A Rich Young Man

PART I

1

LISBON knew nothing of the family De Bulhom before 1147. In that year, Don Raoul de Bulhom came from the north with the armies of Afonso Henriques to reclaim the city from the Saracens and to remain there with his wife and son. Lisbon speculated, but none could learn De Bulhom’s origin, either as to family or country. Similarity of the name De Bulhom to De Bouillon inspired a conjecture that Don Raoul bore in his veins the blood of the great Duke Godfrey; but Don Raoul neither affirmed nor denied the speculation, and thus confirmed it by default.

Don Raoul’s son, Roberto, almost permitted the De Bulhom line to expire. He had a knight’s powerful body, but his placid, cheerful disposition turned him toward a peaceful life. When he was twenty, he began construction of Castle de Bulhom and became so engrossed in that activity that he did not marry until he was thirty.

Don Roberto built the great castle on a shelf, a little above the level of the city on the slope of St. George’s Hill. Above it was the Cathedral, and on the summit above both was the Fortress of St. George. His project drew townsmen and innkeepers to build along the road from the city to the castle, and they built, one next to the other, to the very edge of the slope.

The outer walls of the castle displayed neither the cheerfulness nor peaceful intent of their builder. The building dominated Lisbon as a gloomy mass of stone without windows. Narrow slots, from which bowmen could drive off attackers, pierced the walls at regular intervals. The one entrance was the sally port, an arched tunnel cut through the west wing to connect the road from the city with the interior courtyard.

The sally port tunnel was sufficiently wide to accommodate a team of oxen drawing a cart and sufficiently high that a tall man on horse could ride through it upright in his saddle. Entrance through this could be blocked by closing the heavy wood and iron gates at the outer end or by closing the grilled iron gates at the inner end. The sally port was so designed that a small group of raiders could be trapped between the outer and inner gates, then slaughtered by bowmen from slots in the side walls or by fire and hot oil poured down from openings in the ceiling.

The tunnel opened into a courtyard, a large rectangle formed by the four wings of the castle. It was open to the sky and paved with cobblestones. The four walls around it, unlike the grim outer walls, were cheerful with doorways and three levels of windows.

In the east wing, directly across the courtyard from the inner opening of the sally port, was the principal entrance—twin doors of oak that opened into the Great Hall, with its dozen windows. The first doorway beyond the two windows on the right was the entrance to the living quarters of the family, which occupied the remainder of the wing.

Through the hours of light, except at midday, carts rumbled heavily on the cobblestones of the courtyard, anvils in the forge and armory rang almost continually, grooms and horses fought loudly but without rancor. The lighter chorus of human voices swelled and diminished with the labor of the day. In the first hours of the morning, knights and squires grouped noisily before the stables while they waited for grooms to bring the horses. Only at midday and at night did the clamor cease.

Don Roberto had completed the castle two years after his marriage but his wife lived only three years to enjoy it. When she died, after the birth of their son, Martinho, Lisbon knew that a man who had married for the first time so late in life would not enter readily into a second marriage, and the De Bulhom line again depended on the one son.

Young Martinho went far to the north country as squire in the service of the King’s brother. Lisbon did not see him from his thirteenth year until he returned in 1194 with his sword of knighthood and his royal bride from the Taveiras of Asturias. They saw then a broad-faced, heavy-jawed youth, confident in the strength of his powerful body and proud in his heritage. They saw, too, a young and pretty Dona Tereza, whose low, happy laugh contrasted with the intensity of her husband.

Soon after, Lisbon’s sharp tongues wagged the news of Dona Tereza’s dowry—the whole rather than a part of her family’s lands along the River Tagus. Her dowry, joined to Don Martinho’s lands in the valley north of the city, made the family De Bulhom the wealthiest of Lisbon.

Lisbon’s tongues wagged again in 1195 when Don Martinho’s son, Fernando, was born. Dona Tereza had not recovered as she should and remained some months in bed. When she did arise, she was delicate and could walk no farther from the castle than to the Cathedral or ride, in the chaise, no farther than the city walls. Fate again held continuation of the De Bulhom name to one son.

