But this was a matter beyond the general consideration or knowledge, and so the scandal grew. Within the convent there was none bold enough, considering Anne’s royal rank, to offer remonstrance or advice, particularly too, considering that her behaviour had the sanction of Frey Miguel, the convent’s spiritual adviser. But from without, from the Provincial of the Order of St. Augustine, came at last a letter to Anne, respectfully stern in tone, to inform her that the numerous visits she received from a pastry-cook were giving rise to talk, for which it would be wise to cease to give occasion. That recommendation scorched her proud, sensitive soul with shame. She sent her servant Roderos at once to fetch Frey Miguel, and placed the letter in his hands.
The friar’s dark eyes scanned it and grew troubled.
“It was to have been feared,” he said, and sighed.
“There is but one remedy, lest worse follow and all be ruined. Don Sebastian must go.”
“Go?” Fear robbed her of breath. “Go where?”
“Away from Madrigal — anywhere — and at once; tomorrow at latest.” And then, seeing the look of horror in her face, “What else, what else?” he added, impatiently. “This meddlesome provincial may be stirring up trouble already.”
She fought down her emotion. “I... I shall see him before he goes?” she begged.
“I don’t know. It may not be wise. I must consider.” He flung away in deepest perturbation, leaving her with a sense that life was slipping from her.
That late September evening, as she sat stricken in her room, hoping against hope for at least another glimpse of him, Dona Maria de Grado brought word that Espinosa was even then in the convent in Frey Miguel’s cell. Fearful lest he should be smuggled thence without her seeing him, And careless of the impropriety of the hour — it was already eight o’clock and dusk was falling — she at once dispatched Roderos to the friar, bidding him bring Espinosa to her in the parlour.
The friar obeyed, and the lovers — they were no less by now — came face to face in anguish.
“My lord, my lord,” she cried, casting all prudence to the winds, “what is decided?”
“That I leave in the morning,” he answered.
“To go where?” She was distraught.
“Where?” He shrugged. “To Valladolid at first, and then... where God pleases.”
“And when shall I see you again?”
“When... when God pleases.”
“Oh, I am terrified... if I should lose you... if I should never see you more!” She was panting, distraught.
“Nay, lady, nay,” he answered. “I shall come for you when the time is ripe. I shall return by All Saints, or by Christmas at the latest, and I shall bring with me one who will avouch me.”
“What need any to avouch you to me?” she protested, on a note of fierceness. “We belong to each other, you and I. But you are free to roam the world, and I am caged here and helpless...”
“Ah, but I shall free you soon, and we’ll go hence together. See.” He stepped to the table. There was an ink-horn, a box of pounce, some quills, and a sheaf of paper there. He took up a quill, and wrote with labour, for princes are notoriously poor scholars:
“I, Don Sebastian, by the Grace of God King of Portugal, take to wife the most serene Dona ulna of Austria, daughter of the most serene Prince, Don John of Austria, by virtue of the dispensation which I hold from two pontiffs.”
And he signed it — after the manner of the Kings of Portugal in all ages— “El Rey” — the King.
“Will that content you, lady?” he pleaded, handing it to her.
“How shall this scrawl content me?”
“It is a bond I shall redeem as soon as Heaven will permit.”
Thereafter she fell to weeping, and he to protesting, until Frey Miguel urged him to depart, as it grew late. And then she forgot her own grief, and became all solicitude for him, until naught would content her but she must empty into his hands her little store of treasure — a hundred ducats and such jewels as she possessed, including a gold watch set with diamonds and a ring bearing a cameo portrait of King Philip, and last of all a portrait of herself, of the size of a playing-card.
At last, as ten was striking, he was hurried away. Frey Miguel had gone on his knees to him, and kissed his hand, what time he had passionately urged him not to linger; and then Sebastian had done the same by the Princess both weeping now. At last he was gone, and on the arm of Dona Maria de Grado the forlorn Anne staggered back to her cell to weep and pray.
