 | CHAPTER III. Mercedes of Castile, or, The voyage to Cathay |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
“Nice customs curt'sy to great kings. Dear Kate, you and I cannot
be confined within the weak list of a country's fashion. We are
the makers of manners; and the liberty that follows our places, stops
the mouths of all fault-finders.”
—Henry V.
Notwithstanding her high resolution, habitual firmness,
and a serenity of mind, that seemed to pervade the
moral system of Isabella, like a deep, quiet current of enthusiasm,
but which it were truer to assign to the high and
fixed principles that guided all her actions, her heart beat
tumultuously, and her native reserve, which almost
amounted to shyness, troubled her sorely, as the hour arrived
when she was first to behold the prince she had accepted
for a husband. Castilian etiquette, no less than the
magnitude of the political interests involved in the intended
union, had drawn out the preliminary negotiations several
days; the bridegroom being left, all that time, to curb his
impatience to behold the princess, as best he might.
On the evening of the 15th of October, 1469, however,
every obstacle being at length removed, Don Fernando
threw himself into the saddle, and, accompanied by only
four attendants, among whom was Andres de Cabrera, he
quietly took his way, without any of the usual accompaniments
of his high rank, towards the palace of John of
Vivero, in the city of Valladolid. The Archbishop of Toledo
was of the faction of the princess, and this prelate, a
warlike and active partisan, was in readiness to receive the
accepted suitor, and to conduct him to the presence of his
mistress.
Isabella, attended only by Beatriz de Bobadilla, was in
waiting for the interview, in the apartment already mentioned;
most retiring of the sex can make, on great occasions, she
received her future husband with quite as much of the dignity
of a princess as of the timidity of a woman. Ferdinand
of Aragon had been prepared to meet one of singular
grace and beauty; but the mixture of angelic modesty
with a loveliness that almost surpassed that of her sex,
produced a picture approaching so much nearer to heaven
than to earth, that, though one of circumspect behaviour,
and much accustomed to suppress emotion, he actually
started, and his feet were momentarily riveted to the floor,
when the glorious vision first met his eye. Then, recovering
himself, he advanced eagerly, and taking the little hand
which neither met nor repulsed the attempt, he pressed it
to his lips with a warmth that seldom accompanies the first
interviews of those whose passions are usually so factitious.
“This happy moment hath at length arrived, my illustrious
and beautiful cousin!” he said, with a truth of feeling
that went directly to the pure and tender heart of Isabella;
for no skill in courtly phrases can ever give to the
accents of deceit, the point and emphasis that belong to
sincerity. “I have thought it would never arrive; but
this blessed moment — thanks to our own St. Iago, whom
I have not ceased to implore with intercessions—more than
rewards me for all anxieties.”
“I thank my Lord the Prince, and bid him right welcome,”
modestly returned Isabella. “The difficulties that
have been overcome, in order to effect this meeting, are but
types of the difficulties we shall have to conquer as we
advance through life.”
Then followed a few courteous expressions concerning
the hopes of the princess that her cousin had wanted for
nothing, since his arrival in Castile, with suitable answers;
when Don Ferdinand led her to an armed-chair, assuming
himself the stool on which Beatriz de Bobadilla was wont
to be seated, in her familiar intercourse with her royal mistress.
Isabella, however, sensitively alive to the pretensions
of the Castilians, who were fond of asserting the superiority
of their own country over that of Aragon, would
not quietly submit to this arrangement, but declined to be
him also, saying—
“It ill befitteth one who hath little more than some royalty
of blood, and her dependence on God, to be thus
placed, while the King of Sicily is so unworthily bestowed.”
“Let me entreat that it may be so,” returned the king.
“All considerations of earthly rank vanish in this presence;
view me as a knight, ready and desirous of proving his
fealty in any court or field of Christendom, and treat me as
such.”
Isabella, who had that high tact which teaches the precise
point where breeding becomes neuter and airs commence,
blushed and smiled, but no longer declined to be seated. It
was not so much the mere words of her cousin that went
to her heart, as the undisguised admiration of his looks,
the animation of his eye, and the frank sincerity of his manner.
