“Pardon me, my lord,” and Blanche stops suddenly as Enrique draws her gently forward in the direction of the portal, “if I ask of the welfare of your brother, the Grand Master?”
Her voice trembled as she named him, and her face grew ashy white. Instead of answering her, Enrique paused abruptly and laid his disengaged hand on her shoulder, as if to support her. His silence, and the care with which he bore her up alarmed her. Slowly she turned her eyes upon his face, clouded by grief, and a faint cry escaped her.
“Is he dead?” she asked, in a voice almost inaudible.
“He is,” was the answer.
“By whose hand did he fall?”
“By that of my brother, Don Pedro. He called him to the Alcazar, and smote him in the Hall of the Ambassadors at Seville.”
Exhausted by the long ride from Talavera, the vigil in the cathedral, and the agitation of meeting with Don Enrique, this cruel blow was too much. Ere he had spoken Blanche fell into a swoon so death-like that as Claire knelt before her under the glare of the torches, she asked herself if life would ever return?
Great was the compassion of Don Enrique as he looked down on her fair young face.
“Let the nearest leech be summoned instantly,” he commands, turning to an attendant. “Meanwhile, ask the good fathers if they have no strong waters to sprinkle on the queen, or no relics at hand which, by their virtue, will bring the dead to life. Even I, a soldier, have heard in camp of the virtue of Santa Leocadia, whose bones lie in the Sacristy. Let every means be tried. Madam,” turning to Claire, vainly trying by every art to revive her mistress, “my royal sister is happy indeed to possess such a friend; I will myself remain and assist you.”
The strong waters brought by the priests effected no immediate cure. No relics were forthcoming. It was not deemed meet that Santa Leocadia should be removed from her consecrated shrine at the command of a newly-made king, not sure of