Now here it should be said, as in the fairy tales, “They married and lived happily ever after.” Not at all. We are only at the beginning of their troubles.
The rage of Don Sancho of Leon and King Garcia of Navarre, the father of Doña Ava, knew no bounds. Genuine rage, for they had both been caught in their own trap, a thing utterly unbearable to malignant natures, be they kings or commons.
As to the King of Navarre, who not only had lost a highly valuable marriageable daughter, but the half of the kingdom of Castile, he at once assembled a strong army, under the pretence that the Conde had feloniously carried off the Infanta—a curious accusation, considering that he himself had consented to their nuptials.
“Let us wait till he comes to a better mind,” urged Doña Ava, from her palace at Burgos, looking out over those rich plains which are the glory of Central Spain; “after all, I am his daughter, he cannot harm me.”
But this Christian point of view was not shared by the King of Navarre, who from his mountains executed such raids on Castile that Gonzales had no choice but to face him.
Near Ogroño was the battle, not far from Burgos, by the river Ebro, and hardly was it fought, and victory only gained by a clever feint, headed by the Conde in person. Don Garcia’s camp was seized and he himself taken prisoner.
Now face to face they stood within a tent, the father-in-law and son. The casque of the king battered, his armour bleared, his chief knights in a like plight, prisoners beside him—the Conde in front brandishing a blood-stained sword, with such a sense of wrong gnawing at his heart as for a time leaves him speechless.
Then the words of reproach came rushing to his lips. “False king, did I not come in peace to Narbonne, and you gave me the royal kiss of welcome? Did I not eat at your board? Sleep the sleep of peace under your roof? Ride with you? Jest with you? Live as man to man of the kinship we are to each other? Did you not” (and here his upraised voice breaks into a softer tone as he names her) “give me your daughter, the Infanta, as my wife, and, while her hand was clasped in mine, her kiss upon my cheek, did you not bind me, vile king, in chains, and hurl me into a dungeon, where but for her help, the angel of my life, I should have died unheeded?”
To all this Don Garcia, with eyes cast on the ground, answered not a word, his armed figure defined against the pattern of rich brocade which lined the tent under the light of torches.
“Now to Burgos with you, King of Navarre, and as you did by me, so be it done to you! That is bare justice!”