With a woman's instinct she perceived that the impression
she had made was favourable, and, with a woman's
sensibility, her heart was ready, under the circumstances,
to dissolve in tenderness at the discovery. This mutual
satisfaction soon opened the way to a freer conversation—
and, ere half an hour was passed, the archbishop, who,
though officially ignorant of the language and wishes of
lovers, was practically sufficiently familiar with both, contrived
to draw the two or three courtiers who were present,
into an adjoining room, where, though the door continued
open, he placed them with so much discretion that neither
eye nor ear could be any restraint on what was passing.
As for Beatriz de Bobadilla, whom female etiquette required
should remain in the same room with her royal mistress,
she was so much engaged with Andres de Cabrera, that
half a dozen thrones might have been disposed of between
the royal pair, and she none the wiser.
Although Isabella did not lose that mild reserve and
feminine modesty that threw so winning a grace around
her person, even to the day of her death, she gradually
grew more calm as the discourse proceeded; and falling
back on her self-respect, womanly dignity, and, not a little,
on those stores of knowledge that she had been diligently
collecting, while others similarly situated had wasted their
if not wholly in that tranquil state of mind to which she
had been accustomed.
“I trust there can now be no longer any delay to the
celebration of our union, by holy church,” observed the
king, in continuation of the subject. “All that can be required
of us both, as those entrusted with the cares and
interests of realms, hath been observed, and I may have a
claim to look to my own happiness. We are not strangers
to each other, Doña Isabella; for our grandfathers were
brothers — and from infancy up, have I been taught to
reverence thy virtues, and to strive to emulate thy holy
duty to God.”
“I have not betrothed myself lightly, Don Fernando,”
returned the princess, blushing even while she assumed the
majesty of a queen; “and with the subject so fully discussed,
the wisdom of the union so fully established, and
the necessity of promptness so apparent, no idle delays
shall proceed from me. I had thought that the ceremony
might be had on the fourth day from this, which will give
us both time to prepare for an occasion so solemn, by
suitable attention to the offices of the church.”
“It must be as thou willest,” said the king, respectfully
bowing; “and now there remaineth but a few preparations,
and we shall have no reproaches of forgetfulness. Thou
knowest, Doña Isabella, how sorely my father is beset by
his enemies, and I need scarce tell thee that his coffers are
empty. In good sooth, my fair cousin, nothing but my
earnest desire to possess myself, at as early a day as possible,
of the precious boon that Providence and thy goodness”—
“Mingle not, Don Fernando, any of the acts of God
and his providence, with the wisdom and petty expedients
of his creatures,” said Isabella, earnestly.
“To seize upon the precious boon, then, that Providence
appeared willing to bestow,” rejoined the king, crossing
himself, while he bowed his head, as much, perhaps, in
deference to the pious feelings of his affianced wife, as in
deference to a higher Power—“would not admit of delay,
and we quitted Zaragosa better provided with hearts loyal
towards the treasures we were to find in Valladolid, than
to enrich some lucky varlet in an inn.”
“Doña Beatriz de Bobadilla hath acquainted me with the
mishap,” said Isabella, smiling; “and truly we shall commence
our married lives with but few of the goods of the
world in present possession. I have little more to offer
thee, Fernando, than a true heart, and a spirit that I think
may be trusted for its fidelity.”
“In obtaining thee, my excellent cousin, I obtain sufficient
to satisfy the desires of any reasonable man. Still,
something is due to our rank and future prospects, and
it shall not be said that thy nuptials passed like those of a
common subject.”
“Under ordinary circumstances it might not appear
seemly for one of my sex to furnish the means for her
own bridal,” answered the princess, the blood stealing to
her face until it crimsoned even her brow and temples;
maintaining, otherwise, that beautiful tranquillity of mien
which marked her ordinary manner—“but the well-being
of two states depending on our union, vain emotions must
be suppressed. I am not without jewels, and Valladolid
hath many Hebrews: thou wilt permit me to part with the
baubles for such an object.”
“So that thou preservest for me the jewel in which that
pure mind is encased,” said the King of Sicily, gallantly,
“I care not if I never see another. But there will not be
this need; for our friends, who have more generous souls
than well-filled coffers too, can give such warranty to the
lenders as will procure the means. I charge myself with
this duty, for henceforth, my cousin — may I not say my
betrothed?”—
“The term is even dearer than any that belongeth to
blood, Fernando,” answered the princess, with a simple
sincerity of manner that set at nought the ordinary affectations
and artificial feelings of her sex, while it left the
deepest reverence for her modesty—“and we might be excused
for using it. I trust God will bless our union, not
only to our own happiness, but to that of our people.”
