“Yes, there were men weeping with sheer joy at finally receiving their wages and able, at last, to return to their homeland. And I can tell you there were a few tears amongst those chosen to continue to serve Carlos, without the immediate prospect of seeing any money at all.”
“Quijada, you are a hard man.”
“Hard? Maybe so, but an honest one. I love my master better than a brother but I refuse to pretend to be blind or deaf. The continuing embarrassment of it! The king has to go a-begging week after week for the wherewithal to settle the months of unpaid staff wages. I thank God that the regent, his daughter Juana, has finally managed to persuade someone to take yet more promissory notes.”
He felt the bulge of the still unread letter and the thought occurred that while some were made to wait for months there was one, a certain lady, who had to ask but once.
Reminiscing
I
Good morning, and welcome to the king’s bedchamber. You are shocked to find Carlos sitting here still in his nightshirt and night cap and not yet dressed? That comes later in his daily routine.
Carlos has had his chicken and milk pottage, heavily laced with spices and sugar, and well washed down with beer. A novel breakfast would you say? It is of his own inventing and so far as I know he is the only one ever to have sampled or enjoyed such a gastronomic treat.
The elderly priest you see at his side is Brother Regla his confessor. He has just finished leading him through his prayers. He is a Jerónimo like the friars here, but is not one of their company. I find him an interesting man, a strange mixture of humility and self‑righteousness; it is so easy for someone to be misled by those compassionate eyes. I apologise, it is not for me to pass judgement.
He is the son of a poor Aragonese peasant. He spent much of his childhood outside a convent gate, not begging for food, no, he went begging for books. For books! Now is that not fascinating? To cut a long story short the monks educated him then found him a position with a rich family to accompany the son to university. Perhaps you are familiar with this not uncommon practice? Naturally Regla did more studying than his student master, and that does not come as a surprise I am sure, and was soon reading Greek and Hebrew.
Later on he joined the order of San Jerónimo and recently was commanded to come here to Yuste. He protested that he was unworthy. So many of these priests make the same protestations; even the famous Cisneros in his day insisted on his own unworthiness to Queen Isabel. Carlos, however, was as determined as his grandmother Isabel before him, and in each case the men of God had to yield to those with the greater earthly power. And I can tell you that the brethren here, not least the prior, are not best pleased with his presence.
And now to add to the poor chap’s feelings of unworthiness and general discomfort he is made to sit the whole time whenever he is in the presence of the king. This is something quite unacceptable for it flies in the face of all protocol. Naturally he finds it excruciatingly embarrassing every time someone enters the room. Carlos, for his part, finds all this most amusing. He has such a novel sense of humour!
But the room fascinates you I see. Not the style of decoration that most would choose. Perhaps words like gloomy, sombre, even macabre spring to mind? The choice of black velvet for wall and bed hangings and window curtains is not to everyone’s liking, certainly not to mine, but the king chose black because he says he is in mourning for his mother, Queen Juana, who died two years ago; may God rest her soul and keep her in His Glory.
If you ask me, Carlos is simply trying to salve his conscience. Incredible, but believe me when I tell you that not only was there no state funeral for her royal highness but for the small ceremony she was accorded not even her granddaughter showed up and she was living but a few miles away in Valladolid.
Ha! It makes me laugh! I hope I do not offend you, but this display of apparent love for his mother does not impress me for one moment; a veritable mockery of the word. Oh that he could have shown her but an ounce of compassion while yet she lived, rather than to have had her held prisoner for nigh on half a century.
You find it difficult to believe? Sadly it is only too true.
Many reasons, and excuses, have been expounded over the years. But let me put this to you. Let us suppose that you are the king but the law of the land says you may only rule alongside your mother the queen. In addition it has been made manifest that the majority of the people have a great deal of affection for your mother and harbour not a little resentment against you and those you have brought with you from a foreign country. So, you are in an awkward situation I grant you but those are the conditions; you and your mother must reign jointly.
Now for the good news; your mother has no desire to rule! Indeed she wishes to continue her life retired from the world, something she had begun when her husband died, but which then unfortunately changed to a life of confinement imposed on her by her father. But we will ignore that for the moment. To continue, your mother, the queen, says she is more than content for you to rule. What do you do then? What anyone would do for their mother? You would ensure that the palace she lives in meets the necessary requirements of a queen, a home offering all the comfortyou would want for your mother. Of course you would!
But Carlos did not. Instead his lady mother had to endure over forty years of indignity and cruelty; suffering alone, friendless, a victim of scandalous inhumanity. Carlos, her son, the child of her womb was guilty of … of … I beg your pardon.
There you have it then; this very man you see before you who has just finished his prayers and has furnished his bedroom in a show of mourning is responsible for those forty and more years of torment.
Some said that the queen was mad. I tell you, if you only knew the entire story your response could be no other than who would not be mad? I will say no more for the moment.
