by Doug Walker
CHAPTER TWO
When the mountains had been crossed and the small party passed the checkpoint and entered Madrid, Poncho was still certain Hidalgo had been sent along as a spy, but so skillfully had his master played the role, drinking and card playing in taverns along the way, he seemed now an ally.
Madrid was the major power center, but Felipe’s palace-monastery, a good day’s ride from Madrid, often held the crown and court. Valladolid, the royal city where Felipe II was born, and Granada, were centers of the higher judiciary.
Madrid and El Escorial, the palace, would become familiar places to the two lieutenants in the coming weeks. These were exciting times; the very air seemed charged with intrigue.
“What now?” García asked, as they traveled the streets of the city toward the royal palace. He had come to rely on Hidalgo, who was at least five years older and a veteran in the ways of the military and its role in the great scheme of things.
“We will drop the troopers off at a barracks, then find suitable quarters ourselves among the officers. Tomorrow we will approach the palace and learn just who will look after your information.”
“King Felipe, of course,” García said.
Hidalgo chuckled. “Of course not. The King has many advisors. He will not bother with a mere lieutenant. Just how high up the pecking order we go is a matter of speculation.”
García heaved a sigh of relief. Confronting the King was not part of his plan. His plan was to get a foothold at court and then find the person he sought. And tomorrow should see his program start to bear fruit.
But tomorrow seemed to be at best a week hence. The two lieutenants were shuffled from office to office until the size of the royal bureaucracy boggled the mind. Hidalgo would smile and whisper, “This is what the treasures of the New World have birthed, a plague of parasitic bureaucrats.”
There were compensations. They found themselves well housed and well fed and at least, temporarily, shirttail members of the court. It was at one of the nightly social gatherings that García found the person he sought — the one cause that had sent him on this personal pilgrimage.
The next morning he confessed to Hidalgo. “The love of my life appeared before me last night.”
Hidalgo smiled. “Too much wine and tough beef. You had bad dreams, my friend?”
“No. In the flesh. A dream, yes. But fleshed out. The beautiful Doña Juanita Tera. I knew I would find her. It was my dream to come to Madrid and find this woman.”
“Somehow you knew this woman was here?” A puzzled, bemused glance.
“No,” García replied. “I knew I would find my dream woman. A woman of consummate purity.”
“You came to Madrid to find a pure woman?” Hidalgo questioned incredulously. “You might just as well seek a virgin in a bordello. Court life has unhinged your brain. Get some sleep. Take a cold bath.” He opened the decanter and poured himself some wine, gesturing to García, but the younger man declined.
“You don’t comprehend. The young lady, probably in her late teens, has led an impeccable lifestyle. She is always accompanied by a dueña, thus purity is assured.”
Hidalgo shrugged. “Such chaperones can be bribed. A piece or two of silver. A bottle of wine. A sweet cake. They often hate their charges and pray for their transgressions.”
“I am a man of the world and understand such things,” García said. “But in this case, I think you are wrong.”
The Yorkie, now dubbed Poncho, had been awake listening, moving his ears, large in proportion to his small body, attempting to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Unfortunately for him, it was his master’s habit to shut him in the room during the nighttime festivities.
But now the dog knew everything, or so he thought. The entire plan was revealed. Many times he had thought that his master, the man who now called himself Pedro García, would take a wife. He had considered this and wondered if he could survive such a mating. But yes, it was inevitable and for the best. In fact he put the idea in García’s head. But in seeking such purity his master had placed himself in perilous straits. This Hidalgo, for one, was not to be trusted. Hidalgo was full of envy, but what could a mere dog do. Poncho would watch and wait.
The dog was not entirely divorced from the romantic side of life. He had slipped out from under his master’s control more than once and gotten a couple of bitches in trouble. Then there was his almost total recall of past lives; colorful, yes, but sometimes ending in sordid disillusionment. Not that this life was so bad. He did have deep affection and respect for his master, half-baked as some of his thinking might be. And he was always fed, pampered, bathed, given a soft bed, always petted and cuddled. Yes, he would endure this dog’s life until something better came along.
