NOW we come upon a larger view, a more extended horizon of Old Court Life, hitherto shut up in the pastoral city of Leon.

Don Fernando el Magno is king. He has transferred the Christian capital to Burgos on succeeding to the states of Leon, Castile, and Galicia by the death of his brother-in-law, Bernardo the Third, in right of his wife, DoÑa Sancha.

Succeeded is hardly the fit word, for Fernando actually slew Bernardo in the battle of Tamara, clearing thus for himself the way; for Bernardo’s sister Sancha was the last of the second line of the Gothic kings descended from Pelayo.

From the time of Fernan Gonzales, Castile became a kingdom instead of a county, as the Conde would have had it, only he died too soon; and though still mixed up in continual battles with the Moors about Saragossa, Toledo, Merida, Samego, and Badajos (each town and city a small kingdom of its own), the greater part of the north-centre of Spain belonged to the Christians, rough warriors for the most part and fond of fighting, of little education, narrow-minded, poor, and rapacious. So poor indeed and rapacious that they constantly served the Moors against themselves as condottieri, or mercenaries, as is heard of later in French and Italian wars.

Now the Moors might be cruel and bloodthirsty, but their crimes were those of a highly civilised race, the very salt of the earth compared to the Gothic Spaniards—only the Moors were falling gradually asunder by reason of dissensions amongst the various races of which the nation was composed.

So the Christians grew bold as the others waxed weak, and though Fernando el Magno committed the folly of dividing his kingdom among his five children, it all came together again under his unscrupulous successor, Alonso el Valiente, sixth of that name (1173).

Fernando el Magno was out and out the most powerful king that had reigned in Spain since the time of Roderich. He held an iron grip on the Moors, with great cities tributary to him. In fact, it was only the payment of heavy tribute which kept them in possession so long. Money was money in those days, from whatever source it came, and in the impoverished north there was little of it.

Fernando was a good king, according to his lights, upon whose conscience the murder of his brother-in-law Bernardo lay lightly. Had he not slain Bernardo, Bernardo would undoubtedly have killed him, in which case royal murder comes under the head of self-defence. So he reigned happily at Burgos, and had born to him a numerous family. DoÑa Urraca, the Infanta, was his eldest child, a most excellent lady of good customs and beauty, the Infante Don Sancho, who was to make much noise in the world, was his heir, and Don Alonso and Don Garcia were his younger sons.

Fernando put them all to read that they might gain understanding, and he made his sons knights to carry arms and know how to demean themselves in battle, also to be keen huntsmen. DoÑa Urraca was brought up in the studies becoming dames, so that she might be instructed in devotion and all things which it behoved an Infanta to know.

But there is one fact which makes the name of Fernando remembered to all time, for in his reign was born at Burgos, Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar, known as the famous CapitÁn, the Cid Campeador.

Beside the glittering vision of Santiago, the tutelary saint of Spain, in white armour, waving celestial banners, rises the image of the Cid. Encased in steel, he sits proudly astride on his good horse Babieca; a close casque on his head, under which a pair of all-seeing eyes gaze fiercely out, giving expression to the strongly marked features of a thin long face, with wildly flying beard. His scimitar hangs at his side, and at his waist, encircled by a leather thong, the formidable sword “Tizona” he alone can wield. A loose white garment or kilt floats out from under his armour, metal buskins are on his legs, and he is shod in steel.

Thus he appears, with mighty action, an aureole of power about him not to be put in words, “the Cid” or “Master”—the terror of the Moors, the scourge of traitorous kings, marking an epoch, and a principle, lifting him out of the confused chivalry of the Goths, and standing out clear from shifting details into the light of day.

Cunning, astute, and valorous, implacable in conquest, sanguinary in victory, he fought while he lived. A king in all but the name, and proud of it, boasting with haughty scorn, “That none of his blood were royal”; “That he had never possessed an acre,” “But that the city of Valencia had pleased him, and that God had permitted him to take it as his own.” “Spain,” he said, “had fallen by a Roderich, and by a Roderich it should be restored.”

Now he was battling with the Christian king, then he was making alliance with the Moors, when banished, on his own account—to his own advantage ever—por murzar, as he said (to eat).

For in the midst of all his glory the Cid was practical at heart, and at all times, be it owned, a sad ruffian (though ever tender to his own), and more keen and cruel in a bargain than a Jew.