Ah! Here comes Giovanni Torriano the mathematician, clockmaker, and inventor extraordinary. He is here for his regular morning meeting with Carlos. That is fortunate. It will give me some time to compose myself. I really must try harder to control my emotions.
II
There was a gentle knocking at the door.
Carlos sat up straight in his chair, his face brightening. “Come.”
A middle-aged gentleman entered, bowed then with ponderous steps crossed the room. He straightened his heavy surcoat at his neck and shoulders then returned his right hand to support something concealed in his left sleeve.
Torriano was of medium stature and build, quite ordinary in fact; it was his face that set him apart. He was always deep in thought, his brows knitted as if constantly plagued by problems, his dark and beady eyes darting here and there as if seeking the solutions. His narrow lips, more used to being pulled and chewed as answers to teasing questions were grappled with, had stretched themselves into something akin to a smile.
“Good morning Torriano, and how are you? I trust you slept well? Good, good,” Carlos did not wait for a reply. “Beait e discuss anything else you must take a look at these small pocket clocks. I wonder if simply, like me, they are the victims of all this travelling, or have they always been bloody useless.”
“My lord?” Torriano was taken aback at having his workmanship questioned.
“Well, take a look at them man,” Carlos tapped his puffy fingers on the table making the four small clocks jump. “See how each one has a damned different time, and I am sure I had them all set the same last night. These blasted fingers do little to help,” he glared accusingly at his swollen, misshapen hands.
“The rough journey could be a reason, my lord.” His voice was quiet and sympathetic like that of a patient teacher, “Another could be that you take these delicate mechanisms apart and reassemble them so often you may be exacerbating any problem; in fact you may be the very cause of it.”
Torriano bent over the table, without removing his supporting hand from his left arm, and studied his four tiny ‘babies’ as they merrily ticked away oblivious to the various times they proudly d
isplayed. “I would like to suggest that we observe them for a few days. By that time we may have a better indication … and also your hands may be less swollen by then?”
“Very well, leave them, leave them.” Carlos pushed them aside, still irritated. “You are probably right. In any case I have decided I am not of a mind to fiddle today. Here I am,” he growled, “the greatest emperor since Charlemagne, having ruled the largest empire the world has ever known, controlling the lives of hundreds of thousands, now reduced to being completely incapable of getting a few timepieces to do my bidding. Too damned annoying. Tell me what you have been up to.”
“Your majesty will be glad to know that your favourite clock, the Metzger, is safe and working well. I have checked it most thoroughly and have put it in the audience room awaiting your inspection.”
“Good, good. Now there is an exquisite piece of workmanship in gold. As good a match for any of yours my friend,” he was still pouting. “Anything else?”
Unaware of any lingering criticisms Torriano was quick to reply, “If I may, I would like you to take a look at this little mill I am working on.”
“Spectacles!” Carlos bellowed. “Where are my spectacles? Is there no one to get my spectacles? Blast it; can I not have some damned organisation here? I am surrounded by bloody inept servants.”
Regla stood up to offer his services, “Perhaps, with your permission?”
“You still here? Pardon my language Father. They should be in the drawer of that table by the window. Come along then, Torriano, you have me intrigued, where is it?”
“Not until you have your spectacles. I do not want to spoil the effect.”
“Quick then Regla, do not keep us waiting, what the devil is keeping you?”
“Your majesty there are so many here I do not know …” Regla was shuffling and rattling the contents of the drawer.
“Then close your blasted … excuse me, close your eyes and grab any, just do not exasperate me. Good.” He snatched the spectacles from Regla’s hands and pushed them on his nose; the dark horn rims, two thick and heavy black circles, looking so incongruous on his pallid face. “At last, now show me.”
Torriano rested his left arm on the table, his right hand now free to loosen the ribbons of his chemise at the wrist, and there, hidden amongst the folds, was a small brass mill.
“Now what do you say to that?” Torriano, despite himself, was quite proud.
“A toy mill for pepper? What is so remarkable about it; not the little chute at the base? But wait; the top neither twists or turns, and where is the handle? How does it work?” He picked up the tiny object.
“Gently, my lord.” Torriano reached protectively towards his fragile newcomer to the world.
“Ah, it opens at the back.”
“Yes; and with your permission …” Torriano carefully retrieved his new creation, left the room for a moment to return with a small leather pouch. He took out a small white cloth and spread it on the table then placed the mill on a stand. Next to emerge from the pouch was a tiny key on its chain. The back of the mill was opened revealing springs and cogs. Finally the top was removed.
“Are you ready, my lord?” Torriano wound up his small machine then his hand disappeared into the pouch and reappeared bearing a fistful of wheat grains. A small switch was moved and there was a whirring and clicking and ticking. The grains were fed in through the open top.
There was a moment of hesitation, the mill faltered, seemed about to fail; but it was just for a moment before it suddenly rushed into action and down the chute slid the flour. As swiftly as the grains were fed in so the small hill of powdery flour grew on the cloth.
Carlos was wide-eyed with astonishment; he pinched the flour between finger and thumb, “Bravo, my inventor friend!”
