Part 2
The earliest mention of the place since the Christian era occurs in the Chronicle of Cardeña, where in the year 1072 it is referred to as one of the two towns (Rio Seco being the other) offered to Doña Urraca by her brother, Sancho, in exchange for Zamora. We may presume, therefore, that it was already a place of some consequence. In 1074 it was handed over by Alfonso VI. to Count Pedro Ansúrez, the companion of his exile at Toledo. This noble plays the same part in its history as Count Raymond does in that of Salamanca. The principal buildings, such as Santa Maria la Antigua and the bridge over the Pisuerga, are ascribed to him. He founded and generously endowed the collegiate church of Santa Maria la Mayor, with the adjacent abbey, of which, in after years, infantes and the sons of the most exalted persons were alone deemed worthy to be abbots. The famous Bernard, Archbishop of Toledo, came to bless the church, with the not less famous Alvar Fañez, who was Count Pedro’s son-in-law. When good King Alfonso passed away, Ansúrez took the oath of allegiance to his daughter, Queen Urraca, and to her husband, ‘The Battler of Aragon.’ When the royal twain came to blows, the count surrendered all the strongholds he held to the queen, and presented himself to the king, saying that ‘with the hands, the tongue, and the body which had paid him homage,’ he could do as he willed. Alfonso the Battler let him depart unmolested, and he was laid to rest in 1118, clothed in his armour, in the collegiate church he had endowed.
The lordship of Valladolid now passed to Armengol, son of Count Pedro’s eldest daughter, by the Count of Urgel. Under his sway the city prospered exceedingly. King Alfonso VII. chose it for the place of his marriage with a Polish princess, and for several ecclesiastical councils. Two more counts of the same name continued the dynasty of Ansúrez till the year 1208; but of these the town saw little, for as Counts of Urgel they were vassals of Aragon, and spent most of their time in that kingdom. The last count left half of his Castilian dominions to the Pope, the other half to his daughter Aurembiax, who was believed to be the mistress of the King of Aragon. Alfonso VIII. of Castile can hardly, therefore, be blamed for setting aside a disposition which handed over the principal town in his kingdom to two foreign potentates. In the year 1208, accordingly, the city was incorporated with the monarchy. Soon after (1215) it became for the first time the royal residence--that of the Queen-Regent Berenguela and her youthful charge, Don Enrique I.; and in accordance with this precedent, two years later, Fernando III. was crowned here, in the Plaza Mayor. Thenceforward the town became the usual seat of the court, though an official capital in the modern sense Spain did not possess till Philip II.’s time. The last years of the thirteenth century saw the reins of government in the hands of a native of Valladolid, the Queen-Regent, Maria de Molina, widow of Sancho el Bravo. Her predilection for her own birthplace practically extinguished the pretensions of Burgos to rank as capital, and during her stormy regency Valladolid stood by her loyally. She was not the least capable or intrepid of the many able women-rulers by whom Spain has been so well served.
Though the seat of government, Valladolid was not wanting in the turbulent, independent spirit characteristic of the Castilian cities. In 1328 a rumour spread abroad that the king’s Jewish treasurer, Joseph, was about to carry off the Infanta Leonor, and to marry her to the detested favourite, Nuñez Osorio. Sure enough the princess presently appeared, mounted and attended by an escort, as if proceeding on a journey. The citizens forced her to return to the palace, and clamoured for the head of the treasurer. Leonor promised to satisfy them if they would permit her to go to the Alcazar, or citadel, whither she contrived to convey the trembling Hebrew concealed among her retinue. Safe inside the fortress, Infanta and Jew set the mob at defiance, and sustained a siege till relieved by the king. Comically enough, Alfonso dismissed his favourite on the ground that he was the cause of these disturbances, while the Infanta married the Prince of Portugal, whom she had been on her way to meet when forced back by the crowd.
