Chapter Fifteen
A Burning Question
“To do a great right, do a little wrong.”
The ill-fated expedition had not long set sail before the king discovered its insufficient numbers, and in all haste he ordered Dom Joao to equip himself and follow his brothers to Ceuta. Joao, to do him justice, was perfectly ready to do so, and in a very short time set sail with a fair number of troops, hoping to join them before they could leave Ceuta, and, had they waited for a reinforcement, all might have been well.
He had not calculated on their over-haste. The vessel bearing the fatal news crossed him on the way; and when he arrived at Ceuta he was greeted with the story of the defeat of the army, of the detention of Fernando, and of the serious illness of Enrique, who, completely overcome by mortification and anguish of heart, had fainted on reaching his ship, and had been carried on shore at Ceuta, unable to exert himself further. All was in confusion; but Dom Joao wasted no time in reproaches or regrets; but after giving a few necessary orders, and encouraging the troops to look for better times, he went at once to his brother’s lodging.
Enrique was recovering a little from the violence of the fever that had seized on him, and was dressed and lying on a couch; but when he saw his brother he rose up, weak as he was, and threw himself on his knees before him, covering his face.
“Alas, my brother! how can I look on you?” he cried. “I have been the worst enemy of my country and of the Church and of my most dear brothers!”
“It has all gone very ill,” said Joao. “We must seek for a remedy. Rise up, my brother; you shame me. This from you to me!”
“Ah, could I but find a harder penance!” sighed Enrique; but he allowed Joao to help him back to his couch, and began to tell him how it had all chanced, and to ask what had brought him there in such good time.
“Duarte has troubled much about Fernando,” said Joao; “how was it with him when you left him?”
But the attempt to speak of Fernando threw Enrique into such an agony of weeping that Joao was obliged to cease questioning him, beginning to perceive how terrible must have been the experience that had thus prostrated one of such resolute will and power of endurance.
“Courage!” he said; “a better day must dawn. Fernando will soon be restored to us; and though we yield Ceuta nominally, it shall go hard but we will soon win it back again. For that object a war will cause no difference of opinion.”
Enrique made no answer. He lay silent for some moments, then turned and looked up at his brother. “We were eating our horses before we yielded, and there was no water, and no hope. That must soon have killed him and all the poor fellows whom we have led to ruin.”
“You would have been fools to hold out,” said Joao, bluntly. “But what is to be done now? Here am I, with six thousand at my back – ”
“Here? Fresh troops?” cried Enrique, starting into animation. “Then what is to hinder one more effort? Let us go back to Tangier, and win it, or die!”
“But the treaty?” said Joao.
“The treaty! That does but hold Fernando fast. We gave no pledge not to continue the war on another footing. And they harassed our rear enough as we retreated to show how far they care to keep their word. I am another man, now you give me hope.”
Joao was not altogether averse to the proposal, and Enrique, with reviving spirits, recovered his natural ascendency; and arrangements were made for Joao to return home with the sick and wounded, while Enrique, with the fresh troops, marched again on Tangier. No second brother, he said, should be thus risked. His first care, however, was to put Ceuta into a complete state of defence; and while he was thus engaged came first the news that the fleet which he had sent home immediately after the retreat from Tangier had met with a violent storm and been wrecked on the coast of Andalusia, where the Castilians had showed great kindness to the distressed sailors. Next arrived a peremptory despatch from the king, ordering both his brothers to return at once, and to make no further effort to continue the war for the present. Enrique was bitterly disappointed, though he felt that he could not wonder at the king’s doubt of his judgment.
“I cannot look him in the face,” he said; “I cannot see his grief. Go you to Lisbon, and I will hide myself in Sagres, and pray for pardon.”
The king convoked the States-General of Portugal, and a great council was held to decide on the next step. The Pope was again written to for his opinion, and the discussion began with all the ardour and heat attending a question where good men see, strongly, different sides of the right. For Duarte himself it was a time of agonising doubt. His peculiar tenderness for Fernando made the thought of his loneliness and suffering, of his possible hardships and of the loss of his daily presence, haunt him by night and day. Every feeling of his heart urged him to give up the city and win this beloved brother back. But then, he looked on himself but as the steward who must give an account of his kingdom. Ceuta, Portugal itself, were not his to yield. What right had he to give back one acre of Christian land to the realm of darkness – to let the consecrated soil be profaned once more by the accursed faith of Mahomet? What life, what love, was too precious to be sacrificed to save the souls of the Christians of Ceuta? This was one side of the question; and perhaps it is hardly possible in these days to realise how powerful this obligation seemed to such a prince as Duarte. On the other hand, it was urged that it was a foul shame to grudge any fortress, however valuable, for the life of a prince of Portugal, who had voluntarily offered himself, trusting in the honour of his country, and also that, after all, they had given their word to cede Ceuta, and were bound to redeem it, even to an infidel power. These were the nobler views on either side. Of course the party who contended for the retention of Ceuta contained many who cared nothing for the religious question, but who declared openly that the great sea-port was worth far more to the state than the precarious life of a prince who had never been able to make himself prominent or useful, while many of those who wished to yield it cared little for Fernando, and less for the pledge, but were only anxious to avoid the expense of a war.
