Chapter Fourteen – THE LORD ADMIRAL OF THE SPANISH FLEETS

 

Don Juan of Austria was cruising along the shores of Spain, with the intention both of meeting the fleet, expected from the Indies and frightening the Barbary rovers that continually made descents upon the coasts.

It was early September, and his voyage had nearly come to an end. He had reviewed the moles, the harbours, and the fortifications of most of the towns he had passed, had recaptured a Spanish merchantman from two Turkish galliots in the creek of Los Trifolques, had inspected the new defences at Oban and Marca-el-Quibio, touched at Carthagena, Denia, Nica, and Mallovca, receiving at all these places a princely welcome.

Sailing by Peniscola for Barcelona he heard that a large Turkish squadron were making for Apula, and he dispatched some reinforcements to aid Andrea Doria, the Genoese Admiral, who stood for Christendom in those waters that separate Europe from Africa.

This afternoon of brilliant sun the young Admiral stood on one of the gun decks of his lofty ship and looked out across the sea.

Above him the massive poop and forecastle rose majestically into the blue air; the masts and riggings stood high and bare, for the sails were furled, the ship being at anchor in Barcelona harbour.

As Juan looked out to sea he could behold the rest of his fleet lying motionless on the still waters of the unruffled ocean—galleasses, brigantines, galleys, and frigates at anchor and fluttering with little flags. He rested his elbow on one of the large pieces of artillery that armed the gun-deck. He wore a light chain cuirass, a carelessly folded crimson scarf and great trunk breeches of olive-green embroidered with gold.

He had removed his elegant burgonet with the long red plume, and the clean fine air that blew off the sea fanned his upcurling hair and his face that was now tanned to an almost Oriental darkness of complexion; round his throat was a deep ruff of thin points of lace, and he wore the chain of jewels presented to him by his sister, Juana, the Princess of the Brazils, on the occasion of the baptism of the last Infanta.

Near the Admiral stood his secretary, Juan de Quiroga, holding a letter that fluttered, a white length, in his slim dark hands.

Over him lay the shadow cast by the dome of the projecting woodwork of the forecastle, but Juan stood in the full blaze of the sun that gleamed on the steel rims of the gun and the thousand interlaced rings that composed his mail corselet.

Quiroga was reading a letter from the Prince of Parma. When he had finished he folded it up, and stood waiting his master’s instructions. He was a creature of the Prince of Eboli, and sent with the young Admiral as a spy upon his actions. Felipe always kept a watch even on those he did not suspect. Juan was aware of this, and had already schooled himself to that Castilian reserve that betrayed nothing, and might equally cover stupidity or deep design.

He maintained his gravity now, though the news Quiroga read aloud had shocked and startled him.

“So the Infant is dead,” he said, still keeping his eyes on the brilliancy of the sea, “and the Prince of Parma does not say of what disease?

“Nay, Excellency,” returned the secretary, “but in the dispatches of His Majesty that I delivered you this morning it was mentioned that His Highness took a surfeit of green fruit and partridge pie and died of it.”

“Since he was a close prisoner,” said Juan, “doubtless it will be difficult to know the exact manner of his death.”

“The Prince of Eboli warns your Excellency that it is not a matter that can be spoken of openly—so painful is it to His Majesty.”

Juan glanced at his secretary; his full golden brown eyes showed no emotion.

“What great interest should this sad news hold for me, Quiroga?” he asked pleasantly.

The secretary bowed his assent.

“There will not be many to mourn the Infant, I fear,” he remarked; “but these advices from Madrid do say that the Queen has fallen mighty sick of grief.”

“Heaven preserve the Queen!” said Juan fervently, “and may she live to give the King an heir in place of the Prince he has lost!”

“Amen,” responded Quiroga piously.

“Answer the lesser of those letters, and presently I will reply to the King and the Prince of Parma with my own hand. I owe His Majesty an account of my cruise.”

Thus dismissed, the secretary took the correspondence below, and Juan moved to the deep gilded rail of the ship’s side and gazed down into the vivid purple waters that lapped in crystal edged waves below him.

So Carlos was dead.

He had died a prisoner in his own rooms, which he had never left since that night in January, when his father had arrested him in his bed.

He had died in the guardianship of the Prince of Eboli, his bitterest enemy; died, no doubt, in horror and despair.

Here in the glorious light and air, surrounded by sea and sun and the proud ships of Spain; here under the sweet open sky, it was difficult to picture that dark room in the palace at Madrid where Carlos had died, difficult to realize the confinement, the gloom, the monotony of that short but sad imprisonment.

Juan recalled the time of the Prince’s sickness at Alcalà, the close chamber, the perfumes of the drugs, the ominous figures of the priests and doctors, and the distorted form of the Infant as he lay on the glittering coverlet of his bed, revealed in his deformity, clutching with convulsive and senseless fingers the boxwood case that contained the portrait of the Archduchess Anne.

