Eleanor’s father, Don Estaban, distinguished himself at this battle, and was a member of the Castilian rearguard that rescued the king when he was surrounded by the forces of Abu Hasan. During the desperate fighting around the royal person Estaban’s spine was laid open by a cut from a Berber scimitar, and he had to be carried to safety by his squire. When the battle was done, and the enemy fleeing in rout, a grateful Alfonso had the terribly injured knight carried to his tent on a pallet.
“Don Estaban,” said Alfonso, graciously lowering the royal hand for Estaban to kiss, “today you have served me loyally and well. Ask of me anything in my gift, and it shall be yours.”
“Except land,” he added hurriedly before Estaban had a chance to speak, “my great lords are all clamouring for lands and castles, and I have nothing left to give to a mere Rico Hombre.”
Masking his frustration, Esteban twisted his bloody lips into a smile. “Then, Majesty,” he said in a voice wracked with pain, “I beg that you admit my only son, Charles, into the noble Order of Santiago.”
“Done,” the King agreed cheerfully, for such a thing was done easily and at no extra cost, “is that all?”
“I have another child, Majesty, Eleanor, a girl of just two years old. I had thought to engage her to some humble country knight, but I would beg you to arrange a good marriage for her.”
King Alfonso frowned and stroked his little pointed beard. This was not so easy to grant, for who among his proud nobles would want to enter into a marriage with such poor and humble stock? Fortunately, at this moment his Ensign stepped forward.
The Ensign was Don Albuquerque, whom I mentioned earlier. He was still a young man at this juncture, and many years from reaching the zenith of his power, but already a smooth and able politician. He usually shunned the company of Don Esteban, seeing no advantage in rubbing shoulders with some impoverished distant cousin, but now he was all felicity and warm regard.
“If I may, Majesty,” he said, bowing with perfect courtesy to his sovereign, “there are several knights in my service who, I am sure, would be happy to betroth their sons to this brave gentleman’s daughter.”
Alfonso read much more in his pointed expression. Knights of the middling sort, it said, slightly higher in rank than this man’s family, but not so high they would turn up their noses at his brat: especially if you, Majesty, were to sanction the betrothal, and make the task of persuasion worth my while.
“Let it be so, then,” Alfonso declared, “a berth in the Order of Santiago for your son, Don Estaban, and a noble husband for your daughter. Fitting rewards for the service you have done today.”
Whether the crippled knight thought these gifts fitting rewards for the loss of the use of his legs, I could not say, but the King was as good as his word. Eleanor’s brother, just fourteen at this time, was admitted to the Order, and Albuquerque found a suitable groom for Eleanor.
The infant suitor’s father was a Caballero named Don Fernandez de Castro, and he lived in the city of Toledo.
2.
Eleanor’s childhood was a happy one, sheltered as she was by her adoring father, who was carried home on a litter to spend his days bedridden and embroiled in futile schemes for the further advancement of his family.
While Eleanor laughed and played with the children of neighbouring Rico Hombres, the shadows of war and plague descended on Castile. King Alfonso, who scarce spent a moment of his reign in peace, continued to fight his nobles, the other Spanish kingdoms, and the Moors. Meanwhile the Great Plague, that had ravaged Christendom so often in recent years, swept again over the Peninsula and lingered for years, harvesting many thousands of innocent souls.
There was a third shadow, and one that would grow to darken the whole of Castile. It took the form of a child, a boy two years older than Eleanor. His name was Pedro and he was the son and heir of King Alfonso and his consort, Queen Maria. Maria was a good and gentle lady, the daughter of the King of Portugal, but sadly neglected by her husband. He preferred the charms of his mistress, Leonor de Guzman, to his wife’s, and soon packed Maria and her son off to Andalusia, where his conscience would not be bothered by the sight of them.