Torriano stopped the operation. The mill was still in its early stages of development and he didn’t want any unnecessary damage.
“Amazing. It looks no more than a toy, and yet see what it can do. I wish I could see more of its innards, see exactly how it works. It is nothing short of a wonder of the world. Is that not so, Regla?”
“I do not know that I approve. It goes against the natural order of things. I am sure that God in his wisdom would not look too favourably on something so … in fact … the Inquisition …”
“Poppycock!” Carlos threw down his spectacles. “And will the Inquisition, will God, be concerned about my clever chair, the clocks with their remarkable moving figures, and the fountains, all masterminded by Torriano? Now do not be so tiresome, Regla. You concentrate on heresy; there is nothing evil in the world of science. You simply do not understand it, that is all; and that, sadly, is your loss! Let us leave it at that. For my part, I am mightily impressed. You say you are still working on it; there is still work to be done? Then you must bring it again when you are satisfied it is finished.”
A brief word here; in a few years time Torriano will indeed be called before the Inquisition accused of necromancy – but do not alarm yourself because common sense and science for once will prevail, allowing his scientific talents to be used for the benefit of many a town and community.
Carlos glanced at his little clocks with their confusion of times. “Now you must go, I have enjoyed your visit, but whatever blasted time it is I know it must be time for me to dress and prepare for Mass.ont> On your way out tell the servants I am ready for them.”
The king’s clothes had been chosen and laid out in readiness the night before in the ‘stove room’; the lavatory. The master of the wardrobe, the master of the king’s jewels, and the barber, headed the line of servants making their way down the corridor. Some carried gold ewers of steaming water; others had basins with piles of snow‑white towels.
The two chair boys helped Carlos into his wheeled chair and pushed him the few yards to his lavatory, luxuriously warmed by Quijada’s stove, and the process of washing and dressing was carried out speedily and carefully so that he suffered no more than the minimum of discomfort.
He was returned to his chamber dressed in black velvet, his doublet showing to fine advantage the gold chain with its pendent lamb, The Golden Fleece, the highest and most noble honour of Flanders. A velvet eiderdown was tucked about his legs. One of the chair boys opened a door across the corner of the room, climbed a few steps to swing open what appeared to be the shutter to a window, while the other found the best position for the chair.
This, you will find, is most ingenious. Come closer, further into the room, and you will see something quite surprising. Stand there, just behind the king, and what do you see? Yes; at the top of the steps is a door, not a window, and beyond that, lo and behold, we are at the same level and have a perfect view of the altar and the officiating priest. We can attend the services without ever having to leave the bedchamber as the altar is so much higher than the nave of the chapel. Ingenious; the architect de Vega must have been inspired by feelings of the most sensitive kind, realising that there would be days when Carlos would be unable or unwilling to be trundled along corridors and down ramps to the chapel.
“Did someone leave the damned door open when they left? There’s a hell of a draught down the back of my neck!” Carlos pulled at his collar.
I am afraid I have that affect on people.
III
The friars could be heard gathering in the chapel below. Carlos had ordered that four prayers for the dead should be said every day: for his mother, his father, his wife and for himself. He did not participate in the prayers, however, until they were for his own soul.
The introit began, Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine …
“Some hijo de puta, son of a whore, is off‑key! Do you hear that cacophony, Quijada?” He screamed at his major‑domo who had quietly slipped into the room to be by his side for what was becoming a daily routine. “You will tell the prior I will hear every damned one of them to discover the bastard who cannot sing and who is ruining the music. There is no point in my bringing good singers from all parts of
Spain if somebody here is going to make sounds like a hen being strangled!”
“You have a keen ear, your majesty, and know better than the rest of us. This music sounds quite perfect to me. I thought someone was simply throwing in a few extra notes to add a little flourish here and there.”
“You are right; you are ignorant when it comes to these matters,” Carlos dismissed Quijada’s pathetic observation. “Unfortunately, it is a great weakness on many folk’s parts, not just yours. Nonetheless, I will have the matter sorted. But shush, they have mentioned my father.”
Carlos listened for a while, “Sadly I have only the vaguest recollection of him …”
“But you intend to reminisce now, I take it?”
“I do, and I warn you no more interruptions. Sit if you wish.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Quijada made himself comfortable in a leather‑seated chair, arranged his short gown over his knees, rested his elbows on the chair arms, interlaced his long, bony fingers, then leaned forward ready to interrupt when necessary. It was an old, well‑established routine. “You were about to speak of your father, my lord?”
“It is really quite a sad tale. I was only six years old when he died. I saw him once or twice when I was barely four. I remember him as being very tall, very fair. He had fine hands with long slnder fingers. He was athletic, virtually unbeatable at pelota, real tennis, in spite of his cartilage problems. Did you know he could put his knee joint back in place in next to no time at all?”
“You have no recollections of this. You are simply describing his portraits and repeating stories you have heard.”
A Matter of Pride Page 2