Women figure largely in the history of Valladolid. Here in the church of Santa Maria la Mayor, Peter the Cruel was married to the hapless Blanche de Bourbon, to leave her three days later. It was only by the entreaties of his mistress, Maria de Padilla, that he could be persuaded to return to his wife; but unable to overcome his repugnance to the poor princess, he again abandoned her a few days after, this time for ever.
The convent of La Merced owes its origin to another case of erratic passion. Donha Leonor Telles de Meneses had been torn from the arms of her first husband, João Lourenço d’Acunha, by the King of Portugal, who raised her to the throne. D’Acunha retired to Valladolid, where he was buried in the church of Santa Maria la Antigua. In the course of time Leonor’s second husband also died, and she also came to Valladolid, possibly to see what had become of the first. Doubly a widow, she found consolation in the affection of a knight named Zoilo Iñiguez, by whom she had a daughter called Maria. Leonor’s experience of love and matrimony led her at her death to charge her daughter’s guardian, one Laserna, to dedicate the girl to religion, and to found a convent for her special accommodation. Before this could be accomplished, Maria, who believed herself to be a relation of Laserna, fell in love with his nephew, and incontinently married him. On discovering the secret of her origin, she so far complied with her mother’s wish as to build a convent, in which Queen Leonor as the foundress was entombed.
About the same time, by order of Juan I., the old Alcazar, round which the town had been built, was demolished to make room for the existing convent of San Benito. The monastery of San Pablo became the residence of the court during the minority of Juan II. That king may be said to have lived here permanently, and to have confirmed Valladolid in its dignity as capital of the realm. As such it was the scene of much splendour and chivalrous display under the rule of the high-minded favourite, the great Constable Alvaro de Luna. And it was in the little Plaza del Ochavo, in the centre of the town, having run his course as a true knight and a wise statesman, that he met his fate with the dignity and composure which had distinguished him during his whole career.
The place of his execution was chosen by his enemies as precisely the scene of his greatest triumphs. He was confined during his last night in the house of his enemy, Zuñiga, where he passed the hours ‘in great contrition and affliction of spirit.’ ‘The melancholy 2nd of June 1453 dawned,’ says Don Jose Quadrado, ‘and in the Plaza del Ochavo, which then formed the principal square of Valladolid, loomed a scaffold draped with black cloth, and above it a cross set with lighted tapers. On a post was fixed the spike destined to receive the severed head. The Constable was conducted to the spot by the streets of Francos, Cantarranas, and Plateria, mounted on a mule with black trappings, and preceded by a crier, whose violent denunciations drew from him only the humble words, _Más merezco_ (“I deserve more”). Alighting on the side of the church of San Francisco, and mounting the scaffold with firmness, having knelt before the cross, he hesitated whether he should address the people, when he perceived among the crowd his faithful page Moreles, and Barrasa, esquire to Don Enrique. He told the latter to adjure his master not to follow the example of the king, his father, in the way of rewarding his servants; to the former he gave his signet-ring, which the youth received weeping, not a few of the bystanders weeping loudly also. “With my body they may do as they please,” he said on perceiving the spike and divining its object; and baring his throat, and his hands being bound with his own girdle, he offered his head to the executioner, who a few seconds later held it up, dripping with blood, before the horror-stricken people. The body remained exposed three, and the head nine days, with a box beside it to receive alms. With these he was buried among malefactors in the hermitage of San Andrés outside the walls; but at the end of two months he was given a more decent sepulture in San Francisco, where he lay till the rehabilitation of his memory and his magnificent entombment thirty-one years later in the cathedral of Toledo.’
The feeble and ungrateful king (Juan II.) survived his favourite little more than a year, and died at the convent of San Pablo, which had been his usual abode. Valladolid remained steadily loyal to his miserable successor, Enrique IV., when scarcely another town in his dominions would harbour him. Yet, strangely enough, it was in this city, in the house of Juan Vivero (where the Audiencia now stands), that the king’s sister Isabel, in defiance of his wishes, celebrated in secret, but with great ceremony, her marriage with Ferdinand of Aragon. This was on October 18, 1469--an auspicious night for Spain. But the city was too full of Enrique’s partisans to afford a safe asylum to the newly-wedded pair, who immediately betook themselves to Dueñas.
