Old Court Life in Spain, vol. 2/2

by Frances Minto Dickinson Elliot

With a gravity which suits him well, he is seated at the head of a table scattered with maps and papers. Nor is he in countenance or bearing inferior to the famous chiefs and captains around him. His long hair, falling in locks upon his shoulders, is still auburn, though thin, and streaked with grey, his blue eyes are inscrutable, his features set and stern; altogether a countenance which offers an unsolved problem to posterity, as did his character, varying so greatly at different periods of his life.

He is plainly dressed in a cloth mantle, clasped around his neck by a single jewel; on his breast shines a silver cross, as for one engaged in a crusade against the infidels, and his body is encased in steel.

The Infante Juan is at his side. Isabel has borne him several children, but this is the only son, a delicate-complexioned boy, with thin, aquiline features like his mother’s, altogether too frail for the rough campaigns in which he accompanies his father, and singularly out of place among the hidalgos, who are ranged according to their military rank around the table.

At the king’s right hand is Ponce de Leon, Marqués de Cadiz, a great southern noble, almost as powerful as himself; on the left is the Duque de Medina Sidonia, equal almost in townships, castles, and fortresses to a sovereign, hailing from the south also. Both have performed prodigies of valour in the war. The reckless giant called Hernado de Pulgar sits lower—he who rode into the city of Granada at dead of night, and fixed on the door of the great mosque a tablet with the letters, Ave Maria, then departed as he had come before the Moors had time to seize him; the famous Gonsalvo de Cordoba, to become El Gran Capitan, and Viceroy of Naples, in this war flashing his maiden sword, already marked by nature in features and bearing as a master of men; the Conde de Tendilla, hero of Alcala; El Rey and Cabra, and many others as illustrious as the chiefs of Troy, but with no Homer to celebrate their deeds.

Now the king speaks, first rising and uncovering to salute the Council, then reseating himself, and replacing his velvet bonnet upon his head, in all of which formalities the Council follow him in profound silence.

“My lords,” are his words, “we are met here to decide as to the course of the campaign. Spite of individual acts of courage, Granada is unconquered. The walls are strong, and Boabdil’s general, Mousa, a leader of prudence and renown, vaunts that he will drive us out by avoiding fixed battles, and harassing our armies by perpetual skirmishes in the mountains, and ambushes on the plain. Noble captains and companions, this cannot thus continue; it is a blot on our arms.”

Loud sounds of assent come from all round the table. Several of the great soldiers rise to reply, but, seeing that Ferdinand is prepared to continue, sit down and listen with reverential attention.

“The important post of the bridge of Peñas is ours, gallantly gained” (again voices rise in subdued acclamation, and again die away), “and by the complete desolation of the Vega, we may in time starve the city. But, alas! my lords, this is a work of years. Too long already for our fame have we lingered here. The obscure city of Granada is not the only place where the flag of Spain should be unfurled. But,” and as he proceeds, his brows knit, and the subtle look of an unscrupulous intriguer comes into his clear blue eyes, “there are other means beside the sword by which the prudent general conquers. As the lion in the fable disdains not the assistance of the fox, so do I, for my use, keep myself informed of all that passes in the Alhambra. Treason, my lords, will open the gates of Granada to us better than combat.”

The king’s voice drops. He waits to mark the impression of his words among these heroic leaders who, new to the usages of modern warfare, disdain all means but that of the sword. Murmurs of dissent are indeed heard from the Knights of Pulgar and Aguilar, but subdued as towards their commander.

Ponce de Leon rises. “Don Ferdinand, the King,” he says, “I have no more doubt that under your guidance we shall stand within the courts of the fortress rising so defiantly before us, than that the sun will rise to-morrow, and autumn succeed summer on the plain. Stratagem is good in warfare, though some among us think otherwise. But beware of deception, your Highness; the Moor is like the Jew in cunning and deceit. Why not call the queen again into the field? Her gracious presence is ever the signal of success, and animates the soldiers. Let the saintly Isabel exorcise the infidels by the power of her faith. At the siege of Baza it was so. Why not now?”