The Queen was in labour, and shivering groups of robust citizens and sturdy peasants were gathered in front of the royal castle of Zaragoza, eagerly awaiting the signal of a happy deliverance. The fervent wish of King Juan for a male heir was shared by his subjects, for his brother Martino, next in succession, was in delicate health; moreover, he had only one son, and he was a cripple. The succession to the throne was a source of anxiety to all good Aragonese. To be sure, there was a baby Princess already in the royal nursery, but whether her mother had been a lawful wedded wife, or no more than a barragana of the Sovereign, few knew outside the charmed circle of the Court. In the opinion of the men and women of the triple kingdom generally, this mattered little, for natural children were looked upon as strengthening the family; hijos de ganancia they were called. The Salic Law, however, barred the female heirs of the royal house, so little Juanita was of no importance.
YOLANDA D’ARRAGONA
(KING RENÉ’S MOTHER)
From Coloured Glass Window, Le Mans Cathedral
To face page 30
Within the courtyard, about the royal apartments, and all through the precincts of the Presence, minstrels and poets thronged, as well as Ministers and officials; Queen Yolanda was the Queen of Troubadours, and the courtiers she loved best to have about her were merry maids and men—graduates of the “Gaya Ciencia.” The livelong night they had danced and postured, they had piped and sung. Each poet of the hilarious company had in turn taken up his recitative, printed by staccato notes, to be repeated in chorus and in step, until the fandangoes and boleros of the South were turned into the boisterous whirling jotas of Aragon. The first dawn of day brought into play lutes and harps, restrung, retuned cellos and hurdy-gurdies, and vihuelas de peñola, guitars with metal wires and struck with strong herons’ plumes, and so awoke the phlegmatic guardians of the castle. Sweet and harmonious Provençal voices blended with soft notes of melodious singers from Languedoc to the running accompaniment of the weird Basque music of the mountaineers.
The Queen, upon her massive curtained bed of state, heard the refrains and felt the vibration of the lilting measures, and smiled pleasantly as she laid awake expectantly. At length the great tenor bell up in the chapel turret gave out the hour of six. The last note seemed to hang, and many a devout listener bent a reverent knee and bared his head, whilst the women-folk uttered fervent Aves. One single stroke of the metal clapper was followed, alas! immediately by another. “Two for a Princess!” resounded from lusty throats, but there was a tone of disappointment in the cry. The glaring morning sun, however, made no mistake, impartial in his love of sex. Dancing upon the phosphorescent ripples of the rolling Mediterranean, he shot golden beams within the royal chamber, and crimson flushed the cheeks of the royal mother and her child. It was the red-hot sun of Spain, and the day was red, too—the feast of San Marco, April 25, 1380.