“Then, my betrothed, henceforth we have but a common
fortune, and thou wilt trust in me for the provision for thy
wants.”
“Nay, Fernando,” answered Isabella, smiling, “imagine
what we will, we cannot imagine ourselves the children of
two hidalgos about to set forth in the world with humble
dowries. Thou art a king, even now; and by the treaty
of Toros de Guisando, I am solemnly recognized as the
heiress of Castile. We must, therefore, have our separate
means, as well as our separate duties, though I trust hardly
our separate interests.”
“Thou wilt never find me failing in that respect which
is due to thy rank, or in that duty which it befitteth me to
render thee, as the head of our ancient House, next to thy
royal brother, the king.”
“Thou hast well considered, Don Fernando, the treaty
of marriage, and accepted cheerfully, I trust, all of its
several conditions?”
“As becometh the importance of the measures, and the
magnitude of the benefit I was to receive.”
“I would have them acceptable to thee, as well as expedient;
for, though so soon to become thy wife, I can never
cease to remember that I shall be Queen of this country.”
“Thou mayest be assured, my beautiful betrothed, that
Ferdinand of Aragon will be the last to deem thee aught
else.”
“I look on my duties as coming from God, and on myself
as one rigidly accountable to him for their faithful discharge.
Sceptres may not be treated as toys, Fernando,
to be trifled with; for man beareth no heavier burthen,
than when he beareth a crown.”
“The maxims of our House have not been forgotten in
Aragon, my betrothed — and I rejoice to find that they are
the same in both kingdoms.”
“We are not to think principally of ourselves in entering
upon this engagement,” continued Isabella, earnestly—
“for that would be supplanting the duties of princes by the
feelings of the lover. Thou hast frequently perused, and
sufficiently conned the marriage articles, I trust?”
“There hath been sufficient leisure for that, my cousin,
as they have now been signed these nine months.”
“If I may have seemed to thee exacting in some particulars,”
continued Isabella, with the same earnest and
beautiful simplicity as usually marked her deportment in
may not be overlooked. Thou knowest, moreover,
Fernando, the influence that the husband is wont to acquire
over the wife, and wilt feel the necessity of my protecting
my Castilians, in the fullest manner, against my own weaknesses.”
“If thy Castilians do not suffer until they suffer from
that cause, Doña Isabella, their lot will indeed be blessed.”
“These are words of gallantry, and I must reprove their
use on an occasion so serious, Fernando. I am a few
months thy senior, and shall assume an elder sister's rights,
until they are lost in the obligations of a wife. Thou hast
seen in those articles, how anxiously I would protect my
Castilians against any supremacy of the stranger. Thou
knowest that many of the greatest of this realm are opposed
to our union, through apprehension of Aragonese
sway, and wilt observe how studiously we have striven to
appease their jealousies.”
“Thy motives, Doña Isabella, have been understood, and
thy wishes in this and all other particulars shall be respected.”
“I would be thy faithful and submissive wife,” returned
the princess, with an earnest but gentle look at her betrothed;
“but I would also that Castile should preserve her
rights and her independence. What will be thy influence,
the maiden that freely bestoweth her hand, need hardly
say; but we must preserve the appearance of separate
states.”
“Confide in me, my cousin. They who live fifty years
hence will say that Don Fernando knew how to respect his
obligations and to discharge his duty.”
“There is the stipulation, too, to war upon the Moor. I
shall never feel that the Christians of Spain have been true
to the faith, while a follower of the arch-impostor of Mecca
remaineth in the Peninsula.”
“Thou and thy archbishop could not have imposed a
more agreeable duty, than to place my lance in rest against
the Infidels. My spurs have been gained in those wars,
already; and no sooner shall we be crowned, than thou
wilt see my perfect willingness to aid in driving back the
miscreants to their original sands.”
“There remaineth but one thing more upon my mind,
gentle cousin. Thou knowest the evil influence that besets
my brother, and that it hath disaffected a large portion of
his nobles as well as of his cities. We shall both be sorely
tempted to wage war upon him, and to assume the sceptre
before it pleaseth God to accord it to us, in the course of
nature. I would have thee respect Don Enriquez, not only
as the head of our royal house, but as my brother and
anointed master. Should evil counsellors press him to attempt
aught against our persons or rights, it will be lawful
to resist; but I pray thee, Fernando, on no excuse seek to
raise thy hand in rebellion against my rightful sovereign.”
