Cunning, astute, and valorous, implacable in conquest, sanguinary in victory, he fought while he lived. A king in all but the name, and proud of it, boasting with haughty scorn, “That none of his blood were royal”; “That he had never possessed an acre,” “But that the city of Valencia had pleased him, and that God had permitted him to take it as his own.” “Spain,” he said, “had fallen by a Roderich, and by a Roderich it should be restored.”
Now he was battling with the Christian king, then he was making alliance with the Moors, when banished, on his own account—to his own advantage ever—por murzar, as he said (to eat).
For in the midst of all his glory the Cid was practical at heart, and at all times, be it owned, a sad ruffian (though ever tender to his own), and more keen and cruel in a bargain than a Jew.
CHAPTER XXVII
Don Diego Laynez and the Conde de Gormez
WONDER if Burgos looked then as it does now?—a well-washed, trim little city, Dutch in its neatness, tinted, upon the principle of Joseph’s coat of many colours, pink, blue, peach, and yellow; each house totally unlike its neighbour in height and shape; the streets sprouting out all over with balconies, miradores, and low arcades under flat roofs, an unexpected Gothic tower or barbican breaking through; entered by the ancient gate of Santa Maria beside the bridge with castellated bartizans and statues of notables in flat square niches.
Of the Cathedral I say nothing, because the present one was built later by Fernando el Santo, but the line of towers of the Gothic castle stood out darkly prominent on the hill behind—Calle Alta, as it was called—as old as 300; the fortress and residence of the Condes de Castila, and the place where the bright-faced Fernan Gonzales lived his merry life, shutting up his prisoners—Garcia, King of Navarre, Doña Ava’s treacherous father, for a year, and other kings and queens too numerous to mention,—with celebrations of royal births and marriages a score; the old church of Sant’ Agueda, an “Iglesia juradera” (church of purgation), on the brow of the hill, the family posada, or house of the Cid, to be seen to this day, the ancestral shields hung outside on pedestals forming part of the front, setting forth the quarterings of Laynez Calvo, of ancient Castilian lineage, the father of the Cid; a priceless old Suelo, on which you can still observe the measure of the Cid’s arm, marked on marble; and the mouth of a mediæval passage through which he could ride into the plains with his men without being seen by the citizens in the streets below.
At this moment “the child of Burgos,” as the Cid is called, has thrown aside his warlike accoutrements, having been present at a council at the Ayuntamiento presided over by the king, and is now on his way to visit his lady love, Doña Ximena, the daughter of the Conde de Gormez.
As he passes along the Calle, gay as a butterfly in the bright sunshine, under the barbicans and towers which so nobly break the lines, it may be said he has too much of a swagger in his gait, but he has reason to be proud, for, young as he is, Doña Ximena loves him, and the good old King Fernando has admitted him to his council because he is already strong in arms and of good custom.
Just as Don Rodrigo has passed out of the Palace of Ayuntamiento (town hall) in the great plaza, its front honeycombed with sculptured cornices, badges, and devices on a warmly tinted stone, two hidalgos appear under the arched doorway talking loud.