Legends & Romances of Spain. Lewis Spence
keep ye fast your seats,” cries the Campeador,
“And hold your ranks, for such a charge saw never knight before.”
But the fierce heart of Bermuez that echoed to the drum,
Cried, “Santiago, shall I stay the while these heathen come?
With this bold banner shall I pierce yon pride of paynimrie.
So follow, follow, cavaliers, for Spain and Christendie!”
“Nay, comrade, stay!” implored the Cid, but Pero shook his head.
His hand was loose upon the rein. “It may not be,” he said;
Then in his destrier’s flank he drove the bright speed-making spur:
Like a spray-scattering ship he clove the sands of Alcocer.
Lost in a sea of Saracens, whose turbans surge as foam,
He stands unshaken as a cliff when on its bosom come
Madness of ocean and the wrath of seas that overwhelm.
So rain the hounds of Máhomet fierce blows on shield and helm.
“A rescue, rescue,” cries the Cid, “and strike for Holy Rood!
Up, gentlemen of Old Castile, and charge the heathen brood!”
As forth the hound when from the leash the hunter’s hand is ta’en,
As the unhooded falcon bounds, her jesses cast amain,
But fiercer far than falcon or the hound’s unleashèd zeal
Comes crashing down upon the foe the fury of Castile.
Now rally, rally, to the flash of Roderigo’s blade,
The champion of Bivar is here who never was gainsaid.
Three hundred levelled lances strike as one upon the foe.
Down, down in death upon the sand three hundred heathen go.
The lances rise, the lances fall, how fast the deadly play!
Ah, God! the sundered shields that lie in dreadful disarray.
The snow-white bannerets are dyed with blood of Moorish slain,
And chargers rush all masterless across the littered plain.
As lightning circles Roderick’s sword above the huddled foe,
With Alvar Fañez, Gustioz, and half a hundred moe
He reaps right bloodily. But stay, the Saracens have slain
Bold Alvar Fañez’ destrier; to aid him comes amain
The Cid Campeador, for sore the brave Minaya’s need.
His way is barred, his stride is marred by a tall emir’s steed.
His falchion swoops, his falchion stoops, down sinks the turbaned lord.
“Mount in his place, Minaya, mount! I need thy trenchant sword.
The phalanx of the foe is firm, unbroken still they stand.”
The stout Minaya leaps in selle, and falchion in hand
Strews death to left and right, his trust to rout the Moor right soon.
But see, the Cid hath fiercely rid with blood-embroidered shoon
Upon the Moorish capitan, he cleaves his shining shield:
The haughty Moslem turns to fly—that blow hath won the field.
Bold Martin Antolinez aims a stroke at Galve’s head;
The jewelled casque it cracks in twain, the infidel hath fled
Rather than bide its fellow; he and Fariz make retreat:
They caracoled to victory, they gallop from defeat.
Ne’er was a field so worthy sung since first men sang of war.
Its laurels unto thee belong, O Cid Campeador!
Fierce and sanguinary was the pursuit. The Moorish rout was complete, and the little Castilian band had lost but fifteen men. Five hundred Arab horses, heavily caparisoned, each with a splendid sword at the saddle-bow, fell into the hands of the Cid, who kept a fifth share for himself, as was the way with the commanders of such free companies as he led. But greatly desiring to make his peace with King Alfonso of Castile, he sent the trusty Alvar Fañez to Court with thirty steeds saddled and bridled in the Moorish fashion.
But the Moors, even with the dust of defeat in their mouths, were not minded to leave the Cid the freedom of their borders, and seeing that he would not be able to hold Alcocer for long against their numbers, he bargained with the Saracens of the neighbouring cities for the ransom of Alcocer. This they gladly agreed to for three thousand marks of gold and silver, so, quitting the place, the Campeador pushed southward, and took up a position on a hill above the district of Mont’real. He laid all the Moorish towns in the neighbourhood under tribute, remaining in his new encampment full fifteen weeks.
Meanwhile Alvar Fañez had journeyed to the Court and had presented the King with the thirty good steeds taken in battle. “It is yet too soon to take the Cid back into favour,” said Alfonso, “but since these horses come from the infidel, I scruple not to receive them. I pardon thee, Alvar Fañez, and withdraw my banishment from thee. But as to the Cid, I say no more than that any good lance who cares to join him may do so without hindrance from me.”
The War with Raymond Berenger
Now the Count of Barcelona, Raymond Berenger, a haughty and arrogant lord, conceived the presence of the Cid in a territory so near his own dominions to be an insult to himself, and in a high passion he mustered all his forces, Moorish as well as Christian, so that he might drive the Cid from the lands he held in tribute. The Campeador, hearing of the advance of this host, sent a courteous message to Count Raymond, assuring him of pacific intentions toward himself. But the Count felt that his personal dignity had been offended, and refused to receive the messenger.
When the Cid beheld the army of Raymond marching against his position on the heights of Mont’real, he knew that his overtures for peace had been in vain, and, dressing his ranks for the fierce combat that he knew must follow, took up a position upon the plain suitable for cavalry. The lightly armed Moorish horsemen of Berenger’s host rushed precipitately to the attack, but were easily routed by the Castilian cavaliers. The Count’s Frankish men-at-arms, a band of skilful and warlike mercenaries, then thundered down-hill upon the lances of the Cid. The shock was terrific, but brief was the combat, for the knights of Castile, hardened by constant warfare, speedily overthrew the Frankish horsemen. The Cid himself attacked Count Berenger, took him prisoner, and forced him to deliver up his famous sword Colada, which figures so prominently in the mighty deeds which follow. A falchion which tradition states is none other than this celebrated blade, the Spanish Excalibur, is still shown at the Armeria at Madrid, and all pious lovers of chivalry will gladly believe that it is the sword taken by the Campeador from the haughty Berenger, even though the profane point out that its hilt is obviously of the fifteenth century!
Greatly content were they of the Cid’s company with the victory no less than with the spoil, and a feast worthy of princes was prepared to celebrate the occasion.
In courtesy the Cid invited the defeated Count Raymond to feast with him, but he refused the invitation with hauteur, saying that his capture by outlaws had taken away his appetite. Nettled at this display of rudeness, the Cid told him that he would not see his realms again until he broke bread and drank wine with him. Three whole days did the Count refuse to touch all provender, and on the third day the Cid promised him immediate freedom if he would break his fast. This