The childhoods of Eleanor and Pedro make for a stark contrast. On the one hand we have Eleanor growing up in the safety and security of an indulgent, close-knit family that protected her and gave in to all her childish demands (though she scarcely knew her mother, alas, who died but three years after she was born). On the other we have Pedro, growing up in the secrecy and paranoia of a court in exile, eaten alive by his royal mother, a neglected and miserable woman who lived in dread that her husband might sever all ties with her and wed the hated Leonor.
Complicating affairs was the existence of Leonor’s two bastard sons by Alfonso, Enrique and Fadrique, whom the King showed all the love and favour that he denied his legitimate son. Given the circumstances, it is hardly surprising that Pedro grew up an embittered, cynical and selfish young prince.
Had he lived to see his three sons grow to manhood, Alfonso might have been forced to embrace or repudiate Pedro, son of a woman he had long since ceased to love. Death took him, though, when he was laying siege to the Muslim-held stronghold of Gibraltar. The plague had descended on his army, like a hawk on carrion, and set about tearing it pieces. King Alfonso’s advisors begged him to withdraw to a place of safety and allow them to continue the siege, but he steadfastly refused.
“Gibraltar was lost to the heathen during my reign,” he said, “and I shall not budge a foot until my banner flies again over its walls.”
Alfonso was as good as his word, but the plague was no respecter of persons, no matter how royal or courageous. He died the same filthy, agonizing death as so many of his soldiers, and left Castile divided and afraid.
3.
Eleanor was just twelve years old when Alfonso died. Possibly Don Esteban feared that the removal of the King’s strong guiding hand might cause some people to forget their oaths, and wished to ensure his daughter was safely wed before her fiancée thought to try and slip out of the agreement. Whatever his thoughts, the crippled knight hurriedly made arrangements for her journey to Toledo to marry Fernandez de Castro’s son, Don Felipe.
For her part, Eleanor knew little of what to expect from the life ahead of her, for she had spent all of her fourteen years in Alonchel. It was in great fear and sorrow, then, that she left the only home she had ever known. In vain she begged her father, who up until that moment had indulged her every whim, not to send her away.
“My dear, you have known this fate since you were very young,” said the old knight, stroking her soft midnight hair, “you have never complained before.”
“Because it did not seem real until now!” she protested, “why must I be sent to some place I do not know, far away, to marry a boy I have never met, and live among strangers? How can you condemn your only daughter to such a fate?”
She risked some tears, knowing that Don Esteban could never bear to see her cry, but his face grew hard. “I have indulged you in countless small things,” he said, “but this is different. The fortunes of our family are at stake. You must do your duty, as I did mine at Rio Salado, and your brother does his in the Order of Santiago. You will go to Toledo, and marry Don Felipe de Castro, and be a good and faithful wife to him. That is my last word on the matter.”
His daughter was quite intelligent enough to see how things stood, and that further tears and entreaties were useless. Dry-eyed, she allowed herself to be borne away inside a covered litter, with a strong train of mounted ballesteros and hidalgos to guard her on the journey east, to Toledo and a young husband she had never met.
Eleanor caught her first sight of the ancient city of Toledo, perched on its mountaintop and surrounded on three sides by the Tajo River, in the beautiful gloom of a late summer evening. The sky was a delicate shade of light blue, darkening to a rich peach colour on the far horizon, while purple clouds slowly gathered in the heavens. Silhouetted against this magnificent backdrop
were the turrets and spires of the Alcázar and the Cathedral, along with the lesser towers and fortifications that enclosed the town.
Her spirits lifted the moment she glimpsed the city, and she fell in love with it at once. “I have found my true home,” she declared to one Lopez, the mayor of her ballesteros, and ignored him when he frowned into his beard and muttered that all cities were cesspits and sinks of evil.
A troop of horsemen rode to meet them on the plain below the city, led by a grey-haired gentleman in black harness who introduced himself as Don Fernandez de Castro, Eleanor’s future father-in-law.
The old Caballero’s manner was stiff and grave as he climbed off his destrier and knelt beside her litter. His lips, when they brushed her hand, were dry, and everything about his tall, spare figure seemed lacking in moisture and vitality.