Valladolid, always on the side of authority, accepted ‘the Catholic Kings’ on the death of Enriqùe, to the exclusion of Juana, whom a modern writer inexplicably calls that monarch’s illegitimate daughter. She was barred from the succession on the ground that she was not his daughter at all. The vigorous but hardly beneficent rule of Ferdinand and Isabel was celebrated in 1489 by eighteen persons being burned alive in the Plaza Mayor, while a few years after the city was emptied of its Jewish inhabitants. A whole quarter left tenantless, deserted homes, and smoking human sacrifices marked the inauguration of the New Monarchy in Valladolid. Yet the city prospered, and was too busy to notice the worn-out adventurer, the Admiral of the Indies, the immortal Christopher Columbus, who died within its walls on May 20, 1506. But all their prosperity could not reconcile the sturdy citizens to the arbitrary government of Charles V.’s regents. Valladolid threw in her lot with the Comunidad. Her sons bled in the cause of liberty beside Padilla on the fatal field of Villalar; and when the Flemish emperor proclaimed an amnesty on visiting the city in 1522, many of her townsmen found themselves among the three hundred specially excluded from its operation.
Philip II. was born here on May 21, 1527; here he was married to his first and Portuguese wife; here also she died in giving birth to his luckless son Carlos. Yet it was this native of Valladolid who reduced it to the rank of a provincial city, and in the year 1560 definitely declared Madrid to be the _unica corte_, the official capital of Spain. This measure has been variously criticised, but it is certainly difficult to perceive the advantages which the new capital possessed over the old, or over Toledo or Zaragoza. This loss of dignity was followed by a more dreadful catastrophe. Valladolid was devastated by a fire in the night of September 21, 1561, four hundred and forty houses being destroyed, though only three persons lost their lives. The silversmiths, for whom the city was renowned, saved their wares by throwing them into the wells. The conflagration was caused by the sparks blown from a fire lit by some beggars in the shadow of a wall. Possibly the citizens were reminded of those other flames so frequently kindled in their midst by the abominable Inquisition, when men and women were roasted to death in the presence and with the approval of His Catholic Majesty Philip II. The furious element was less destructive than the Holy Office.
The city was practically rebuilt by order of the despot, and as a mark of his favour he persuaded the Pope to erect it into a diocese in the last years of the sixteenth century. His successor, with a judgment of which he rarely gave proof, reinstated Valladolid in its rank of capital of the monarchy, and resided here in the palace facing San Pablo (now the Audiencia). Here Anne of Austria and Philip IV. were born. Cervantes lived here in one of the houses in the Rastro behind the Campo Grande, where he finished the first part of _Don Quixote_. His experience of the city was unfortunate. He was, together with his family, imprisoned on the charge of being implicated in a night brawl, wherein as a matter of fact he had simply played the part of Good Samaritan. His brother wits and the literati unceasingly assailed Valladolid as unworthy the residence of the court, and after five years Philip III. was obliged, professedly because the city was unhealthy, to restore Madrid to its pre-eminence. The abandoned capital was hit very hard. Industry and commerce languished, nothing but the religious vocation flourished. The project of rendering the Duero and Pisuerga navigable for large vessels was given up, and, to crown all, the Moriscos to the number of one thousand were expelled, taking the silk industry with them. Inundations and all sorts of calamities followed in quick succession. Whatever money men earned in moribund Castile, they used to build churches and convents. The city’s attachment to the Bourbon cause in the War of the Spanish Succession disposed Philip V. to transfer the court hither a second time; but the pre-eminence of Madrid was too firmly established to permit this. The French invaders, a hundred years ago, found the place ruined and stagnant. Since then Valladolid has awakened from her sleep. The opening of the North of Spain Railway, and the establishment here of the company’s loco-motive works, gave a great impetus to her progress, and she is now an important commercial town, the centre of the corn trade of Castile. No Spanish city north of the Guadarrama gives such promise as Valladolid.