In the days that followed she moved, pale and listless, oppressed by her sense of loss and desolation, a desolation which at last she sought to mitigate by writing to him to Valladolid, whither he had repaired. Of all those letters only two survive.
“My king and lord,” she wrote in one of these, “alas! How we suffer by absence! I am so filled with the pain of it that if I did not seek the relief of writing to your Majesty and thus spend some moments in communion with you, there would be an end to me. What I feel to-day is what I feel every day when I recall the happy moments so deliciously spent, which are no more. This privation is for me so severe a punishment of heaven that I should call it unjust, for without cause I find myself deprived of the happiness missed by me for so many years and purchased at the price of suffering and tears. Ah, my lord, how willingly, nevertheless, would I not suffer all over again the misfortunes that have crushed me if thus I might spare your Majesty the least of them. May He who rules the world grant my prayers and set a term to so great an unhappiness, and to the intolerable torment I suffer through being deprived of the presence of your Majesty. It were impossible for long to suffer so much pain and live.
“I belong to you, my lord; you know it already. The troth I plighted to you I shall keep in life and in death, for death itself could not tear it from my soul, and this immortal soul will harbour it through eternity...”
Thus and much more in the same manner wrote the niece of King Philip of Spain to Gabriel Espinosa, the pastry-cook, in his Valladolid retreat. How he filled his days we do not know, beyond the fact that he moved freely abroad. For it was in the streets of that town that meddlesome Fate brought him face to face one day with Gregorio Gonzales, under whom Espinosa had been a scullion once in the service of the Count of Nyeba.
Gregorio hailed him, staring round-eyed; for although Espinosa’s garments were not in their first freshness they were far from being those of a plebeian.
“In whose service may you be now?” quoth the intrigued Gregorio, so soon as greetings had passed between them.
Espinosa shook off his momentary embarrassment, and took the hand of his sometime comrade. “Times are changed, friend Gregorio. I am not in anybody’s service, rather do I require servants myself.”
“Why, what is your present situation?”
Loftily Espinosa put him off. “No matter for that,” he answered, with a dignity that forbade further questions. He gathered his cloak about him to proceed upon his way. “If there is anything you wish for I shall be happy, for old times’ sake, to oblige you.”
But Gregorio was by no means disposed to part from him. We do not readily part from an old friend whom we rediscover in an unsuspected state of affluence. Espinosa must home with Gregorio. Gregorio’s wife would be charmed to renew his acquaintance, and to hear from his own lips of his improved and prosperous state. Gregorio would take no refusal, and in the end Espinosa, yielding to his insistence, went with him to the sordid quarter where Gregorio had his dwelling.
About an unclean table of pine, in a squalid room, sat the three — Espinosa, Gregorio, and Gregorio’s wife; but the latter displayed none of the signs of satisfaction at Espinosa’s prosperity which Gregorio had promised. Perhaps Espinosa observed her evil envy, and it may have been to nourish it — which is the surest way to punish envy — that he made Gregorio a magnificent offer of employment.
“Enter my service,” said he, “and I will pay you fifty ducats down and four ducats a month.”
Obv
iously they were incredulous of his affluence. To convince them he displayed a gold watch — most rare possession — set with diamonds, a ring of price, and other costly jewels. The couple stared now with dazzled eyes.
“But didn’t you tell me when we were in Madrid together that you had been a pastry-cook at Ocana?” burst from Gregorio.
Espinosa smiled. “How many kings and princes have been compelled to conceal themselves under disguises?” he asked oracularly. And seeing them stricken, he must play upon them further. Nothing, it seems, was sacred to him — not even the portrait of that lovely, desolate royal lady in her convent at Madrigal. Forth he plucked it, and thrust it to them across the stains of wine and oil that befouled their table.
“Look at this beautiful lady, the most beautiful in Spain,” he bade them. “A prince could not have a lovelier bride.”
