That same night the Casa del Cordon, in the great Plaza of Burgos, where the Regents lived, was blazed bright as day. Circles of light blazed in the heavily mullioned casements of the front, where the arms of Mendoza Velasco appear within a deep entablature, surrounded by carved figures, each line and detail of the building defined by low Moorish lamps softly glimmering, and armorial shields. Crowds of men-at-arms and alguazils stationed along the street bore torches of resin, casting fiery gleams upon the pavement, crowded as far as the eye could reach with Burgolese notables come out to see the show, wrapped in their everlasting mantos.
Passing through a lofty guard-room with raftered ceiling—the walls hung with tapestry—where casques and shields of antique pattern shone out, side by side with crescent banners and scimitars captured from the Moors, the guests arrive and are ushered into a Gothic hall of sculptured oak heavily carved, a richly wrought balustraded gallery breaking the lines high up under the cornice. All the great names of Burgos are present. The Villacruces, De Vaca, Peralta, Gomez, Laynes, descendants of the Cid Campeador, Lerma, De Bilbas, and Mendoza, making their way to tables ranged transversely across the dais at the upper end, bright with golden lamps, fed with delicately-scented oil, each place set with cups and sturdy flagons enriched with jewels, trophies of Arab filigree work, taken from the Moors, and gilded shields all wreathed with fruit and flowers to represent a garden of delight.
In the centre of the board, on two chairs more elevated than the rest, sit the Archbishop of Toledo, his pale face outlined against the panels of dark oak; and opposite to him the courtly figure of the Marqués de Villena, his handsome features greatly set off by the quaint half-ecclesiastical costume he wears of the Master of Calatrava, with belt and sword, the cross of Christ embroidered on his breast.
The days are past when the great nobles come to feasts in plumed casques and chain armour, as knights ready to mount and ride as the trumpet note sounds. Now more peaceful times have come, the land of castles has expelled the Moors—shut up in the east of Spain among the mountains of Granada where they are soon to be attacked—and the great chiefs can display their taste in abundance of costly jewels and apparel of brocade and velvet, samite and silk, crimson, purple, and yellow, close-fitting to display the person, with mantles trimmed with miniver or ermine; the long skirts worn to the ankle, embroidered with all the art the needle could attain, with the crests, cognisances, and initials of the wearer, pointed shoes and golden girdles thick with gems, holding glittering daggers, the head covered with graceful caps or furred bonnets adorned with circlets of jewels and plumes placed on flowing locks trimmed according to the fashion of the time.
Amid the bustle of attendants rushing to and fro with ponderous dishes, and skins of wine to replenish the flagons, and the joyous talk of the numerous guests echoing down the hall in which the deep sonorous voice of the archbishop is prominent by bursts of loud laughter and noisy jests as deep draughts of the finest vintages of Val de Peñas and Xeres mount into the brain, the feast proceeds, each guest pledging his neighbour, the Conde de Peralta drinking to Don Pedro de Mendoza, in his turn bowing to the Conde de Lerma, who, rising in his chair and bowing low, carries his full goblet towards the Marqués de Villena, who with lofty courtesy acknowledges the toast, and forthwith fills his golden cup to drink wassail to the archbishop.
“I will warrant your Grace of not dying of old age with this vintage,” cries Don Pedro de Mendoza, addressing the archbishop as he has risen in his place to return the compliment, eying the generous liquor with the loving eyes of a connoisseur. “It is enough to carry a man far into a hundred years.”
All at once the conversation is arrested by the soft notes of a Moorish zither; just the sweep of the cords and a tap or two on the sounding board, galopando, then the plaintive cana or cry rises, preluding the cancionero of the Cid—ever the popular hero of Burgos—sung with such exquisite sweetness that the entire company is hushed.
Si es Español
Don Rodrigue
Español fue el
fuente andalla.
“What new constellation has your greatness procured us?” asks Don Silvela Velasco, turning to the Marqués de Villena—a known lover of music. “Who is he? Not the young king himself, with all his talent, can excel him.”
“He sings well,” is the answer of the marquess, listening attentively until the final cadenza, and giving his opinion with the decision of a master. “But I know nothing of him. Minstrels were commanded to be present, and he is come. His voice and the music please me. I am accounted, as you know, my lords, a judge in these matters. You are aware that if the king has any merit, he owes it entirely to my training.”