But between the right on either side Duarte’s scrupulous conscience wavered with agonising uncertainty; though with his deep love for his brother, and his instinctive preference for the simpler, more immediate duty, he inclined somewhat to the view of yielding the city. Pedro and Joao spoke in the council with no uncertain sound. A treaty should be kept, they said, and their dear brother’s life saved at all costs. No sacrifice could be too great to make. Then let them go to war with every resource at their command, and win Ceuta back, and Tangier, too. Their words had great weight; but the Archbishop of Braga, a powerful ecclesiastic, spoke on the other side, all the other bishops agreeing with him, declaring that one man’s life must not be considered in comparison with a whole city.
The Pope’s letter came in support of this view. The war had been undertaken in defiance of his wishes, and had led to an unhappy result. Certainly, Christian land must not be given up to an infidel power; but he offered the much-desired full of Crusade, and recommended Duarte to go to war to deliver his brother. All this time Enrique had remained at Sagres and made no sign, only trusting that the matter might be settled without his intervention. But now, Duarte wrote, summoning him to Lisbon, assuring him of his forgiveness and affection, and desiring to hear his view of the question.
The time had gone by for the wild anguish with which Enrique had met Joao; but when he came into Duarte’s presence, and kissed his hand, ten years might have passed over the heads of them both since they parted. Duarte’s gentle cheerfulness had faded, and all the fire had gone out of Enrique’s great grey eyes, and his manner was subdued and spiritless.
Duarte made him sit beside him, and for a long time they were silent, holding each other by the hand. Then Enrique said —
“My brother, you can forgive?”
“We suffer together,” said Duarte. “Enrique, you know what our brothers say in this matter, and the contrary opinion of the Pope. How does your conscience speak?”
Enrique’s strong frame shook, as he answered —
“Were I the hostage, I could not so buy my freedom. Would that I were!”
Then Duarte took a letter from his bosom and put it into Enrique’s hand. It contained a few lines from Fernando, speaking of his good health and kindly treatment, and begging for Duarte’s forgiveness for the rashness that had risked so much. He sent messages of love to all his brothers, especially to Enrique, “who granted me my heart’s wish at the cost of his own judgment.” There was no single word as to his own return, or as to the cession of Ceuta, and Duarte said —
“This most precious letter was doubtless read by his jailor before he was permitted to send it, so that he could not freely speak his mind, to us.”
Enrique kissed the letter, he seemed unable to speak, and Duarte said —
“I sent for you, since you and he were ever as one, so that your mind on this matter will be his.”
“So he said.”
“Yes, you wrote me his words,” said Duarte.
There was long silence, and at last the King spoke again.
“Grieve not so terribly, my brother, speak as your conscience urges. Alike we love him.”
“Alas, yes! Duarte, his one wish was to see those cities Christian. For that he longed to die. I know, he meant that you should hold fast by Ceuta. And we were bound to that service. Had he died by a Moslem sword, we must have given thanks for a blessed end. My life —his life must not be weighed in the balance with Christian souls. Remember our knighthood. We shame him, if for his sake we tear down the Cross our father raised, and see the Crescent glittering again on the cathedral of Ceuta. We dare not put our brethren before our God.”
Enrique’s faltering voice strengthened, and the colour came back into his face as he spoke. The terrible anguish of this avowal had been faced and met; the bitter cross which he had helped to fashion taken on his shoulders. It had cost many a long hour of prayer and fasting before he had brought himself to the point of declaring the view that his inmost conscience had all along suggested, and even now he implored Duarte to spare him from the necessity of speaking of it in the council. He could not change his mind; but if the States-General, if Duarte thought otherwise —
“This was for me only,” said Duarte. “No one shall question you. Alas! your silence might have told me your conviction. I seem to hear him speak through your lips.”
Pedro was less considerate than Duarte. He was indeed too generous to utter a word of reproach to Enrique for his former disregard of his opinion, and when, coming in to seek Duarte, he saw his changed looks, he greeted him with the utmost kindness; but the substance of the conversation could not be concealed from him, and he said, sarcastically —
“Well, your conscience may be at ease. There are many in the council beside you and the Archbishop of Braga, who think our poor Fernando’s life worth less than a valuable fortress. He is sickly, they say, and of no use to the state, let him pine in exile, we will keep Ceuta safe while we have it.”
“Hush, my brother,” said Duarte with his gentle authority. “Well you know that taunt is out of place.”