THE CITY
A city which was so long the capital of the monarchy--the city where Columbus died and Cervantes lived--whose streets are haunted by the immortal creature of Le Sage’s genius--can be no unworthy goal for a pilgrimage. It has memories far more stirring than Madrid, which in physiognomy it rather resembles. A cold, formal town it seems at first sight, with modern-looking squares, straight streets, and severe, imposing buildings; but behind these you find the old city of Juan II. and Enrique IV., a labyrinth of tortuous lanes, gloomy palaces, and ruinous monastic houses.
The handsome Accra de Recoletos, which looks across the spacious Campo Grande--the city’s principal park--leads from the triumphal Puerta del Carmen, commemorating the reign of Charles III., to the majestic Arch of Santiago. We pass through, and presently reach the Plaza Mayor, now called the Plaza de la Constitucion, the focus of the city’s life.
A minor Puerta del Sol, Ford calls this regular, symmetrically planned open space, designed after the great fire of 1561 by Francisco Salamanca. The houses enclosing it are of uniform architecture, with three tiers of balconies in the three Grecian orders, capable, it is said, of accommodating 24,000 spectators. The portico is supported by massive granite columns of a bluish tinge, each a monolith. On the north side is the ungraceful Ayuntamiento (Town Hall), with weather-vanes on its towers and martial trophies surmounting the town clock. The space is as lively and gay as any in Spain. The sun shines brightly, the birds fly as freely overhead as across the innocent plains; here there is no deeper shadow than elsewhere, no abiding gloom or ghostly chill. Yet if ever a spot deserved to be called accursed it is this. Let us project ourselves back into the past, to a bright morning in May in the year 1559. The balconies have not yet been built, but stands and tiers of seats have been constructed round the Plaza. There is a grand display of bunting, and the richest draperies are hung from the crowded windows--silks and cloth of gold and silver, damasks and brocades. On a daïs are seen the little prince, Don Carlos, and his aunt the Infanta Juana. The civic dignitaries of the town are here, the craftsmen in their liveries; but making the bravest show of all are the bishop and the clergy, arrayed in full canonicals, as befits the solemn Act of Faith at which they are about to assist. The square is packed with a vast multitude--men have come from far and near to see this thing--and people are pouring down the narrow streets, an unceasing stream. All eyes are fixed on the platform in the centre of the Plaza, whereon faggots and brushwood are neatly piled round fourteen pillars, and busy varlets are bestirring themselves. A subdued murmur betokens the approach of the procession. For the alguazils who clear the way, for the horribly clad familiars of the Holy Office who stalk before, the spectators have no eyes: the gaze of those thousands is levelled on the fourteen men and women walking slowly to their awful doom. Were ever creatures so shockingly grotesque? They wear a perfectly ridiculous headgear, like an elongated nightcap, or a hat such as our grenadiers wore in days gone by; a sort of smock covers their bodies, an ugly flame-coloured garment, painted with figures of dancing and grimacing devils. You can hardly restrain a smile. I’ll wager those gallants yonder are cracking some clever jokes at their expense, for the Latin is by nature a wag. We all know who they are, these wretches. Not long before Valladolid was thrilled by the rumour that a Lutheran conventicle had been discovered here in the heart of His Most Catholic Majesty’s capital. A holy woman, suspicious of her husband’s orthodoxy, had followed him one day, found him in the midst of this heretical assembly, and denounced him to the Holy Office. That is the man, Juan Garcia, a goldsmith whom all the townsmen have known and dealt with this many a year. Where’s his wife? somewhere in the crowd, doubtless, praying for his soul. Virtue like hers is worthy of heroines or devils. Most notable of the heretical crew is the Doctor Cazalla, one of the king’s most notable preachers; but the Holy Inquisitors are no respecters of persons. They would drag you from behind the throne. The priest with the Doctor is his brother Francisco. The woman is his sister, Doña Beatriz. Burn a woman? Ay, surely. There are four more, one of them a serving-wench. That black-avised fellow is a mere Jew from Lisbon--there is little sympathy for him. Then there are four gentlemen, and--hold!--one has a gag in his mouth. It is the Bachelor, Antonio Herrerruelo, an obstinate fellow, who will not recede one hair’s-breadth from his heretical opinions or concede one iota. The sixteen that follow interest us less. They have been reconciled with Mother Church, and for them no worse fate is reserved than the confiscation of all their goods and solitary confinement for life. Ha! one of them has fainted. It is the youthful daughter of the Marqués de Alcañias, Doña Ana Enriques. They say that one of this batch is an Englishman. Perhaps he has seen Catholics hanged, drawn, and quartered in his own land, and can forgive the Spaniard.
