The Constant Prince

Chapter Seventeen

Misjudged

“But whispering tongues may poison truth.”

Spite of sadness of heart and severe retrenchments, a certain number of court ceremonials were inevitable, particularly when the convocation of the States-General had filled Lisbon with the Portuguese nobility and great ecclesiastics.

Nella did not love pomp and state; she had been accustomed to a life of great freedom and simplicity, and, spite of some girlish pleasure in the handsome dresses provided for her by her father, she found it unspeakably wearisome to stand behind Queen Leonor for hours while she held receptions. One of these took place as soon as the offer of a ransom for Dom Fernando had been decided on, and the whole company were full of the subject, discussing the wrongs and rights of it at every moment when speech was possible. But besides the main question, there was a strong undercurrent of suspicion and indignation against the supposed sharers of Brother Martin’s treason. A great many people who had followed the apostate priest and had admired his preaching were loud in abuse of him, and repeated more than one saying which now appeared to them suspicious. Harry Hartsed, from a mixture of obstinacy and dislike to join in an outcry on an absent man who could not defend himself, declared that there was no proof against Brother Martin, and that he had always heard him express the most loyal sentiments. He was fresh from rather a sharp discussion on these points when the queen’s movements made it possible to approach Nella, who looked very handsome, her fair skin set off by her green and silver dress, and her golden head towering above the other ladies. She smiled when she saw Harry, as if his presence was a pleasing variety.

“Well sir,” she said, in English, “these court receptions may be mighty fine for you, who have your tongue free to talk, but I find it dull enough to stand speechless for hours.”

“Speak now, then, fair mistress,” said Harry, smiling; “and let me catch your words as they fall. Or would you prefer to listen while I tell you that I have but lived through the hours till I could reach your side?”

“No,” said Nella, pouting. “Why, have you grown into a courtier too?”

“And do you really wish yourself back again at Northberry?”

“Ay, that I do! Indeed, Harry,” said Nella, with a sudden change to earnestness that reminded him of her childish days, “sometimes I think that I do not love my good father nearly enough; for I cannot help wishing to go back again to Devon, though since Adela and Walter Coplestone have married and left the old manor it has been solitary enough.”

“I shall not be able to go back to Devon till I have seen war enough make my fortune,” said Harry; “nor do I wish to go – now,” he added, meaningly.

Nella blushed a little and cast down her eyes, and as she raised them they met those of Alvarez, fixed on her with an expression of such passionate jealousy that her heart gave a frightened throb. How she wished that she had never teased Harry by encouraging his rival – for as such she began to recognise Alvarez; and though she scarcely realised that Harry wished her to be more to him than his old playmate, he had always been jealous of interference, and the feelings of Alvarez were unmistakable. The latter, too, was by far the best match, and Nella had a frightened conviction that her father would favour this suit whenever it was formally offered. She was glad when the queen signed to her to attend her, so that further speech was impossible.

While this little scene was passing a dance had been going forward – one of those stately and ceremonious exercises which were limited to a few couples at a time, whose graceful movements afforded a spectacle for the rest of the company.

Dom Pedro had led out Queen Leonor; and the king excusing himself on the plea of fatigue, sat down a little apart, watching the dancers with sad, unseeing eyes. Presently Enrique came up and joined him.

“I have a petition to present to you, my brother,” he said.

“What is it, then?” asked Duarte; “what is it you wish?”

“Will you give me leave to go with the envoys who offer the Moors this ransom? Who could plead as I? And at least I should see my Fernando once more.”

“I cannot refuse you,” said Duarte; “but, Enrique, my mind misgives me. I would not be too long without your counsel.”

“My counsel!” said Enrique, bitterly; “take any counsel rather than mine.”

Duarte smiled.

“Your presence, then,” he said. “But I think it is well that you should go, though I have little hope, Enrique, in my heart – ”

“Dare to utter such a threat, and you shall answer for it with your life!”

These words, in tones of high indignation, suddenly interrupted the brothers’ colloquy.

“How now? Young gentlemen, remember where you are?” said Enrique, advancing, and confronting with his stately presence Hartsed and Alvarez, who, with flashing eyes, and hands on their sword-hilts, had been so carried away by their dispute as to forget entirely the royal presence.

Alvarez collected himself at once, bowed, and drew back; but Harry cried out, fiercely, “My lord, I care not where I am! Dom Alvarez has insulted me foully, and I defy him to repeat his base slander!”

“The cause of your dispute, sir,” said the prince, “can be of no moment to me, unless it were confided to me in a more suitable manner. Such violence argues ill for your cause, be it what it may.”

The prince was himself very sore-hearted, and Harry had committed a great breach of propriety; but he felt himself deeply injured, and flung away without a word. Alvarez followed him into the court outside, and then the two young men turned and faced each other, and Alvarez spoke.

“I believe you to have been cognisant of the treason of your friend, the miscreant priest, Martin.”

“Speak at your peril,” shouted Harry, “or I will go back and before all the princes give you the lie!”