“I meant no taunt,” said Pedro; “but it was one thing for Fernando to dream of crusading lying here on his couch, or even to lead an army to the attack, and quite another for him to suffer all the contumely which Moorish cruelty and spite can suggest, if we do not hold to our side of the bargain.”
“You speak as if we would leave him in their hands without an effort,” said Duarte. “But, come, the Queen waits for supper for us. My Enrique, you will be a welcome guest.”
Enrique would fain have been spared the supper, though of course no one but his brothers had a right to question him on his views; but he knew that it was best that he and the King should be seen together, and came to the table, though he looked so white and sad that the Queen rallied him on his unsocial air.
Leonor disliked depression and dull times, and did not see why the cession of Ceuta should be made a burning question. Dom Pedro, on the other hand, disliked the Queen’s frivolity, so he turned to Enrique and engaged him in a discussion of the latest calculations, by which his study of the stars was being reduced to a science useful to mariners; and that congenial topic brought a little brightness to Enrique’s mournful face, for he and Pedro differed on some nice point, and in discussing it forgot for a brief moment the dreadful difference that really lay between them. But the responsibility that rested on his shoulders never passed from the King’s mind. Others thought, argued, believed, but in the long run he must act.
Chapter Sixteen
Old Friends
“But the blue fearless eyes in her fair face,
And her frank voice, showed her of English race.”
In the midst of all this turmoil and excitement Eleanor Northberry came back to Portugal. Suitable escorts were so rare that, one having offered itself, she was sent back without previous notice, and arrived just as her father had recovered from the wound received before Tangier, and while the question of the cession of Ceuta was still before the States-General.
She had grown into a most beautiful maiden, tall and straight, light of foot, and slender of limb, with a clear voice that spoke her mind without fear or favour; blue eyes, clear and bright as the morning; and a skin fair and rosy, such as had not been seen in Lisbon since the young days of Philippa of Lancaster. The arrival of the English beauty was like a ray of sunlight in the gloom of that time of suspense and sorrow; and to Harry Hartsed it dispersed the clouds altogether; for she greeted him heartily as fellow-countryman and friend. He lived, too, with Sir Walter Northberry since the break-up of Dom Fernando’s household, so that they had many opportunities of intercourse, and Harry was envied, especially by Alvarez, who fell a victim to this new and lovely creature the first time that he beheld her.
Young hearts will be gay, and young lips will laugh, happily for the world, even in sad times; and Harry and Nella, a few days after her return were enjoying a lively chat over their old recollections of pleasant Northberry.
“This central court, with its fountain, and those tall orange-trees, and the couch on which my father sits, is almost the only thing I can remember well. We stood there under the trees, I and Catalina, and the prince sat here, by my father, and gave us the little crosses, on the day we sailed.”
“Alas!” said Harry; “when shall we see our beloved prince again?”
Nella did not know much of the matter in dispute, and decidedly inclined to the view of rescuing the good prince at all cost. She looked solemn for a moment, and then said, —
“Ah! there is no witch here to tell us what he is doing.”
“Do you believe in the witch still, Mistress Nell?” said Harry, slyly.
“No, sir; not since I went down to help my aunt give out the dole one day, and saw her eyes look out under old Goody Martin’s hood. Doubtless she knew us all well, having been at the manor every week. Oh, you need not laugh; when I change my mind, I say so.”
“I wish there was another witch near Lisbon, whom you longed secretly to consult about your sister,” said Harry in an insinuating tone.
“Sir, when I wandered in the woods by moonlight, I was a silly little girl; now I am a woman, and wiser. Alack! I think I miss the dogs and the fresh breeze, and I know I miss my dear aunt and uncle. This old home is very new. I halt and stammer when my father speaks Portuguese. I am altogether an English girl.”
“There is no speech like English,” said Harry; “I love it best.”
“Oh, you have grown to look quite like a foreigner,” said Nella, saucily. “I am but a country maid, and your court is too solemn for me.” There was an indescribably joyous sweetness in Nella’s voice and manner that took from her gay retorts anything of boldness.
“See, Harry,” she continued. “To-morrow I am to be presented to the queen; I practise my reverence every day.”
She came up to him as she spoke, making a low, sweeping curtsey.
“Rise, fair Señorita,” said Harry; “our poor court is honoured by such a guest.”
“Now – now, I know you are no longer an Englishman!” cried Nella. “That speech was never learned in Devon!”
“Like a Portuguese, madam, I can talk; but I mean what I say like a true son of Devon.”
“I cannot believe in such perfection. You were never one to belie yourself with over-diffidence.”
“I leave that to my betters,” said Harry, with a bow.
“Oh, saucy boy!” cried Nella, laughing, then paused suddenly, as the gates were thrown back without, and her father entered, cap in hand, escorting an exceedingly tall and stately personage, with a sad but kindly face. Behind him came Alvarez; and the whole scene brought back strongly to Nella’s mind the visit of Dom Fernando, years ago.