“I hope that the union of our families is a joyful one,” he said in deep, slow tones, putting her in mind of a talking cadaver. He would not look her in the face, but kept his tired old eyes fixed on her midriff.
Eleanor responded with perfect courtesy, saying that she was honoured to meet Don Fernandez and overjoyed at the prospect of marrying his son, while inwardly she prayed that Felipe was made of livelier stuff than his sire. Don Fernandez’s joints creaked as he rose and signalled at his men-at-arms to join Eleanor’s escort.
The procession entered Toledo via the Puerta de Valmardón, and wound its way through the maze of cobbled streets to the Caballero’s residence, a fine stone house near Zocodover Square in the very heart of the city.
“My son is not at home at present,” Don Fernandez informed Eleanor as he handed her down from the litter, “I sent him away to stay with a kinsman in the country, until the time came for your wedding. It is not fitting for a bridegroom to meet his fiancée before they are bound together in wedlock.”
His voice made Eleanor think of tomb lids slamming deep beneath the earth, and she wished this dreary old man would go away and leave her alone. She was tired from her journey, and hungry, and could feel her patience melting away.
Fortunately Don Fernandez observed the rules of hospitality as rigidly as those of courtesy. He gravely introduced her to his plump, formidable-looking wife, Doña Adelina, and her troupe of female servants, and then withdrew, leaving Eleanor in their care.
4.
It did not take many days under the stern supervision of Doña Adelina for Eleanor to realize that she had been born into the wrong gender and class. The life of a noblewoman, it seemed, was one of child-rearing, house-keeping and dull amusements, and a horrifying prospect to one of such independent character as Eleanor.
“You have been too much sheltered from the world,” was Adelina’s verdict after Eleanor had refused for the seventh time to join her in a little embroidery, “they tell me you never knew your mother, and grew up surrounded by males. Lamentable.”
She shook her head and pursed her lips into a thick line of disapproval. Eleanor was needled by the woman’s tone, and had not yet learned the value of discretion.
“You regret my humble birth, and that Don Albuquerque ordered your father to marry his son into my family,” she said sweetly, relishing the startled look on Adelina’s face, “let us have no secrets between us, dearest mother-to-be. I am too skilled at divining such things, and you have no skill at hiding them.”
Adelina lifted one heavy, plump hand and slapped her, a stinging blow that left vivid marks on her cheek. “Never speak to me in such a fashion again,” she said in a masculine growl, “or I shall lock you in the cellar with the rats.”
“Will you, indeed?” retorted Eleanor, holding her cheek but refusing to cry. “And what will my husband think, when he arrives here to find his fiancée a prisoner?”
“Felipe will think what I tell him to think, as does my husband. There is a lesson for you there, had you the wit to learn it.”
Adelina misjudged Eleanor, dismissing her as spoiled and headstrong. She was these things, but she was also possessed of an uncommon, restless intelligence, complemented by the best education her father had been able to provide. The prospect of spending the rest of her days in a gilded cage of respectability bored and frightened her in equal measure. Never a particularly good or devout Christian, she turned to prayer for an answer to her predicament, but God was silent.
“You want me to play the desolate role of housewife,” she said, glaring accusingly at the little figure of Christ on a crucifix nailed to the wall above her bed, “and so you say nothing. Will you speak to me now?”
Christ remained mute, frozen in agony as he endured his torture on the cross. Abandoned by God, or so it seemed to her, Eleanor turned her able mind to thinking of a way out. Fleeing back to her father’s estate would do no good, for he would simply send her back to Toledo. Vanishing into the night was another option, but Eleanor loved her comforts too much, and her noble status. Living on the street as a homeless fugitive, begging for her daily bread, was not the escape she sought.
For three days and nights she pondered on the problem, listlessly enduring Doña Adelina’s sharp remarks and succumbing to her lectures on good housewifery. All the while her mind pondered on Don Fernandez.
