At a sign from the king, the curtains before the doors were withdrawn, and in a blaze of light the Alcaide of Burgos appeared in his furred cap and gown, on one side of him a priest arrayed as for a funeral mass, and on the other the headsman in a red robe, a gleaming axe resting on his shoulder.
“Nothing now remains, my lords,” continued the king, “but to carry out the sentence you have passed on yourselves. Prepare for death, Regents of Castile; and you, executioner, stand forth! See that your instrument is in good order. We desire not to cause needless pain, nor that these guilty souls should go unshriven; therefore, holy father,” turning to the priest, “such respite as is required for confession shall be granted.”
No sooner had these awful words passed the king’s lips, spoken with the air and bearing of a sovereign determined to be obeyed than the archbishop and the Marqués de Villena cast themselves before him on their knees.
“Grant us but life, son of the noble Trastamare,” pleaded the archbishop, suddenly seizing the king’s hand, as, gazing earnestly into his face, he became aware of a certain yielding in his bearing as he contemplated the humiliation of those two great statesmen, for so many years masters of Castile. “Give us life at least to repent of our misdeeds.”
“I will,” answered Don Enrique, “upon certain conditions,” the sweet smile natural to him lighting up his face as he graciously raised them from their knees; “but it must be true repentance and no falling back into mortal sin. You are my witnesses, hidalgos,” turning to the assembled nobles standing closely pressed together, in a common fear of some general accusation, “of their own sentence against themselves, and now of my generous pardon. Now listen, my Lord Archbishop,” addressing the prelate who had so often tyrannised over his childhood, standing with his hands clasped in humble attitude before him, “and you, Villena, Master of Santiago, and Mendoza; on this day sixteen years ago I was born. Never, while I live, shall my birthday be darkened by deeds of blood, but you shall remain in strict imprisonment until a full restitution is made to the State of your shameful spoliation. Those of my guests whom I have summoned here as spectators to profit by the lesson may depart in peace, but those of the Regency, ‘the Kings,’ as they are called, shall be conducted to prison by my faithful balasterdos, there to remain till justice is satisfied. Guards, remove the prisoners!”
“It will all come out well,” whispered Don Pedro de Mendoza, a gay and rollicking cavalier, not easily intimidated, to the Marqués de Villena, much more cast down at his fall, as they passed up the horrible apartment out amid sheaves of glittering lances. “He has never found out we meant to depose him. Lucky for us, or our heads might really have been cut off!”
That the charming young king did not live to verify the promise of his youth (A.D. 1407) is one of the misfortunes of history. The delicate scabbard was not stout enough to hold the noble blade. In other words, his feeble health gave way under the cares of sovereignty. He died prematurely at the early age of twenty-eight, leaving an infant son, Don Juan II., to succeed him. Doña Catalina, his wife, or, as we know her, Catherine of Lancaster, daughter of Costanza (the daughter of Pedro the Cruel), married to John of Gaunt, was appointed regent for her son—a placid, good-tempered princess, by reason of her English blood, and a great favourite with the Castilians.
CHAPTER XXI
Juan II. and Doña Isabel of Portugal—Execution of the Conde de Luna
URGOS and Valladolid never were capitals in the modern acceptation of the word, but they were at this time the centre of court life.