“As you will, señor. I will not yield the Lady Eleanor to a traitor, nor see my prince’s confidence abused by a foreigner.”

“Foreigner!” cried Harry. “No one but a rascally foreigner would utter such an insult. Draw, and defend yourself!”

Alvarez was not slow to answer this demand, but the clash of arms in the palace precincts soon collected an indignant crowd, and among them Sir Walter Northberry.

“Now, Master Hartsed,” he cried, wrathfully, “brawling in the palace court. What means all this? Put up your swords this moment, gentlemen – for shame?”

“Master Hartsed challenged me and gave me the lie,” said Alvarez.

“Dom Alvarez insulted me and called me traitor,” cried Harry.

“This is not the first time that I have heard this wrangling,” said Sir Walter. “Señor Dom Alvarez, it would be well if you would explain your charge against a member of my household. And you, Harry, be silent until I question you.”

Trembling with indignation, Harry put a great force upon himself and remained silent; while Alvarez bowed, and looking at Sir Walter with his dark, flashing eyes, said —

“Sir, I had not meant in any way to make public my suspicions, but Master Hartsed’s violence towards me, in especial after the honour which you this morning have done me, obliges me to speak.”

Sir Walter bowed, and Alvarez continued – “Perceiving some slight tokens of favour which the lady whom I am unworthy to name had the grace to bestow on me, Master Hartsed lost patience and demanded how I dared to address Mistress Northberry.”

“That is false?” cried Harry, “you lie in your teeth!”

“Master Harry, will you be silent at my desire?” said Northberry, sternly, “and hear Dom Alvarez to the end!”

“I,” said Dom Alvarez, “was fain to tell him, that I marvelled how the friend and defender of the traitor Martin, whose name was on all men’s lips, should dare to raise his eyes to an honourable lady. Upon which he threatened, and finally drew upon me.”

“And on what grounds, Señor Dom Alvarez, do you accuse Master Hartsed of cognisance of this foul treason?”

“Master Hartsed,” said Alvarez, “was ever in the company of the traitor, he has denied the possibility of his treason, and still calls him his friend. He must choose, I think, between this friend and loyal gentlemen.”

“Into my house he comes not if he takes the traitor’s name on his lips,” said Northberry. “Now, Master Harry, what have you to say?”

“Nothing, before those who call me traitor,” said Harry, with some dignity; then his anger getting the better of him he exclaimed – “Dom Alvarez knows best whether it was not he who threatened to interrupt my suit with his foul slander.”

“Your suit, ha, ha!” said Sir Walter, roughly, “’tis the first I have heard of it. Now, to put an end to this folly, I will tell you, sir, that I have betrothed my daughter to Señor Dom Alvarez de Pereira. Nor do you make a fit return for my hospitality by raising your eyes to her. And this matter of your intimacy with the traitor priest must be looked to. Not that I hold you guilty of his treason, but it misbecomes you even to name his name.”

Those present noticed, that instead of violent self-defence Harry Hartsed received this speech in silence, only turning very pale as he bowed stiffly to Sir Walter and walked away by himself.

Chapter Eighteen

At Abzella

Many miles inland, out of sight of the blue sea, on the other side of which was home and freedom, the Portuguese captains waited at Arzella for the news of their deliverance. They had been hurried away from Tangier almost immediately after the Portuguese had embarked, and though no positive cruelties were inflicted on them, the Moorish promises of courteous treatment did not prevent their escort from making their journey as wretched as they could. Intentional forgetfulness of needful comforts, rude jests, over-haste, and much ill-temper, tried the hot spirits of the Portuguese nobles sorely, and they were less wretched now that they remained under the charge of Zala-ben-Zala, and were allowed a certain amount of freedom and solitude, during which they could solace themselves with speculations as to the turn events were taking in Portugal, and how soon Ceuta would be handed over to the Moors. The prince never joined in these discussions, and when they were urged upon him would reply gravely – “As God wills;” though he sometimes endeavoured to pass the time by tales of the old Crusaders, of the sufferings they endured, and of the support which was granted to them. And once, when some of the younger nobles repeated to him the insulting language used towards them by their jailers, he pointed to a gang of slaves who were toiling over some of the fortifications of Arzella.

“So suffer our fellow-Christians,” he said.

“They are not peers of Portugal,” said the young man, sullenly.

“Stripes wound and blows hurt, be they who they may,” said Fernando. “We can but endure; but oh, my friends,” he added with tears in his eyes, “would that I were alone to suffer!”

“Alas, sir!” cried the young man, yielding, “it is your indignities that cut us the most.”

It was after some weeks of dreary waiting that the prisoners became aware that envoys had arrived from Portugal and had been brought under a safe-conduct to Arzella, where Zala-ben-Zala was to discuss with them the terms of their deliverance, and one day the prince was summoned alone to meet them.

Fernando turned as he left his companions and said, in a tone of peculiar earnestness —

“My friends, remember, were we free, we would all give our lives to save Ceuta to the Church of Christ.”