Thereafter, Lisbon’s interest in the family De Bulhom changed steadily and imperceptibly. The city became accustomed to Don Martinho, with a group of his knights or with only his knight commander, riding slowly through the narrow, crowded streets; accustomed to the food and fuel and clothing that flowed from the castle above to the needy below; accustomed to Master Fernando serving Mass each morning in the Cathedral and to the parents who waited afterward in the emptied church until he joined them.

2

FERNANDO walked calmly and quietly at his mother’s left in small imitation of his father at her right. He could maintain his calmness and gravity until they descended the steps of the Cathedral and had taken a step forward on the road to the castle. There, where his father’s requirement of silence and gravity ended, Fernando’s tongue and body reclaimed their freedom. With gay abandonment he related the events of the night, of the morning, and of the sacristy; then ran before his parents to explore anew the familiar road, to shout each new discovery, to point each new interest. August heat held no greater power than January cold to suppress him.

Fernando!

He dropped the stone he had lifted in his search for lizards and looked back at his parents. His father’s expression was ominous; he looked quickly to his mother. For the moment, he felt misgivings as her black eyes looked at him steadily and seriously; then his heart lifted again as she smiled and her white teeth gleamed from the surrounding darkness of her face. He smiled quickly in return and ran toward them.

Can we not train the boy to hold his tongue, Trese? Safely at his mother’s side Fernando carefully avoided looking at her even when he knew she had turned to glance at him. If he turned his head his eyes might meet his father’s.

Fernando is noisy, Martinho, she scolded with soft indirectness.

He talks without end, Trese, his father persisted.

When his mother spoke again, her voice had softened more as it always did when she was troubled. Does he talk more than before, Martinho, or are you more aware of his talking?

Trese, you are not fair, Don Martinho protested sharply.

The road lowered gently before them to the towering bulk of Castle de Bulhom, where it seemed to end abruptly against the great stones of the east wall. On either side of the road, olive trees formed straight lines into the depths of their orchards. Dull green leaves, unruffled in the morning stillness, foretold the heat of the day. The hill and the Fortress of St. George behind shielded them from the morning sun, but the sky was cloudless, and the month was August.

Don Martinho pointed toward the heavy stones of the castle and let his arm sweep away to include the olive trees and the country beyond. Which will be master, Trese—Fernando de Bulhom or Castle de Bulhom?

Fernando’s mind grappled with the strange question. His father’s voice was angry, but it held also a tone of foreboding, as though this castle that was their home could suddenly become a monster and devour them. His eyes ranged along the great stones of the wall, laced with mortar and the bowmen’s slots. His mother seemed to understand the question.

Please, Martinho, I was unfair, Dona Tereza admitted softly. But you are too tense—so anxious…

Fernando waited for the scolding that must follow withdrawal of his mother’s protection. But when his father spoke again, all traces of temper had disappeared. Trese, I am more sensitive now to his faults. If the King appoints me, I may become even more sensitive. But if I am not the king’s magistrate, Fernando’s faults remain, and we must still correct them. Someday, all this will be his. He will have the power of this wealth. He will be responsible for all these people.

Slowly at first, then more quickly as his parents discussed other matters, Fernando’s spirits regained their accustomed level. With difficulty he remained silent through the remainder of their walk. He was relieved when, at last, he followed his mother through the doorway into their quarters.

In the trencher room, a waiter prepared the table for breakfast. The room was small and plain, its stone walls bare with an incongruously large window open to the noise and confusion of the courtyard, and a table with four benches placed around it. Don Martinho’s accustomed place was at the end of the table nearest a door leading into the kitchen. Dona Tereza sat at the right of her husband, between him and Fernando, whose bench was nearest the window. Three knives and three goblets were on the table.

Sir Thomas? Don Martinho asked.

The waiter straightened from his work. Sir Thomas went early into Lisbon, Don Martinho. He left no message.

Fernando waited until his mother and father were seated, then pulled his own bench beneath him and recited grace. He fixed his mind firmly on the necessity for continued silence.

You had a birthday last week, Son?

Fernando nodded quickly at his father. On the feast of the Virgin, he said and smiled.

And you were eleven?

Fernando hesitated, warned by the question. His eyes darted toward his mother, but Dona Tereza studied the table before her. His smile faded. Yes, Father, he said.