Careful study of her future father-in-law suggested to Eleanor a man who was scarcely master of his own house, and one who had little interest in being so. He seemed content to allow his wife to look after day-to-day matters, spending much of his time at home in his private study. At meals he sat gloomy and silent at the head of the table, listening and nodding along to his wife’s aggressive domestic chatter as he spooned gruel into his mouth.
The dining hall was as stark and frugal as its master, all the dishes being of pewter and the table covered by a plain white linen cloth. The bill of fare was as bland as the decor, for Don Fernandez complained of a delicate stomach and refused to eat any rich foods. Thus, his family was condemned to gruels and meat devoid of spices. Eleanor, who loved fine wines, delicate spices and strong sauces, felt like she was being forced to consume nursery food.
She usually sat in silence, praying for the ordeal to end, but one evening she decided to chance her hand and draw Don Fernandez out of his shell.
“You have been in your study all day, sir. Has your labour been productive?” she asked, furnishing him with her brightest and most innocent smile.
This opening sally met with a slight twitch of his tufted grey eyebrows and a sharp intake of breath from his wife.
“Perhaps you will go for a ride tomorrow? Being cooped up all day in a dusty little room cannot be good for a man.”
Again, nothing, though his bony hand holding the spoon trembled a little. His deep-sunk eyes in their bony sockets stayed resolutely fixed on his meagre supper.
She persevered. “I am an educated woman, sir, not an ornament. Perhaps I could assist you in your work, whatever it may be?”
That was enough for Doña Adelina, who erupted, stamping her foot and pointing at the door.
“Out!” she yelled, “what makes you think you have the right to interrogate my husband? Have you no notion of how to behave properly, no manners at all, you ill-bred country slut? Go to your room, and stay there until I decide what to do with you!”
Eleanor had half-expected such a reaction, and rehearsed in her mind how best to deal with it. Dabbing her lips with a napkin, she rose, curtseyed to Don Fernandez, smiled at the fuming Adelina and walked calmly from the room.
A furious row broke out behind her almost as soon as the butler had closed the door. Eleanor listened for a while, smiling at the sound of Adelina’s harsh voice raised like a clarion in the heat of battle.
“God curse Albuquerque!” she shouted, “but for him, and his desire to curry favour with the late king, we would never have this smirking bitch foisted upon us! And God curse you and your timidity! Could you not have stood up to him, just once? Could you not have placed the honour of your family before his desires?”
Her husband bleated something in reply, but his voice was f
eeble and Eleanor could not hear it without putting her ear to the door, which she was loath to do. Still smiling, she tripped lightly down the passage towards her room. She had got little from Don Fernandez, but succeeded in sowing discord between husband and wife. The harvest might prove useful.
5.
Within a day of the furious row that Eleanor had stirred up, which raged long into the night and left the house oppressed by a hot, ringing silence, two unexpected twists occurred.
The first was the arrival of young Don Felipe de Castro, unannounced and uninvited, from his cousin’s farm in the country. He clattered into the house one afternoon, dusty and sweating from the road, preceded by a couple of flustered servants and a pack of over-excited dogs. The beasts had started howling as soon as they caught his scent, and smothered the young man in love and slobber.
Eleanor was still technically confined to her room, for Doña Adelina had not yet decided on a suitable punishment. However, Eleanor had managed to charm an elderly salver into leaving the door unlocked. When the dogs set up their noise she put down her Bible, cautiously opened the door and crept on bare feet down the passage to the hall.
If her heart failed to skip a beat when she first beheld Felipe, it certainly gave a little flutter. Under the grime of his journey, Felipe was almost handsome, with an open, honest face, short brown hair and gentle blue eyes. He had inherited his mother’s heavy physique, making him a little too stocky and heavy-boned for Eleanor’s taste, but his voice was raised in laughter, and sounded like it did so quite often. Eleanor hadn’t heard the blessed sound since arriving in Don Fernandez’s grim household.
The Half-Hanged Man Page 10