Fernando was conducted from the fortress where he had been lodged across the town of Arzella to the governor’s palace, and ushered with much state and ceremony into the great hall, where stood Zala-ben-Zala, surrounded by a crowd of Moorish nobles and officers in their splendid dresses of state; opposite them a few Portuguese in full armour, and in front Dom Enrique himself, also armed, his dark surcoat giving additional dignity to his great height and stately presence, he was bareheaded, and as pale as death.

“You are at liberty to speak with one another,” said Zala-ben-Zala. “Maybe the interview may change the mind of your highness.”

“I speak the mind of the council of Portugal,” said Enrique, in a voice of deep sadness. Then he stretched out his arms: “Oh, my Fernando, the choice was not for me,” he said.

Fernando held him fast for a moment, all the surroundings forgotten; and then they sat down together on a great divan and looked into each other’s face, and Fernando knew that Enrique had not brought his freedom.

“Come,” he said, “tell me your errand.”

“They will not yield the fortress,” said Enrique. “They offer any ransom, and the Moors accept none.”

“As God wills,” said Fernando, but he tightened his grasp of Enrique’s hand.

“My most dear brother, Pedro and João would have freed you; but I – that Christian town; and now I see the council risks your life – not for the Church, but for selfish power, and I– I lent my voice to theirs.”

“I, too, have thought much on it,” said Fernando, steadily; “of the obligations of the treaty, however ill our enemies have kept the lesser provisions of it.”

“What, they ill-use you?”

“Nay – you see I am well. And I think of those unhappy ones whose fate hangs on mine. And I thank the merciful Saviour, who lays not the choice on me, but gives me the easier way of submission, and permits my poor life to be a defence to a fortress of Christendom as in no other way it could be. The wish of my heart is given, – may I but tread, in the footsteps of those blessed ones who have endured worse sufferings in the same cause, on honour which myself little deserved?”

Fernando smiled as he spoke, and for a moment Enrique felt that the confusion of good and bad motives, the doubtful self-denial, and still more doubtful justice, that led to the retention of Ceuta, were lifted by his brother’s faith and love into the instrument of a holy martyrdom.

“So,” continued Fernando, “bid Duarte not to grieve, for if I suffer, it is no more than I have deserved, and to suffer, even without choice, for such an end, is too great honour.”

“Duarte is sick with the care and weight of decision,” said Enrique sadly.

“Ah, could I but see him?” said Fernando, suddenly faltering; then, with renewed firmness, “But it cannot be. And you, my Enrique, how changed your face is. You must turn your thoughts again to Sagres and the adventures of your mariners. That is the appointed way in which you must serve. We still work together.”

“And if – if the council and the king resolve to yield Ceuta?”

“Why then – God’s will be done!” said Fernando, “and we may yet clasp hands again. Meanwhile some soul is passing away with the holy rites of the Church, some babe receives Christian baptism – who else were cast into outer darkness. But see; the governor interrupts us.”

“Prince Fernando,” said Zala-ben-Zala, “I trust your entreaties have induced the Duke of Viseo to endeavour to change the mind of the king.”

“The King of Portugal,” said Fernando, steadily, “must act as he thinks well. I have made no entreaties, and shall make none.”

“Know you what you say!” thundered out Zala-ben-Zala, suddenly changing his tone. “Think you that henceforth your life will be easy, as it has been! Shall the forsworn hostage be treated as a king’s son? No! Our prisoner no longer – you are our slave; and when next King Duarte sends envoys, let them see their prince of the blood – their Grand-Master – tending the horses of his Moorish masters as a slave – I say – in fetters and in rags?”

“The princes of Portugal do not yield to threats,” said Fernando, calmly.

“I am but a mouthpiece,” said Enrique, as steadily as he could.

“Go home and tell what you have seen,” said the Moor, roughly.

The coarse threats stood the two princes in good stead, for their pride nerved them to a firm and silent farewell, though Enrique’s heart was ready to break as he passed out of the hall with the officers who accompanied him, and left Fernando standing alone among his captors.

A short while afterwards, as the Portuguese nobles were eagerly watching for the prince’s return, or for a summons to join him, their prison was suddenly entered by a party of Moorish soldiers.

“Now, Christian dogs, our turn has come,” roughly shouted the foremost; and seizing on the Portuguese nearest to him he tore off his velvet mantle, flung it aside, and forced him down while he fastened fetters on his wrists. Resistance was vain, and with blows and curses the whole party, the old priest included, were loaded with chains, and dragged through the streets to the courtyard of the governor’s palace.

There stood their beloved prince in a rough dress of common serge, fetters similar to their own on his wrists, and his chained hands on the rein of Zala-ben-Zala’s beautiful Arab horse. He stood with his head up and his lip curled, with a sort of still disdain. At that moment the Portuguese envoys, with Dom Enrique at their head, passed with their guards through the court, and Zala-ben-Zala advanced to mount his horse with a rude gesture to the prince who held it.