Two days later García was summoned to the office of a deputy of the Spanish Secret Service. It was a pleasant morning as García walked to the appointed office. Birds sang, soft breezes stirred the trees and García pondered how wondrous slow the Spanish wheels turn. But this was the age of sailing ships and horsepower. It was wonderful to contemplate the sweetness of life, yet there was the harsh reality of the Inquisition that revealed the darker side of persons in high places who wished to remain so.
“I understand you bring news of the English heretics?” the deputy said, once García was seated. There had been no introductions and García assumed that was standard policy in the secret service world. They were meeting on a spy-to-spy basis.
“I do,” García replied. He hesitated, not knowing just what status his questioner commanded. Finally he asked, “Are you the one I should talk with?”
“Of course. Any message you bring, if it is considered of consequence, will find its way to the King. Our security mills grind slowly, but they are precise. Talk freely.”
“Fine. It seemed to me the information was general, yet the man who brought it deemed it of great importance.”
“And why didn’t that man himself accompany you to Madrid?” It was a good question, one that García had anticipated.
“He called himself Orbigo. You know that name?”
The deputy smiled. “Yes, it is the name of a river.” But he did not add that secret service spies often used the names of rivers or mountains.
García raised his hands as if puzzled. “Perhaps he has a river of information. What he said was simply this: The English queen, Elizabeth, is unpopular. The people are on the brink of rebellion. The royal coffers are almost empty. Many loyal Catholics would rise and fight by our side. The time is right to send a fleet to sea and destroy the English heretics. He also suggested that Spain’s friend, Mary Stuart (Mary Queen of Scots), might be in jeopardy from Elizabeth. If friendly troops could be transported across the channel from the Netherlands, they would make short work of the English heretics.”
“This information would seem to complement information we have from other sources. But again, where is this man, this Orbigo?”
“He was aboard a merchant ship that touched shore for only a day. It was important, he said, that he rejoin the vessel and return to England. But he did give me a token, although it seemed strange to me.” Saying that, García dug into his pocket and produced a small round of metal bearing a strange device.
He passed it across the desk and the deputy examined it briefly, noting the outline of a bull’s head with three stars marking the spots where eyes and nose should be. The deputy dropped the piece into a drawer. “You have done well, Lieutenant García. The information you have delivered will be passed along.” A bottle was produced and two small glasses filled with sherry. “Let us drink to the confusion of our enemy, the English heretics.” They touched glasses and downed the warming liquid. Then the meeting was over and García found himself once more at liberty without a hint of what he should do next.
Poncho was waiting when he returned to his lodging. As was his custom he placed the small dog on his lap and recounted the day’s activities. Sometimes he believed the Yorkie could understand his words. And sometimes Poncho wondered i
f García could get along without him. He had helped his master many times in the past and his persistent goal was to see his master safely married to a woman who could offer some guidance. Poncho was keenly aware that a dog’s life was limited and he would not be around forever to protect the guileless García.
Presently, Hidalgo returned to the lodging and García told him what had occurred and sought to learn what might happen next.
“We wait,” Hidalgo said. It was the Spanish way. And during that wait, García would attempt to get to know the lovely Juanita Tera.
The court was abuzz with plans to restore the True Church to English soil. It was well known that Don Alvaro de Bazan, Marques of Santa Cruz and hero of the Azores, had proposed a daring sea assault. But the cost was too great for Spain’s diminished treasury.
It was said that Felipe had put his trust in the young Alexander Farnese of Parma, the son of Margaret, the former regent of the Netherlands. An able soldier, Farnese reconquered Flanders and Brabant. He rolled over Bruges, Ghent and less important towns, then laid siege to the finest city the Netherlands had to offer, Antwerp.
By building a bridge of boats across the estuary of the Scheldt, Antwerp capitulated and all of the southern Netherlands once again pledged loyalty to Felipe. The stage was set. If Spain’s sea power could move Farnese’s army of well officered veterans across the channel, England would surely fall. Although far outnumbered, Spain discounted the English force as ill-equipped, ill-trained, disorganized rabble.