A Matter of Pride

by Linda Carlino

  “Quijada, do not be so bloody awkward. By God, but he was good at another sport, too. A regular devil with the fairer sex, never had enough of them. Drove my mother to distraction. Jealousy. She should have turned a blind eye and closed her ears as wives should, but no, she had to have screaming storms of rage …”

  Quijada coughed.

  “Alright. So, I have only heard these things too. The Terror the courtiers called her. Did I tell you about the time she found out that my father was having a really serious affair with a lady, a noblewoman. She was quite a beauty, with exquisite golden locks and …”

  “And your mother sought out the lady in question and hacked off her yellow curls with her scissors and in the struggle managed to cut the beauty’s face. Your father was told and he was furious with your mother and had her locked in her room …”

  “Interrupting again! You are exasperating!”

  Quijada threw up his arms declaring his innocence, “Only to let you know that I am listening to your every word this morning, just as I always have in the past.”

  “You win! I may even forgive you. You know, I often wonder what would have happened had he lived. From the stories I have heard my mother gave him some very difficult times from the very moment they arrived in Spain to be crowned. She was determined never to allow him to rule alone as he demanded. Ridiculous; she had no interest, incompetent, just bloody awkward. His every ploy to have the half‑crazed woman locked away was thwarted; somehow or other she managed to outwit him. Such incredible guile, you know, for someone who was crazy.” He stopped and half‑turned to Quijada, his major‑domo and friend, raised his eyebrows, his rheumy eyes challenging. “I am waiting. What is this; have you no comment to make about my mother’s madness?”

  “On that subject, no. Those events took place fifty years ago and all we are left with is rumour and gossip about a lady who, after al, was Queen Juana of Spain.”

  “Humph! At all events, my father died. In his prime. Poisoned some say. A chill or a fever say others. So fit and healthy yet dead within a week of his feeling unwell after a game of pelota. I have always suspected it being the work of some bastard disgruntled Spaniard.”

  Quijada idly flicked at a small white downy feather that had escaped from the king’s quilt and found its way onto his gown. “You may recall, my lord, that the Dauphin Francois, heir to the French throne died in exactly the same circumstances. Perhaps it is a complaint common among princes? Among princes who play pelota I should add.”

  “No mocking! God, but you can be infuriating. But I tell you this; I could never defend my father’s wayward exploits, hopping into bed with other women. You know only too well how I have indulged myself with the ladies, but unlike my father I was never ever once unfaithful to my dearest wife throughout our married life. I was devoted and loyal to my Empress Isabel. God rest her soul.”

  “Not even the slightest hint of dalliances, my lord, not the merest suggestion of temptation. That is the truth as God is our witness. Your exploits all took place either before you were married, or later after the death of the Empress, may God rest her soul.”

  Carlos began to smile, a wheezy giggle following, “Do you remember the Germaine de Foix story? I shall tell you anyway. It was just before you worked for me and years before my marriage. Quite a tale. The dear lady had been married to Ferdinand, my Spanish grandfather, she being his second wife and something of a child bride. He married her in his dotage, desperate to give Aragn an heir to deny my father and our family that part of our Spanish inheritance. Apparently the old stag did his utmost, even taking elixirs to strengthen his efforts. But either the love potions or the constant strivings killed off the poor fool. Can you picture him dragging his withered hocks to the bridal bed time after time?” He laughed and wheezed.

  “Not a pretty picture.”

  “Bless me; he stated in his will that I was charged to look after Germaine, as there was no other, save God, to offer her comfort and help. Well, I met her a year or so after he died. Not a bad looking woman, but tending towards plumpness. Anyway we met. I decided it was my duty to carry out Ferdinand’s wishes and she was just as eager for me to comfort and help her. We spent some excellent days, and nights, comforting and helping. I organised banquets and tournaments and afterwards we had the more intimate spin bed where I comforted her two or three times a night. Good lord! I have just remembered the cleverest thing of all; we had a little bridge built between her house and mine so that we kept our feet dry during all the comings and goings. Aye, some good times.”

  Carlos fell quiet for a while. Quijada watched and waited patiently for the story to resume.

  “The result was a little girl. Called her Isabel.” He shook his head. “Of course I had to get Germaine married off. But then, just when I thought that everything was settled, damn it, her husband died.”

  “But she came to see you, to ask for another husband?”

  “Yes, by God, she did. I got her settled again. She was the size of an elephant by then!” His laughter became an uncontrollable cough, his face turning purple.

  Quijada rushed to find him a drink, “Only warm beer, my lord.”

  “Fine,” he gasped. He choked, coughed, gulped at the drink then dried his beard with the back of his hand. “Where was I? Yes, I found a husband for this huge mountain of flesh. The fellow was not the happiest of men, to be sure, but he had debts, terrible debts that could not be met. I kindly came along with the perfect solution. He got a wife and the debts disappeared.”