Don Martinho leaned his big body forward over the table to emphasize the intensity of his words. Fernando, you are only eleven, but you talk more than most men. His voice was sad rather than stern. You begin to talk as soon as your foot touches the ground before the Cathedral, and you will not stop until you sleep at night.

The waiter brought the bread and meat of breakfast. The noises of the courtyard magnified in the silence of the room. Don Martinho paused. He examined the meat before him, lifted a piece of bread, and turned it critically. His manner was elaborately patient and oppressive until the waiter finished his work and fled through the door into the kitchen.

Fernando, all your energy is in your tongue. Your mother must awaken you each morning, must brush your hair, must care for your clothes and your shoes. You talk at home, and Canon Joseph complains that you talk at school. In a few years, you will want to enter service in some other house as squire. Your master will not endure your talking as we have. Any master will demand improvement or will send you home as unworthy of knighthood. Or, if he keeps you, you know what he will call you. Don Martinho’s voice had been low and even, but now it rose suddenly with contempt. Sir Triple Tongue!

Fernando held his gaze steadfastly on the food before him. Belatedly, the offending tongue endeavored to disown its guilt. He looked up only once—a startled look when his knife slipped from his hand and rattled loudly on the wood of the table. The noises from the courtyard dominated the room.

This afternoon, Dona Tereza said, I shall need an escort into the city.

Fernando glanced up hopefully but turned his eyes downward again immediately. Perhaps you will need both of us, Trese, he heard his father say, and raised his head quickly again.

The return of Sir Thomas interrupted them. Chain mail and great sword rattled in the outer passage while the knight commander stripped the camail from his head. When he appeared, he had not delayed to towel his wet hair and face, though there was no urgency in his manner. He smiled as he paused casually at the doorway.

God’s Morning! he said—Dona Tereza!—Don Martinho!—Master Fernando! as he looked at each in turn.

The knight commander was a big man, an inch or two taller than Don Martinho, with wide shoulders and slender body. He was not handsome—a nose broken at least once and a blunt, heavy chin denied the possibility—but his alert smile and deep-set eyes imparted a singular impression of loyalty and devotion. When he walked to the vacant bench at the side of the table opposite Dona Tereza, he carried the weight of the chain with distinctive grace.

There was trouble in the city this morning, and I took a group of the men down. That trouble was already settled, but we stumbled on three men—archers from Anglia—beating one of King Sancho’s knight couriers. The courier was that braggart, Roberto, who talks so much. He was hurt, but he was still anxious to talk. He said he had been here for two days, but when he left Coimbra, the King had already selected a magistrate for Lisbon and was sending another courier to announce it.

Don Martinho shook his head doubtfully. King Sancho would not send a courier to announce a magistrate. He would come himself.

His Majesty has been placed under interdict again, Don Martinho. Roberto claims he will not leave Coimbra because the churches are closed wherever he goes, and the people become angry.

What caused this interdict?

He interfered with a legacy to the Cathedral in Oporto. The Bishop protested, and King Sancho ordered his magistrate in Oporto to expel the Bishop and occupy the residence.

Dona Tereza looked up suddenly at the tall knight commander. Even a king’s magistrate need not obey that order, Thomas, she exclaimed.

Sir Thomas hesitated for a moment. It is difficult for a king’s magistrate not to obey, Dona Tereza.

Dona Tereza turned quickly toward her husband as though to appeal to him, but Don Martinho raised his hand that he understood. There is no danger of that in Lisbon, Trese. King Sancho has no interest in lands so near the country of the Saracens.

Fernando sat quietly at his place, turning his eyes as the others spoke but restraining his own impulses. His dark face flushed when Sir Thomas described the braggart, Roberto, who talks so much, but the others did not notice. He rose readily from his bench, when Dona Tereza stood, and followed her from the room.

In the room which was his parent’s bedroom by night and his mother’s sitting room by day, Fernando remembered briefly his father’s admonition about silence. He sat in the end of the window seat, his back to the stones that framed the window. From that post, he had only to turn slightly to the left to see the noisy activity of the courtyard or to the right to watch the quiet movements of his mother. When. Dona Tereza sat at the other end of the window seat with her breviary or needlework, he could divide his interest between her and the courtyard merely by shifting his eyes.

