“Yes, yes, I will at once proceed to the cathedral to offer her such hospitality as a soldier can command. Call the jefe of my household, and cause the state apartments to be prepared as are fitting for her, and such attendants as have escaped with her.”
“And what is far more important,” adds Albuquerque, “I will send off instant despatches to the most Christian king, informing him of the presence of his kinswoman, and urge on him the need of quick support.”
“May the Christian king not chance to remember that it was you, Albuquerque, who brought her into Spain? The sight of your name may raise suspicion. But no matter,” observing the frown which rises on his face at the ill-timed jest. “By my faith! I would not be in the shoes of the Governor of Talavera, who has favoured the queen’s escape; for favour her he must, else she never would have passed the gates of that invincible fortress. Pedro will invent new tortures to punish him; what say you, Albuquerque?” and more than a touch of irony betrays itself in Don Enrique’s voice as he recalls the sufferings the policy of Albuquerque have entailed on him. “Your kinswoman, Maria, too, will have a new grudge against me, and work some diabolical charm. Methinks I see myself in effigy, burning upon a blazing pile, my life-blood ebbing as, drop by drop, the wax falls into the flame! Ha! ha! If it were only with witches and warlocks I had to do! But God is with the just! and the Holy Father’s blessing is potent.”
No answering look of mirth responded to his words; a sad expression was on the fallen minister’s brow as he gravely saluted and quitted the chamber, leaving Enrique and Don Jaime to arrange the preparations for his immediate visit to the cathedral.
CHAPTER XIII
Queen Blanche in Sanctuary
HE bright morning which broke so auspiciously at the Alcazar has darkened. The deep shadows of gathering clouds press up from the horizon and veil the city in a soft mist. The many towers and domes of the Cathedral rise up like landmarks on a shadowy sea; the delicate tracery of the gilded spire, capped by a crown of thorns, catching some latent sunbeam hidden in the lining of a cloud, alone stands out apparent in the gloom.
Like the Cathedral of Seville, the original Gothic church, in which the Wambas and the Witicas had worshipped according to the Gothic creed from the earliest ages, had become a mosque under the Moors, to be again consecrated by San Fernando, who, smelling blasphemy in the very walls, pulled them down and laid the foundations of the present church, finished two centuries later, in the florid style of that barocco union of the east and west so common in Spain.
Nothing can be worse than the situation. It stands absolutely in a hole. But it is within that this shrine of marble is wonderful. The clustered pillars of five vast naves, a marble space in the centre as wide and long as a hippodrome, the solid bulk of the retablo a blaze of gold, separating the high altar from the nave; the sculptured semi-circle of the absis broken by chapels, niches, shrines, and tombs sunk in the deepness of shadow, where kings and archbishops repose; the superb pavement in marble, lapis lazuli, porphyry, and agate lighting up the floor, rare pictures on the walls, statues, carvings, and huge bronze doors leading into the choir, the double pulpits coated with gold, the glorious screen in alto relievo, and the superbly painted windows casting down warm shadows as of ruby, emerald, and sapphire on the floor.
Deeper and deeper fall the shadows, and more and more solemn gathers the half-light, save for a glimmer far in the distance where a dim lamp burns before an altar of most delicate tracery flanked by two lofty windows, the front shut in by a brazen rail, while a lacelike shroud of exquisite stonework rises behind, reaching as with giant leaps to the heavily groined roof.