“My lord,” said Sir Walter, “allow me to present to you my remaining daughter Eleanor.”
Blushing, and with unwonted bashfulness, Nella curtsied timidly, in very different style from her mock reverence five minutes before.
“Welcome home, señorita,” said Dom Enrique, with a grave smile. “You come at a sad time;” and then, as if he could hardly turn his thoughts from the matter in hand, he continued, addressing her father, —
“You know, Sir Walter, that the States-General have at length resolved to offer a heavy ransom for my dear brother, and if this is refused, the Pope offers a Bull of Crusade, and we strain every nerve to free him by force of arms.”
“I am aware, my lord, that Ceuta is not to be ceded,” said Sir Walter rather drily.
“It has been so determined,” said Enrique, with a sigh; for well he knew that the decision had been made on no such lofty motives as actuated himself. Most men had thought Ceuta too precious to be parted with, not because it was a Christian town, but because it was a strong fortress; and Enrique had the unspeakable pain of finding himself on the same side with men who cared nothing for his brother; and whose principles he despised.
“The king resolves,” he said, “on the strictest economy, to make this possible. He has changed his mode of living, and cut off his few pleasures, for our brother’s sake. He hopes that his nobility will follow his example.”
“The late king, my lord, was so generous to his nobles that they owe their utmost to his blessed memory.”
“Even so,” said Enrique. “But now, Sir Walter, I came here to-day to speak with you of – of the foul treason that cut off our retreat, and made my brother’s sacrifice necessary. That most accursed traitor and renegade, Brother Martin, has indeed disappeared; but it has been whispered that others – his friends and followers – knew of his intention, and that he had in some measure spread the poison of his apostasy among his followers and admirers. Think you this is so?”
Harry Hartsed, who had been standing apart with Alvarez, gave an indignant start, and coming forward, said, impetuously, —
“My lord, Brother Martin’s preaching was ever in favour of the war. He never uttered a word of treason in my hearing, and I saw much of him. I do not believe that he was the traitor.”
“Softly, softly,” said Sir Walter. “Master Harry, you speak too freely to the duke.”
“Pardon,” said Harry, doggedly; “but I will speak for my friends when falsely accused.”
“The treason of Brother Martin,” said Enrique, “has been proved by eye-witnesses. No Christian gentleman should call him his friend.”
“If I may speak,” said Alvarez, “Señor Hartsed was much with Brother Martin, and in his councils.”
“What! You dare to say that he spoke treason to me!” cried Harry.
“Young gentlemen,” said the prince in his tone of grave dignity, “you forget yourselves. Sir,” – to Harry – “you have given your opinion, and that is enough. Sir Walter, I must go, for I have much business on hand.”
Dom Enrique rose as he spoke, gave to Nella – who had retired to some distance – a courteous farewell, and went out, his look of sorrowful oppression never having given way during his visit. Alvarez followed him.
Sir Walter, when his guests had departed, turned back to Harry, and rebuked him sharply, both for daring to stand up for so foul a traitor as the renegade monk, and also for forgetting the respect due to the prince.
Harry took the reproof sullenly. His heart too was sore at the thought of his lost master. Brother Martin’s passionate preaching had really stirred his emotions, and made him feel himself a true Crusader. He thought him unjustly accused, and was determined to defend him.
Alvarez, on the other hand, was filled with wrath at the very sound of his name, and the result was that the next time they met the two young men had a violent quarrel, in which Alvarez was passionate and Harry obstinate and sulky. They were silenced and rebuked by Sir Walter, who happened to overhear them; but they parted in mutual anger and hatred.
All was going wrong. The king suffered much in health from his sorrow and from the great labours which his endeavours to fill his empty exchequer cost him. Dom Enrique was unapproachable in his grief and pre-occupation; and the gentle Fernando, whose eyes and ears had ever been open to his followers’ troubles, and who had managed to heal many a quarrel, was far away.
Into the midst of this sad society, where every one was full of mortification, sorrow, or anger, had come Nella Northberry, and her high spirits recoiled from it. She was sorry for the prince and angry at Brother Martin’s treason, but she was not unhappy like the rest – only dull, and a little home-sick. She soon became aware of her power both over Harry and Alvarez, and her vanity was not quite proof against the flattery of the passionate homage of the young Portuguese. Her love of mischief prompted her to provoke her old companion by as much sauciness as was consistent with the etiquette which she was compelled to observe towards him; for the queen had placed her among her ladies-in-waiting. Nella hated court life, was too young and undeveloped constantly to keep herself in sympathy with the prevailing troubles, and, in short, she diverted herself by making her two admirers jealous of each other. Nella was young, gay, and unguarded; but she soon had cause to regret her first month in Lisbon.