And now he was laid in his shroud, some monk’s habit, with eyes and lips sealed for ever by the finger of Death, and a crucifix lying where once his wild and wilful heart had beaten.

Juan wondered if anyone had placed in his dead hand the likeness of the woman whom he loved but had never seen. It was not probable, for he had died surrounded by enemies.

A horror was upon Juan. He recalled the unhappy Prince’s last words to himself—words of insult and reproach; they lurked in his heart like the echoes of an ill-omen.

Carlos had known that he was trapped to his death; that night he had gone furious and shuddering to his fate, accusing Juan as a traitor.

And Juan could not feel wholly at ease in this matter, though no action of his could have stayed the King’s vengeance from falling on his son, and though to have aided the Infant would have been disloyal ingratitude that would only have meant his own ruin. Still there was the fact that Carlos had loved him, had trusted him, and he had helped deliver him into the King’s hands, delivered him, now the hideous truth was clear, obviously to death.

And by this means he had bought the favour and confidence of Felipe as in no other way he could have secured it; he occupied one of the finest positions in the kingdom, and the way looked fair and open to those ultimate glories that his soul longed for so passionately.

Yet he wished that the deformed corpse of Carlos had not been one of the stepping-stones to this greatness.

As he stood now alone leaning over the side of the great ship in the almost unbearable radiance of the noontide, the sea-birds flashing among the cordage, the Spanish flag above him, before him the fleet resting on their gilded shadows, behind the white palaces of Barcelona rising from among palm, pine, cypress, and myrtle, he thought again of Doña Aña and meditated on what she would say if this action of his in the matter of the Infant was reported to her; would she not think him smirched? Yet how idle to refer himself to a mere shadow, to a woman he would never see again, to a creature who had always seemed composed of fancies and moonbeams!

He saw now how true her words were; she knew much wisdom in her cloistered innocence.

“When you find the blue rose on a living tree you will return,” she had said. And this was how it must be; his path had turned sharply away from Doña Aña; he was the King’s brother and the King’s servant, and his destiny was glittering; the dream-world of peace and simplicity into which he had for a few moments entered in her gracious company had now vanished for ever.

Nor would he ever find it again. He knew that.

As he stared down into the brilliant waters, sorrow enveloped his heart, a nameless regret; he wished Carlos had not died, he wished he had not lost Doña Aña.

There were other women as fair, as he had since discovered, and there must be women as good (what, after all, did he know of the daughter of Santofimia?); nor was he one likely to be denied in his wooing wherever he might besiege a lady’s heart; yet he regretted Doña Aña.

No one had spoken to him as she had; he felt that, despite the flattery that was now his daily food. No one had so truly admired him as she, or so sincerely loved him.

Loved him—the reflection sent a delicate shiver through his veins; in some strange way, known only to women, she had truly loved him, loved him beyond all, and was content to live and worship his memory.

He wondered if she was married; he hoped that she would take the veil; he wanted to keep her praying for him, loving him always.

He would be Infant of Castile, a king; he would wed with royal blood and the world should ring with his name; but he wanted to think of Doña Aña, immaculate, consecrated to him, always there besieging God with pure petitions for his prospects.

He knew that he could never go back to her nor send her word nor sign, and he counted this as honour in himself since he said in his heart he valued her above the mere plaything any woman, save a princess, must henceforth be to him. Yet though she must wait without the comfort of even a message and live the life of a nun in the house at Alcalà, spurning all gallants for his sake, he did not doubt that she would fulfil this test; he could not doubt, it seemed to him blasphemy.

“You do not love her,” the Queen had said. He wondered; surely if he had loved her he would have gone back at whatever cost to herself and him; at least he had never loved anyone more, but he could conceive a different strength of passion.

He fell to pacing the deck, regardless of the burning power of the sun; he wished he could forget this woman; he wished he could forget Carlos thrusting the diamond into his hand and embracing him warmly in congratulation of his appointment—for these remembrances were weaknesses in one who was vowed to serve God—and Felipe of Spain.

His Confessor had told him that he committed no sin, nay, had praised his loyalty to the King; why, then, should he feel remorseful over an action God’s mouthpiece had assured him was just and right?

He went up on to the forecastle that rose up like a fortress armed with great guns and manned with sentries. His second in command, Don Luis de Resquesens y Zuniga, Grand Commander of Santiago, was there inspecting the guns; he greeted Don Juan with that respectful deference that had not yet become so stale to the youthful Admiral as to fail to thrill him with pleasure, though none could have guessed it from his haughty yet charming demeanour.