“Let Don Enriquez, then, be chary of his Beltraneja!”
answered the prince, with warmth. “By St. Peter! I have
rights of mine own that come before those of that ill-begotten
mongrel! The whole House of Trastamara hath
an interest in stifling that spurious scion which hath been
so fraudulently engrafted on its princely stock!”
“Thou art warm, Don Fernando, and even the eye of
Beatriz de Bobadilla reproveth thy heat. The unfortunate
Joanna never can impair our rights to the throne, for there
are few nobles in Castile so unworthy as to wish to see the
crown bestowed where it is believed the blood of Pelayo
doth not flow.”
“Don Enriquez hath not kept faith with thee, Isabella,
since the treaty of Toros de Guisando!”
“My brother is surrounded by wicked counsellors—and
then, Fernando”—the princess blushed crimson as she
spoke—“neither have we been able rigidly to adhere to
that convention, since one of its conditions was that my
hand should not be bestowed without the consent of the
king.”
“He hath driven us into this measure, and hath only to
reproach himself with our failure on this point.”
“I endeavour so to view it, though many have been my
prayers for forgiveness of this seeming breach of faith. I
am not superstitious, Fernando, else might I think God
would frown on a union that is contracted in the face of
pledges like these. But, it is well to distinguish between
motives, and we have a right to believe that He who readeth
the heart, will not judge the well-intentioned severely.
the plain purpose of forcing me to a marriage against my
will, this decisive step could not have been necessary, and
would not have been taken.”
“I have reason to thank my patron saint, beautiful cousin,
that thy will was less compliant than thy tyrants had
believed.”
“I could not plight my troth to the King of Portugal, or
to Monsieur de Guienne, or to any that they proposed to
me, for my future lord,” answered Isabella, ingenuously.
“It ill befitteth royal or noble maidens to set up their own
inexperienced caprices in opposition to the wisdom of their
friends, and the task is not difficult for a virtuous wife to
learn to love her husband, when nature and opinion are not
too openly violated in the choice; but I have had too much
thought for my soul to wish to expose it to so severe a trial,
in contracting the marriage duties.”
“I feel that I am only too unworthy of thee, Isabella—
but thou must train me to be that thou wouldest wish: I
can only promise thee a most willing and attentive scholar.”
The discourse now became more general, Isabella indulging
her natural curiosity and affectionate nature, by
making many inquiries concerning her different relatives in
Aragon. After the interview had lasted two hours or more,
the King of Sicily returned to Dueñas, with the same privacy
as he had observed in entering the town. The royal
pair parted with feelings of increased esteem and respect,
Isabella indulging in those gentle anticipations of domestic
happiness that more properly belong to the tender nature of
woman.
The marriage took place, with suitable pomp, on the
morning of the 19th October, 1469, in the chapel of John
de Vivero's palace; no less than two thousand persons,
principally of condition, witnessing the ceremony. Just as
the officiating priest was about to commence the offices, the
eye of Isabella betrayed uneasiness, and turning to the
Archbishop of Toledo, she said,—
“Your grace hath promised that there should be nothing
wanting to the consent of the church on this solemn occasion.
It is known that Don Fernando of Aragon and I
stand within the prohibited degrees.”
“Most true, my lady Isabella,” returned the prelate, with
a composed mien and a paternal smile. “Happily, our
Holy Father Pius hath removed this impediment, and the
church smileth on this blessed union in every particular.”
The archbishop then took out of his pocket a dispensation,
which he read in a clear, sonorous, steady voice;
when every shade disappeared from the serene brow of
Isabella, and the ceremony proceeded. Years elapsed before
this pious and submissive Christian princess discovered
that she had been imposed on, the bull that was then read
having been an invention of the old King of Aragon and
the prelate, not without suspicions of a connivance on the
part of the bridegroom. This deception had been practised
from a perfect conviction that the sovereign pontiff was too
much under the influence of the King of Castile, to consent
to bestow the boon in opposition to that monarch's wishes.