“But she is dressed as a nun,” the woman protested. “How, then, can she marry?”
“For kings there are no laws,” he told her with finality.
At last he departed, but bidding Gregorio to think of the offer he had made him. He would come again for the cook’s reply, leaving word meanwhile of where he was lodged.
They deemed him mad, and were disposed to be derisive. Yet the woman’s disbelief was quickened into malevolence by the jealous fear that what he had told them of himself might, after all, be true. Upon that malevolence she acted forthwith, lodging an information with Don Rodrigo de Santillan, the Alcalde of Valladolid.
Very late that night Espinosa was roused from his sleep to find his room invaded by alguaziles — the police of the Alcalde. He was arrested and dragged before Don Rodrigo to give an account of himself and of certain objects of value found in his possession — more particularly of a ring, on the cameo of which was carved a portrait of King Philip.
“I am Gabriel de Espinosa,” he answered firmly, “a pastry-cook of Madrigal.”
“Then how come you by these jewels?”
“They were given me by Dona Ana of Austria to sell for her account. That is the business that has brought me to Valladolid.”
“Is this Dona Ana’s portrait?”
“It is.”
“And this lock of hair? Is that also Dona Ana’s? And do you, then, pretend that these were also given you to sell?”
“Why else should they be given me?”
Don Rodrigo wondered. They were useless things to steal, and as for the lock of hair, where should the fellow find a buyer for that? The Alcalde conned his man more closely, and noted that dignity of bearing, that calm assurance which usually is founded upon birth and worth. He sent him to wait in prison, what time he went to ransack the fellow’s house in Madrigal.
Don Rodrigo was prompt in acting; yet even so his prisoner mysteriously found means to send a warning that enabled Frey Miguel to forestall the Alcalde. Before Don Rodrigo’s arrival, the friar had abstracted from Espinosa’s house a box of papers which he reduced to ashes. Unfortunately Espinosa had been careless. Four letters not confided to the box were discovered by the alguaziles. Two of them were from Anne — one of which supplies the extract I have given; the other two from Frey Miguel himself.
Those letters startled Don Rodrigo de Santillan. He was a shrewd reasoner and well-informed. He knew how the justice of Castile was kept on the alert by the persistent plottings of the Portuguese Pretender, Don Antonio, sometime Prior of Crato. He was intimate with the past life of Frey Miguel, knew his self-sacrificing patriotism and passionate devotion to the cause of Don Antonio, remembered the firm dignity of his prisoner, and leapt at a justifiable conclusion. The man in his hands — the man whom the Princess Anne addressed in such passionate terms by the title of Majesty — was the Prior of Crato. He conceived that he had stumbled here upon something grave and dangerous. He ordered the arrest of Frey Miguel, and then proceeded to visit Dona Ana at the convent. His methods were crafty, and depended upon the effect of surprise. He opened the interview by holding up before her one of the letters he had found, asking her if she acknowledged it for her own.
She stared a moment panic-stricken; then snatched it from his hands, tore it across, and would have torn again, but that he caught her wrists in a grip of iron to prevent her, with little regard in that moment for the blood royal in her veins. King Philip was a stern master, pitiless to blunderers, and Don Rodrigo knew he never would be forgiven did he suffer that precious letter to be destroyed.
Overpowered in body and in spirit, she surrendered the fragments and confessed the letter her own.
“What is the real name of this man, who calls himself a pastry-cook, and to whom you write in such terms as these?” quoth the magistrate.
“He is Don Sebastian, King of Portugal.” And to that declaration she added briefly the story of his escape from Alcacer-el-Kebir and subsequent penitential wanderings.
Don Rodrigo departed, not knowing what to think or believe, but convinced that it was time he laid the whole matter before King Philip. His Catholic Majesty was deeply perturbed. He at once dispatched Don Juan de Llano, the Apostolic Commissary of the Holy Office to Madrigal to sift the matter, and ordered that Anne should be solitarily confined in her cell, and her nuns-in-waiting and servants placed under arrest.
