As the count passes, he draws himself up and casts on them a supercilious glance of defiance, at once returned with smiles of scorn and derision.
“Here comes that wretch,” the tallest of them is saying, no other than Don Pedro Giron, Grand Master of Calatrava.
“Vile parasite!” exclaims another.
“Hush! hush! my Lord of Benevente,” says a third; “keep silence, I pray you, until the right moment comes.”
“The unmannerly cur!” mutters the Lord of Benevente, as Ledesma disappears into the presence chamber. “He never saluted us. Are we, the greatest ricoshombres of Spain, absolute in our freedom, and with the right of life and death, to be insulted by such an upstart? If the queen can spare him [at this there is a general laugh], he will doubtless take command in the crusade against the Moors, and be packed off with a bevy of mistresses and mummers to amuse the king. Castile has fallen under the rule of favourites with a vengeance! The Conde de Luna was a hidalgo, but this fellow is a low impostor.”
“A vile shame!” exclaims another Marqués de Villena, who, with his uncle Carillo, Archbishop of Toledo, is again to be found conspiring in this court as in that of “El Enfermo.”
“Presently it will be our turn,” says the Conde de Palencia. “Don Enrique is unworthy, and the queen—well, I do not wish to use foul language, but there is only one word to designate her. We are all agreed as to the birth of the Beltraneja, your graces.” The other two bow, and he continues: “A worn-out voluptuary and eight years of sterility require faith in a miracle in favour of our noble king which he does not inspire. She was christened by the public, as soon as she was born, ‘Beltraneja,’ after her real father. Don Enrique insists on her succession, to exclude his brother and sister. Why this imposture has been tolerated so long I cannot understand.”
“Such vice is disgusting; the palace is nothing but a brothel!” exclaims the fiery Pimentel, Lord of Benevente, ever impatient and outspoken, one of the most powerful lords in the kingdom, with broad lands in the north and an ancient castle within the confines of Leon. “Where is our national honour? The king has forfeited our allegiance. For the sake of a miserable bastard he keeps his sister, Doña Isabel, shut up in the fortress here.”
Now the Spaniard is of a silent nature, reserved and proud. His passions are violent and deep; but once aroused he stops at nothing and is capable of extraordinary cruelty and revenge. For one in the exalted position of Pimentel to speak thus of his sovereign, the scandal of his life must be outrageous.
“These are but words, my lord,” is the stern answer of Juan Pacheco, Marqués de Villena, the crafty intriguer all through this reign as his namesake was in that of Enrique el Enfermo, and not a whit behind Pimentel in ancient descent, dating from the Moors. He was the man who fought the duel where, asi cuenta la historia, he defied three antagonists, as is still to be seen in marble on his tomb in the Parral at Segovia. His commanding presence and haughty bearing imposed even on the impetuous Pimentel. Old in intrigue and conspiracy, he passed by mere threats as empty sound profiting nothing. “You know your remedy,” he continues; “all the disaffected are convened to meet at the palace of my uncle, the Archbishop of Toledo, come to Segovia for that purpose. Your graces will not fail?”