Fernando’s interest languished quickly both in Dona Tereza’s monotonous examination and counting of linens and in the slow movements of the hot courtyard. If Father becomes magistrate, could King Sancho tell him to put the Bishop out of the Cathedral? It was an idle question—he watched a team of oxen plodding in their ungainly manner from the sally port.

Fernando!

Disappointment and fear mingled together strangely in his mother’s voice. He turned quickly toward her. I didn’t mean to hurt you, Mother, he whispered. The pain in her eyes frightened him. He walked slowly toward her as though not yet comprehending the nature of his offense. When he stood before her bench, she put both hands on his shoulders so that he would look at her.

Fernando, you do not think your father would do that?

His startled eyes looked up to her. Father would never harm the Bishop, he protested.

Oh, Fernando! Learn to control your tongue. Ask the Holy Virgin to give you her silence.

He lowered his head with shame, but his mother lifted it again and smiled faintly. Forget what has happened, Son… I want you to ride away from the castle to the other side of St. George’s Hill—stay away until the Angelus bell. Think about silence.

The slow ride and morning heat, the view from the summit of St. George’s Hill and the coolness of the trees on the farther slope, swept away the troubles of the morning. When he dismounted in the midday stillness of the courtyard, Fernando had forgotten the morning.

He stepped into the room of his parents as the Cathedral bell struck the first note of the Angelus. Dona Tereza sat on a bench she had drawn near the window. She did not look up from the breviary in her lap. Fernando went silently across the room to his own.

The command Honor! sounded loudly from the quiet courtyard. Fernando turned quickly to the window—the word announced either his father or a noble. A rattle of chain mail and strike of iron on cobblestones told the progress of men and horses in the sally port. The knights at the inner gate stood stiffly facing each other. Men—Fernando saw they were strangers—rode in pairs from the darkness of the sally port into the sun-filled courtyard but turned toward the stables. Twelve men appeared, then a tall, slender noble. Following were twelve more men. Fernando leaned forward eagerly to watch the group dismount, talking and laughing noisily before the stables.

Don Martinho appeared suddenly to run across the courtyard. Fernando saw the noble run from the group to meet his father. The two men met, embracing and laughing as friends long parted. Household knights and squires came from the building, grooms ran to take the horses, other men brought buckets of water and towels for the visitors.

Fernando backed from the window, plunged a towel into a pitcher, mopped his head and face, and ran into his parents’ room. Dona Tereza stood by the window seat, smiling at the group in the courtyard. Fernando glimpsed his father and the stranger walking toward the doors of the Great Hall.

That’s Prince Pedro, Son. Dona Tereza glanced toward Fernando, and she laughed. Son, brush your hair!

Fernando rushed again to his own room then back to rejoin his mother. A page stood in the doorway of the outer passage. Don Martinho asks that you come to the Great Hall, Dona Tereza.

The Great Hall was a turmoil of men and sound when Fernando entered with his mother. The vaulted ceiling echoed and multiplied the voices. Fernando had an impression of big figures, clad in mail, laughing and talking. As his mother entered, voices repeated, Quiet! Dona Tereza! and all the knights stood silent.

Prince Pedro’s low voice sounded clearly in the room, Dona Tereza! Beautiful Dona Tereza!

Fernando heard his mother say, Castle de Bulhom is honored again after many years, Your Highness; then the turmoil of the room resumed even louder than before.

Prince Pedro saw Fernando and smiled delightedly. Fernando?

Fernando smiled. He liked this vibrant man of extravagant tongue and extravagant manner.

Prince Pedro stooped to embrace him as he had embraced Don Martinho in the courtyard. You are a picture of your mother, boy. Your mother will sit at my right; you will sit at my left.

Fernando’s father was standing beside the Prince smiling happily. His father put his hand on his son’s shoulder and turned him toward a knight whose left shoulder bore the gold insignia of a knight commander. My Son, Fernando, Sir Richard. Behind Sir Richard, Fernando saw the alert smile of Sir Thomas.

Benches scraped on the floor of the hall, and the men stopped talking until they were seated at the long tables. Fernando followed his father and Prince Pedro to the smaller table at the head of the hall and sat happily facing his mother. Sir Thomas was beside him, across from Sir Richard. Don Martinho sat on the bench at the far end of the table, and Prince Pedro went to the end between Fernando and Dona Tereza. The hall quieted again when Prince Pedro did not sit immediately but stood in his place at the end of the table to speak.