“Señor,” he said, “it is my purpose to return to Madrid. For the present there is nothing to be done in these waters. The Turks threaten Sicily and the Moors rise in Granada. The news I hold to-day advises me that in these two countries there is much to fear from the Morisco.”

He paused and fixed his beautiful eyes intently on the stately countenance of his Vice-Admiral.

“The Lord,” answered Resquesens, leaning against one of the cannons, “has prepared much work for the faithful, Excellency.”

Juan gave his sweet and frequent smile.

“Señor,” he said, “could not a Prince gain great honour by volunteering against the Morisco?”

“If he was successful,” replied the Vice-Admiral with courteous caution.

Juan’s beautiful smile deepened.

“Ah, he would be successful, señor. Who would not be successful did he go with the blessing of the Holy Father and Almighty God against these wretches, these infidels, who are only worthy to be swept from the earth as dust is swept forth from a chamber?”

“The Marquis of Mondejar is employed in suppressing the Morisco,” said Resquesens, evasively watching the lightly clad gunners who were testing the artillery.

“He is but unwillingly obeyed and does not command much success,” replied Juan, still smiling.

“Why, what is in the mind of your Excellency?” asked the Vice-Admiral, who knew well enough but wished Juan to put it into words himself.

The Admiral answered simply:—

“My nature leads me to these pursuits and I would volunteer to the King to go and stamp out this uprising in Granada.”

Resquesens looked at him reflectively.

“Surely you might that way gain a name famous throughout the world,” he said, considering intently the beautiful and animated youth who spoke.

“That is my hope,” admitted Juan, “and therefore I wish to hasten to Madrid to lay this petition before the King.”

He paused a moment and fingered the dagger that was thrust between the embroidered lacings of his breeches.

“It was my intention,” he added, “to spend this Lent in penitence and fasting at Alrojo. I have a particular friendship with a friar, one Juan de Calahona, at the monastery of Santa Maria de Scala-coeli, and there I would have put in some while in retreat.”

He paused again and his sunburnt fingers still played aimlessly on the long quillions of the dagger.

“But mayhap I should serve God better against the Morisco,” he added, as if speaking to himself and with his eyes and the bright colours of the sea, “than by telling my beads, which any lame beggar may do after all.”

“It is a noble enterprise that your Excellency proposes,” said the Vice-Admiral.

Juan made no answer; he walked about looking at the guns and watching the men who were tending them, then suddenly returned to where Resquesens stood and halting before him said abruptly:—

“Do you know that the Infant is dead?”

For a moment the Vice-Admiral could not catch his meaning.

“Dead?” he repeated. “The Infant?”

“Dead,” said Juan, laconically.

He was gazing at a little brigantine that with her single sail spread was bearing before the breeze from one part of the fleet to another, and passing the flagship close.

“The Infant Carlos!” exclaimed Resquesens, much shocked.

“He died young,” said Juan, “and by his own folly.”

The brigantine dipped past and disappeared round the lantern of the great ship.

“You see why I would pass my Lent in penitence,” added Juan, gloomily. “I would make oblation for the soul of the Infant Carlos.”

Resquesens glanced at him curiously.

“The King’s service comes first,” he said.

“Yes,” answered Juan. “Therefore I thought that I would go to Granada.”

He stood for a while silent and the Vice-Admiral moved about his duty.

Then the secretary came to them, heated from hurrying and bearing a letter.

The little brigantine had brought it from Barcelona, where a messenger had just ridden from Madrid with it, hot on the heels of him who brought the news of the Infant’s death.

“It is from the King,” said Quiroga, and he handed it unopened to Juan.

“Another letter from the King!” exclaimed the young Admiral softly.

His blood beat with he knew not what excitement as he broke the seal; but after his eyes had glanced over the contents he glanced up with a face strangely lifeless.

“Resquesens!” he cried. “Resquesens!”

The Vice-Admiral hastened to him.

“Resquesens, the Queen is dead. The Queen is on a sudden dead.”

“God save us all!” The other crossed himself. “She died a saint. But you look stricken, Excellency. In truth this heavy news was expected.”

Juan said no other word, he moved away; who was he to question and pry into the King’s motives—into the King’s tragedies? She had died as she had predicted, even as Carlos had died as he had foreseen.

He went to the rail where the great guns pointed out to sea.

Elizabeth, the fair French Queen, was dead. Her gentle face, her sweet converse, her friendly warnings would no more lighten the Escorial, which was now her tomb, for Juan.

He felt that a part of his life was over; he gazed long and deeply down into the sea that bathed the rich side of the ship with translucent waves, then suddenly drew a small object from the satchel that hung at his side and cast it away from him and watched it fall into the brilliant waves.

It was a blue velvet rose, crumpled and crushed.

Juan watched it, a speck in the sea; for a while it floated, then a wave dashed it up and sucked it under; it was swirled under the ship and disappeared for ever.