  Quijada thought this was the ideal opportunity to break away from the Germaine story. “Speaking of debts, a letter arrived yesterday, from Barbara.”

  “She cannot still be in want nor need anything, can she?”

  “Not this time, my lord. The letter was to let us know that, sadly, her mother has passed away.”

  “Good lord, not old … what was her name?”

  “Katherine.”

  “Katherine. God rest her soul. But what a character!” He began to chuckle and Quijada joined him. “Are you thinking what I am thinking? That night?”

  “Probab, my lord. That was some of the best, or worst, acting I have ever witnessed.”

  “I can see it as if it were only yesterday. The Lord only knows how she came by a letter of introduction to my court.”

  “Where there is a will, there is always a way.”

  “True, Quijada, and by God she made the most of it. The penniless widow’s sob story, but she did it so well, it was a well‑rehearsed performance.”

  “And not just by Katherine; it seemed the whole of your court had practised their parts too. It was like watching the parting of the waves.”

  Carlos slapped the arms of his chair, “They fell back opening a pathway, like the Red Sea for Moses, and she emerged, arms reaching out towards me, sobbing, ‘Your majesty, help me!’”

  Quijada took up the tale, “And she sank to her knees, most gracefully as I recall, and then began recounting her tale of woe, that she was the widow of a gentleman; left with a son and two daughters to support. She clutched at her breast and hung her head sorrowing because of her deep shame, distraught that she could not afford the final payment to buy her son a commission in your Imperial Army. She had promised her dying husband on his very deathbed that his son would become an officer; but she had failed, and now she and her son faced dishonour.”

  “I remember, I remember it all. Not a sound was to be heard from, what, a hundred courtiers? Everyone’s attention was focussed on the woman. Handkerchiefs were held to mouths to hide smiles, such was the melodrama.”

  “She was excellent, my lord.”

  “Excellent, dreadful, embarrassing? Tragic or comic?”

  “All of that. And it worked. You gave the boy his commission.”

  “I had to, Quijada. It was unbearable, impossible to keep my face straight any longer. Dear, oh dear, so Katherine Blomberg is no more. Send my condolences to Barbara and her family. She is well, I take it?”
>
  “She and her boys are all well.”

  “Good. But enough; I must not miss the prayers for my soul. You may leave now. Have Gaztelu write to my daughter again to arrange the payments for the household. I shall join you later. And do remind him to insist on twenty thousand gold ducados each year, in quarterly payments. And there must be a further thirty thousand set aside for my own personal use. He must emphasise that nothing less is acceptable. Go.”

  Barbara you will discover is very like her mother; certainly could never be accused of being shy and retiring. But I think we should go now. We will leave the king to his private prayers.

  Celebrations

  I

  “We should really be gettin’ back,” Maria sat up and retied the knots of the kerchief covering her hair, pulled her shawl tightly about her shoulders but showed little if any inclination to leave this hidden world. Instead she lay back idly watching the clouds change their shapes, as they moved from the bare‑branch tracery to billow, spread, or break up before disappearing behind a tangle of leaves on the mighty evergreen oaks.

  On the other hand, she would like to show off Alonso to her friends. Yet that wasn’t the truth; what she really wanted to do was to bask in their envy. Not only had this man picked her out from her friends; he was far from being your ordinary man. He didn’t come from any of the local villages, but from a very distant part of Spain. Her Alonso was big and strong, he smelled different, a wonderful mixture of sweat, horses and leather. Even more extraordinary, this man worked for the king of Spain. And … and … it was almost too scary to think of, he might be able to find her a job in the king’s household!

  “I said we should be going, really.”

  There was no answer from the man lying on his back at d shside, who continued to chew on a twig, eyes closed, head cushioned on his arms. He was thoroughly enjoying being master of his own time, being at liberty to lie just like this amongst the trees, freed from the labours of the stables, released from the bellowed orders of others. And, there was a couple of hours or more still to come.

  Maria snatched the twig and poked it at his chest to help him remember his promise, “And so you’ll get me that job as scullery maid then, Alonso?”

  He turned towards her, resting on his elbow, looking down on her bonny face. She had sparkling dark eyes, lovely rosy cheeks. Her mouth was a bit on the big side, perhaps, but was given to ready smiles and laughter; and that, after all, was what a fellow needed, as much fun and good cheer as he could get.

  “I said as ’ow I’d do me best for you. Should be able to manage it. Don’t you fret yourself; if I says I’m going to do something then I’m going to do it.”

  “Because you’re a man of your word, right?”

  “Exactly.”

  “There’s one good thing about having a king live right close. I mean, this is the second time we’ve been told to leave our work and come up here, and him not in these parts long at that. And it isn’t just not having to work, we gets to feast with meat and drink and all the rest.”

  “The rest being a bit o’ this, eh?” he chuckled, hauling up her skirts.

