The Death of King Dinis
Chão da Feira Palace,
Santarém
6th and 7th
of January 1325
Despite Afonso’s anxious
wish to get to the palace, a throng forced them to a slow walk as they exited
the castelo’s grounds to make for the other side of town, lest they overrun a
child or animal in the crowded street. The large horses nearly filled the
narrow road and caused people to back up against walls or step into alleys.
Afonso and Gonçalves approached the square with the Monestario de Sao Fran
cisco at the northeastern end and the Chão da Feira Palace on the eastern side
of the square. They passed the facade of the palace to enter a courtyard gate.
The Infante Afonso and his men dropped to the ground from their snorting
coursers; the spurs on their boots made a sharp clanging sound as they hit the
stones. They stretched weary limbs and took a few steps toward the doorway.
“Come to seek a final
blessing from our father?” Sancho taunted. His laughter echoed off the stone
walls of the palace’s inner ward. Sancho and João emerged from the shadows of
the royal apartment’s portal into the light of torches as the setting sun cast
dim winter light into the courtyard. A casual swagger suggested confidence.
Gonçalves bumped into
Afonso, who turned and whispered with widened eyes, “We are too late.”
“Give not the two
bastards the satisfaction of your unease,” Gonçalves whispered in return. When
Afonso spoke, Gonçalves realized his advice had fallen on deaf ears.
“Has he passed? Have you
played the part of Jacob? Why are you not in Albuquerque?” the Infante Afonso
snapped as his eyes narrowed.
Gonçalves feared Afonso
would either grab or punch Sancho. He noticed servants had paused and were
taking in the scene. A fight among royal brothers as the king lay dying would
not be seemly. The king cannot be dead, he reasoned, or an armed escort would
greet them.
“Come,” Gonçalves said,
attempting to calm the infante’s blaze of anger. “Ignore these surly whoresons.
Let us go to the king’s bedchamber.”
January’s cloudy day and
icy winds had left the newly arrived men chilled to the bone. Last night’s poor
sleep on hard ground diminished the men’s temperament. Urgency drove them here,
and now they would learn their destiny.
Afonso’s gaping mouth
and labored breath betrayed his shock at seeing his half-brothers looking for
all the world as though they owned Santarém. Gonçalves’s message and warning
had not adequately prepared the infante for the situation. Sancho’s strutting,
evidenced confidence, and belied his status as a man exiled from Portugal.
João, nine years older than Sancho, played the sycophant to the younger man.
With Gonçalves in tow,
Afonso brushed roughly past Sancho and João to step inside the portal. Of the
two remaining men-at-arms, one stayed to deal with the horses while the other
followed Afonso and Gonçalves into the staircase. Sniffing the piquant air on
entering the stairs to the royal apartments, Gonçalves’s nose wrinkled, and his
mouth involuntarily watered. The aroma of cloves, roasted meat, and chestnuts
enveloped them and set their stomachs growling. Gonçalves shut his eyes briefly
to breathe in deeply the rich scents boding well for a good meal, a mug of
wine, and a warm fire.
“Come,” Afonso
commanded, jerking him out of his moment of anticipation. Afonso had raced up a
dozen steps before pausing mid-step and turning back to seek them. They climbed
the steps two at a time to catch up. They strode down the hall and turned left into
an antechamber filled with men. The man-at-arms paused in the passageway to
wait, as it was not his lot to enter the king’s solar. Conversation ceased as
Afonso erupted into the room; he moved swiftly across the space to enter his
father’s bedchamber. Afonso neither looked at nor spoke to an yone as he passed
through the room.
The king was hardly
visible under a mound of coverlets. The pungent air shrouded their heads, stale
and smelling of the gas a body passed as death neared. While Gonçalves paused a
few feet from the foot of the bed, Afonso moved to stand next to his mother,
Queen Isabella.
Afonso gazed down at his
father’s waxen features. The shallow rising and falling of the king’s chest
told Gonçalves the king was yet alive. Gonçalves saw the breath go out of
Afonso as his shoulders relaxed. For a moment, Gonçalves was lightheaded with
relief. He glanced around the king’s private bedchamber. The queen was the only
woman present. While the outer room teemed with courtiers of various levels of
importance, the bedchamber held half a dozen men of the highest rank. The
bishop and chanceler stood by the side of the bed opposite the queen. The other
four men huddled by the fire ceased their whispered conversation upon Afonso’s
entrance.
“My Lady, I came as soon
as I heard,” Afonso said, turning to his mother. “He looks so pale. Have you
spoken with him today?”
“Your father has slept
this day,” Queen Isabella sighed without looking at Afonso.
The bishop cleared his
throat, drawing their eyes to him. The bishop spoke, “Welcome Dom Afonso. Your
safe arrival is a blessing. King Dinis woke briefly yesterday to make a final
confession, receive the host, and hear last rites. He did on the last day of
the year just past make his fourth Will and Testament. He is shriven and in all
manner prepared to meet his Lord in Heaven. Your brother Sancho spoke privately
with him but yesterday.” With a touch of malice, he offered, “Mayhap Sancho
will have some word to share of what passed twixt them.”
Gonçalves made a mental
note to find some way to repay so cruel a comment. All knew the ill blood
between Afonso and Sancho. For Afonso to learn that the king, in his dying
moments, had spoken with Sancho and not Afonso was a tonic of bitter wormwood.
Now Gonçalves prayed the old king would wake and speak yet one more time with
his final words to Afonso.
