing; his heart was light as a feather; he had only been in the world a short time and at every turn it looked more desirable to him.

Then, for some reason he knew not of, he looked over his shoulder.

After the dazzle of the daylight the palace corridor looked very dark.

Juan ceased singing.

All at once it seemed as if the air was full of gloom and hopelessness.

He paused in the attitude of listening.

There was absolute silence save for the distant chant coming from the oratory.

Juan sighed twice, then went slowly to the tennis court.