Espinosa, for greater security, was sent from Valladolid to the prison of Medina del Campo. He was taken thither in a coach with an escort of arquebusiers.
“Why convey a poor pastry-cook with so much honour?” he asked his guards, half-mockingly.
Within the coach he was accompanied by a soldier named Cervatos, a travelled man, who fell into talk with him, and discovered that he spoke both French and German fluently. But when Cervatos addressed him in Portuguese the prisoner seemed confused, and replied that although he had been in Portugal, he could not speak the language.
Thereafter, throughout that winter, examinations of the three chief prisoners — Espinosa, Frey Miguel, and the Princess Anne — succeeded one another with a wearisome monotony of results. The Apostolic Commissary interrogated the princess and Frey Miguel; Don Rodrigo conducted the examinations of Espinosa. But nothing was elicited that took the matter forward or tended to dispel its mystery.
The princess replied with a candour that became more and more tinged with indignation under the persistent and at times insulting interrogatories. She insisted that the prisoner was Don Sebastian, and wrote passionate letters to Espinosa, begging him for her honour’s sake to proclaim himself what he really was, declaring to him that the time had come to cast off all disguise.
Yet the prisoner, unmoved by these appeals, persisted that he was Gabriel de Espinosa, a pastry-cook. But the man’s bearing, and the air of mystery cloaking him, seemed in themselves to belie that asseveration. That he could not be the Prior of Crato, Don Rodrigo had now assured himself. He fenced skilfully under examination, ever evading the magistrate’s practiced point when it sought to pin him, and he was no less careful to say nothing that should incriminate either of the other two prisoners. He denied that he had ever given himself out to be Don Sebastian, though he admitted that Frey Miguel and the princess had persuaded themselves that he was that lost prince.
He pleaded ignorance when asked who were his parents, stating that he had never known either of them — an answer this which would have fitted the case of Don Sebastian, who was born after his father’s death, and quitted in early infancy by his mother.
As for Frey Miguel, he stated boldly under examination the conviction that Don Sebastian had survived the African expedition, and the belief that Espinosa might well be the missing monarch. He protested that he had acted in good faith throughout, and without any thought of disloyalty to the King of Spain.
Late one night, after he had been some three months in prison, Espinosa was roused from sleep by an unexpected visit from the Alcalde. At once he would have risen and dressed.
“Nay,” said Don Rodrigo, restraining him, “that is not necessary for what is intended.”
It was a dark phrase which the pri
soner, sitting up in bed with tousled hair, and blinking in the light of the torches, instantly interpreted into a threat of torture. His face grew white.
“It is impossible,” he protested. “The King cannot have ordered what you suggest. His Majesty will take into account that I am a man of honour. He may require my death, but in an honourable manner, and not upon the rack. And as for its being used to make me speak, I have nothing to add to what I have said already.”
The stern, dark face of the Alcalde was overspread by a grim smile.
“I would have you remark that you fall into contradictions. Sometimes you pretend to be of humble and lowly origin, and sometimes a person of honourable degree. To hear you at this moment one might suppose that to submit you to torture would be to outrage your dignity. What then...”
Don Rodrigo broke off suddenly to stare, then snatched a torch from the hand of his alguaziles and held it close to the face of the prisoner, who cowered now, knowing full well what it was the Alcalde had detected. In that strong light Don Rodrigo saw that the prisoner’s hair and beard had turned grey at the roots, and so received the last proof that he had to do with the basest of impostures. The fellow had been using dyes, the supply of which had been cut short by his imprisonment. Don Rodrigo departed well-satisfied with the results of that surprise visit.
Thereafter Espinosa immediately shaved himself. But it was too late, and even so, before many weeks were past his hair had faded to its natural grey, and he presented the appearance of what in fact he was — a man of sixty, or thereabouts.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 696