“Don King Fernando,” she said, “had you not sent for me, I would have craved as a boon that you would give me Rodrigo to be my husband. With him I shall hold myself well married, and greatly honoured. Certain I am that he will one day be greater than any man in the kingdom of Castile, and as his wife I truly pardon him for what he did.”
So King Fernando ordered letters to be sent to the Cid at Valencia, commanding him at once to return to Burgos upon an affair greatly for God’s service and his own.
He came mounted on his war-horse, attired in his fairest suit of chain armour, wearing that high steel cap in which we see him now; his rippling braids of hair hanging down on his shoulders in the ancient fashion of the Goths, and in his company were many knights, both his own and of his kindred and friends—in all two hundred peers—in festive guise, streamers in various colours flying from their shields, and scarfs upon their arms, each knight attended by a mounted squire bearing his lance and cognisance.
In the courtyard of the castle beside the keep the king received them sitting on his throne; the queen and her ladies and Doña Urraca, resting on raised estrades tented with silk, attired in brocade and tissue, lined with rare fur.
As he entered the enclosure which was marked with gilded poles, the Cid dismounted, as did the other knights, to do obeisance to the king and queen, but he alone advanced to kiss the royal hand—a distinction which greatly offended his fellows, who were further angered by being dismissed while Rodrigo was invited to remain beside the king.
“I have called you, my good Rodrigo,” said King Fernando, with a voice lowered to reach his ear alone, “to question you respecting Doña Ximena de Gormez, whose sire you slew. She is too fair a flower to bloom alone.”
At these words Don Rodrigo reddened like a boy and hung his head.
So greatly was he moved who had never known fear that the power of speech left him suddenly, and for a time he stood like one distraught. Whether the eyes of Doña Urraca being upon him he was confused, or that the transport of love he felt for Ximena overcame him, who knows?
“Speak, noble Cid, I pray you,” said the king at last, weary of waiting.
“It is for you, my gracious lord and king, to question me,” was at last his answer. “Alas! her blood is on my hand.”