It was several years before Sixtus IV. repaired this wrong,
by granting a more genuine authority.
Nevertheless, Ferdinand and Isabella became man and
wife. What followed in the next twenty years must be
rather glanced at than related. Henry IV. resented the
step, and vain attempts were made to substitute his supposititious
child, La Beltraneja, in the place of his sister, as
successor to the throne. A civil war ensued, during which
Isabella steadily refused to assume the crown, though often
entreated: limiting her efforts to the maintenance of her
rights as heiress presumptive. In 1474, or five years after
her marriage, Don Henry died, and she then became Queen
of Castile, though her spurious niece was also proclaimed
by a small party among her subjects. The war of the succession,
as it was called, lasted five years longer, when
Joanna, or La Beltraneja, assumed the veil, and the rights
of Isabella were generally acknowledged. About the same
time, died Don John II., when Ferdinand mounted the
throne of Aragon. These events virtually reduced the sovereignties
of the Peninsula, which had so long been cut up
into petty states, to four, viz., the possessions of Ferdinand
and Isabella, which included Castile, Leon, Aragon, Valencia,
and many other of the finest provinces of Spain;
Navarre, an insignificant kingdom in the Pyrenees; Portugal,
place of the Moor, north of the strait of Gibraltar.
Neither Ferdinand, nor his royal consort, was forgetful
of that clause in their marriage contract, which bound the
former to undertake a war for the destruction of the Moorish
power. The course of events, however, caused a delay
of many years, in putting this long-projected plan in execution;
but when the time finally arrived, that Providence
which seemed disposed to conduct the pious Isabella, through
a train of important incidents, from the reduced condition
in which we have just described her to have been, to the
summit of human power, did not desert its favourite. Success
succeeded success — and victory, victory; until the
Moor had lost fortress after fortress, town after town, and
was finally besieged in his very capital, his last hold in the
peninsula. As the reduction of Granada was an event
that, in Christian eyes, was to be ranked second only to
the rescuing of the holy sepulchre from the hands of
the Infidels, so was it distinguished by some features of
singularity, that have probably never before marked the
course of a siege. The place submitted on the 25th November,
1491, twenty-two years after the date of the marriage
just mentioned, and, it may not be amiss to observe,
on the very day of the year, that has become memorable
in the annals of this country, as that on which the English,
four centuries later, reluctantly yielded their last foothold
on the coast of the republic.
In the course of the preceding summer, while the Spanish
forces lay before the town, and Isabella, with her children,
were anxious witnesses of the progress of events,
an accident occurred that had well-nigh proved fatal
to the royal family, and brought destruction on the Christian
arms. The pavilion of the queen took fire, and was
consumed, placing the whole encampment in the utmost
jeopardy. Many of the tents of the nobles were also destroyed,
and much treasure, in the shape of jewelry and
plate, was lost, though the injury went no farther. In order
to guard against the recurrence of such an accident, and
probably viewing the subjection of Granada as the great
act of their mutual reign—for, as yet, Time threw his veil
around the future, and but one human eye foresaw the greatest
the sovereigns resolved on attempting a work that, of itself,
would render this siege memorable. The plan of a regular
town was made, and labourers set about the construction
of good substantial edifices, in which to lodge the army;
thus converting the warfare into that of something like city
against city. In three months this stupendous work was
completed, with its avenues, streets and squares, and received
the name of Santa Fé, or Holy Faith, an appellation
quite as well suited to the zeal which could achieve such a
work, in the heat of a campaign, as to that general reliance
on the providence of God which animated the Christians in
carrying on the war. The construction of this place struck
terror into the hearts of the Moors, for they considered it
a proof that their enemies intended to give up the conflict
only with their lives; and it is highly probable that it had
a direct and immediate influence on the submission of Boabdil,
the King of Granada, who yielded the Alhambra, a
few weeks after the Spaniards had taken possession of their
new abodes.
Santa Fé still exists, and is visited by the traveller as a
place of curious origin; while it is rendered remarkable by
the fact—real or assumed—that it is the only town of any
size in Spain, that has never been under Moorish sway.
The main incidents of our tale will now transport us to
this era, and to this scene; all that has been related, as
yet, being merely introductory matter, to prepare the reader
for the events that are to follow.
| CHAPTER III. Mercedes of Castile, or, The voyage to Cathay | |