The learned Dominican in the pulpit reads the sentences of the Holy Tribunal of the Inquisition, and we may be sure his voice shakes with paternal tenderness when _he absolves_ those who are passing into the shadow of perpetual imprisonment. As for those fourteen others--the Church has done with them, and in sorrow, not in anger, she hands them over to the secular arm.
Now who will face the flames? for even the secular arm is merciful at the eleventh hour. Thousands of eyes are strained towards the scaffold. What is passing? Cazalla is making a farewell speech. Is he obdurate? No; from mouth to mouth the rumour runs that he professes penitence, that he abjures his errors. His brothers, the women--look at their blanched faces!--mutter some such words. Their necks are encircled by the collars of the garrote--they stand on the well-laid pyre. But it is not lighted yet. Swiftly the executioner steps from one post to the other. A quiet turn of the screw, and the souls of the heretics have fled, and the flames may have their corpses.
But he with the gag, Herrerruelo? We watch him breathlessly. At all admonitions he simply shakes his head. The executioner even hesitates to fire the pile. He has his hand on the spring of the garrote. A word from the heretic, and he will be dead, unscorched, instantaneously. It is useless. Herrerruelo will not speak that word. The fire is lighted. The logs crackle and blaze. We can hardly see the victim’s form. No groan nor sigh escapes him. But on his face, says one close to him, is stamped the extremest sadness that ever human being knew. Is it for yourself, Castilian of the old Roman mould? Nay, rather, I think, for your country which you see perishing beside you slowly but inevitably on the pyre of fanaticism and superstition.
It is over. The integrity of the faith of Spain has been vindicated. But the heroism of Herrerruelo soon finds imitators. His wife follows him to the flames a few years later. Philip II. himself comes to assist at a superb act of faith which demands another holocaust. He solemnly swears to defend the faith and to enforce the decrees of its tribunal. ‘And you leave me to burn?’ is the bitter reproach a Veronese gentleman among the doomed men dares to address to the king. ‘Ay,’ says Philip, ‘I would bring the wood myself to burn my own son were he a heretic.’ There was thus something of the Roman spirit on both sides. The brave Italian’s fortitude so inspires a fellow-sufferer that he leaps gaily into the flames, calling for wood, more wood.
The shame of the Inquisition rests not on the Spanish people. The citizens of Valladolid were kept in check on these dreadful occasions only by large bodies of troops. Torquemada, the Grand Inquisitor, dared not go forth without an armed escort of two hundred and fifty men. The Spaniards of to-day, with few exceptions, refer to the institution with expressions of abhorrence, startling even to Protestant ears. But it must be admitted that some writers more or less half-heartedly attempt a defence. Don J. M. Quadrado observes that the Holy Office saved the country from the horrors of religious wars, to which the obvious rejoinder is that the wars of religion, judged by their results, proved less disastrous to France, Germany, and Switzerland, than the policy of repression proved to Spain, and that the religious unity of other countries, such as Italy and Austria, has been preserved with comparatively little physical suasion.
We will leave the Plaza Mayor, this bright place with such gloomy memories, and see what monuments Faith has raised of a more honourable and durable kind. We cross the prettily named Place of the Golden Fountain, and the Plaza del Ochavo, where Alvaro de Luna died, and a little farther on find the Cathedral of Valladolid.