It is customary and proper, he said so that all could hear, that my father, the King, should come himself to Lisbon to announce appointment of his magistrate. Unfortunately, he may be prevented from visiting Lisbon for some indefinite time in the future.

A murmur arose, as though some of those present had begun to laugh.

Prince Pedro flushed angrily, and his eyes swept over the room. In that instant, his pleasant smile disappeared. He raised his head higher and his expression hardened. The room of men was quiet—tense and without movement. His Majesty, the King, he said, "considered that he should send my brother, the heir, to represent him and to speak in his name. But he determined that friendship would overshadow statecraft. He selected me to be his representative and his courier.

No assignment has ever given me such great happiness as this—to bear the scroll from the hand of my father appointing as king’s magistrate of Lisbon my own loved friend, Don Martinho de Bulhom.

A great cheer burst from the men at the long tables. They pushed back their benches and stood, shouting and whistling shrilly, pounding the tables with the heavy drinking mugs. Sir Thomas and Sir Richard rose and cheered. Fernando saw the slight motion of his mother’s eyes and jumped up to add his own cheers. At the end of the table, Don Martinho’s smile did not vary.

The room quieted somewhat after the benches scraped into place and the men started eating. The business of eating interfered with conversation and, as they finished, they went in groups through the doors into the courtyard.

Prince Pedro talked and laughed, but his gaiety had dimmed, and he seemed to retain some of the anger from the time the men had laughed. He ate and drank quickly, as he did everything, and his wine goblet was always empty. His anger seemed to disappear completely once when he asked Fernando his age.

Eleven, Your Highness.

Prince Pedro reached forward to feel Fernando’s shoulder and arm. You need more food, Fernando, he decided with mock seriousness. You should enter the service of a good master as your father did. See his big body?

Fernando glanced at his father, but his father did not look at him. His father’s expression was serious again.

Your father and I were in the service of the King’s brother, Fernando. How would you like being in the service of the King’s brother?

Fernando puzzled at the question before he realized that Prince Pedro was speaking of himself as though his brother were already king. The Prince did not wait for an answer but looked at Don Martinho. Remember that, Martinho! When it is time for the boy, send him to me.

After that, Prince Pedro’s anger returned. He talked more, and his face became more serious while the others said little. A waiter refilled his wine goblet regularly. When the room was almost emptied, he nodded toward the few men remaining at the long tables. Some of your men seem to find amusement in the King’s troubles, Martinho.

Fernando turned expectantly toward his father, but Don Martinho shook his head slowly, unhappily, without speaking. It was such a strange manner of answering that Fernando turned quickly to Prince Pedro. His father’s action was final proof that Prince Pedro was drunk! Fernando felt the sharpness of disappointment.

The Prince’s voice became louder, and the last of the men left the long tables. "My father will show the landowners they cannot ignore the Crown. He will show them that lands cannot be handed over to the Church and removed from his control. The Church and the bishops will learn they cannot swallow the whole of the country.

What happened to the Bishop of Oporto is a lesson to the rest. Let them impose interdicts! Let them tell the whole country! Everyone in Portugal knows my father is under an interdict. He looked around the silent table until he saw Fernando. Even you know it, don’t you, boy?

Fernando was unable to answer—unable even to turn away from the Prince. He looked at him with a fascination as of horror.

Answer me, boy!

The savage demand shocked Fernando from his silence, though his eyes continued to hold to the face of Prince Pedro. Everyone in Portugal, the words flowed evenly and swiftly, knows that King Sancho is greedy for land. His voice was clear and distinct in the silent room. Everyone knows that King Sancho ordered the Magistrate of Oporto to commit a sin—

Fernando! His father’s shout broke the spell that had fastened on him.

Fernando’s whole body leaped in response to his name. His eyes widened with the sudden realization of the words he had spoken and the disgrace he had brought upon himself.

Go to your room, Fernando!

He fled from the anger he had never before heard in his father’s voice.

3

FERNANDO remembered the day his father was appointed Magistrate of Lisbon as a day of sorrow succeeded by other days and weeks and