  “Not again, that’s wicked, that is! You’re greedy, you are,” she rolled over to face him. “What did you say today is?”

  “His birthday.”

  “Fancy knowing when you was born.”

  Maria knew when to go to and when to return from the fields because the bell in the church steeple told her; she was aware of the yearly pattern of seasons, and church festivals; but birthdays? She plucked pieces of soil and grass from Alonso’s coat spread on the ground beneath her, wondering about the lives of the rich who knew things like dates of birth or saints’ days without having to be told when or what for, and she sighed. “This coat’s going to be a mucky mess if we’re not carel.”

  “You let me worry about that.” He pushed her onto her back, “Anyways, I feels it’s my birthday and it’s time for a bit more of the rest like what we were talking about.”

  “You won’t forget about that job, will you? It would be easier for us to be together, and we could be indoors all warm and …”

  “No time for talking. The old dagger is desperate to get back into its sheath.”

  “You cheeky devil! It’s easy to tell you’ve been a‑soldiering.”

  “Sh.” Alonso pushed up her skirts, parted her welcoming thighs, found his way into her and thrust his weapon home, grunting and groaning as his mission was finally accomplished.

  “Ooh! Did you feel that, then, Alonso?”

  “Feel what? I was busy.”

  “Well all of a sudden it went all cold. Made me all shivery, it did.”

  “Aye, it seems to be going around. Manuel mentioned it the other day. It don’t bother me none.”

  II

  Good day to you. I never would have supposed there were so many people living in this area. Just look at them all. At times it was impossible for me to make my way through the crowds and at one point I had no option but to make a small diversion and walk up the hill amongst the trees. Even so I had to take great care not to tread on those who thought they had discovered their own little islands of privacy.

  It stands to reason that if you offer folk a free day with feasting and drinking they appear from anywhere and everywhere.

  Have you noticedthe pulpit erected under the trees? That is for the benefit of these villagers, the farmers, and the peasants, that they might all participate in the religious services of thanksgiving and celebration. The message was sent out days ago announcing today’s events and inviting all to come, and it would appear that the whole of Estremadura decided to accept. I have a sneaking suspicion that not all will be attending the mass. Many have already found their way to the woods, hoping their absence will not be noticed, and will probably only return in time for the feast. I suppose one cannot blame them. Such days of leisure are virtually unknown. Yet we all know what the devil can do with idle hands!

  What are we celebrating? I shall tell you. Today, being February 24th, is the birthday of Carlos and he has now reached the grand age of fifty‑seven. He came into the world in a desperate hurry while his mother was attending a ball; why, she barely had time to find a small retiring room before he made his sudden appearance. Fortunately, neither mother nor child was any the worse for the unusual circumstances.

  We are also celebrating this day because it is the anniversary of his glorious victory at Pavia in Italy; or rather the Imperial Army’s victory for Carlos was not there. It was nevertheless a resounding defeat of the archenemy France. That, incredibly, was on this very same day. Coincidence or divine intervention?

  The third reason for rejoicing is that on this day, Carlos was crowned emperor; the ruler and master of the largest empire the world had ever known.

  He was first crowned with the Iron Crown of Lombardy, and then with the Imperial Crown. Such a glittering affair, my friend. It cost him at least ninety thousand ducados, the amount which he apparently raised on his wife’s jewels. His cape and crown were made of gold and precious stones in such quantities that it would be impossible to estimate either their weight or value. The hands of His Holiness Pope Clement VII placed the Imperial Crown on the head of Carlos witnessed by hundreds of noblemen, many of them travelling from Spain to Bologna for the occasion. All wore robes of velvet heavily encrusted with jewels. Afterwards, as if money was no more than the woul that fall from the Heavens, gold and silver coins were thrown to the crowds.

  Now does that seem reasonable to you, that Carlos should squander his wife’s dowry in such a way?

  And what about this for further satisfying his ego; he had purposefully delayed the ceremony to have it coincide with his birthday! The months of waiting annoyed many a lord eager to return to his home. But, goodness me, if an emperor cannot determine the time and place, who can?

  By sheer coincidence today is also the birthday of someone who I think you will find is rather special, someone you will eventually meet, but who, for the mom
ent, will remain my little secret.

  Couples began reappearing from the woods summoned by the monastery bell, and they swelled the numbers of those already waiting near the pulpit. Giggles and laughter died away replaced by hurried last‑minute conversations. Those who had never wandered away greeted some of those returning with a shake of the head and a knowing “Aye”.

  A hush settled over the crowd as the priest climbed up into the pulpit. Their thoughts turned to the waiting meal and the things still to talk about after the service, which they earnestly hoped would not take too long. It went without saying that a good gossip would go down well with all that food that had been set out for them.

  They are almost ready to start. I think we should view the indoor service from the king’s vantage point, for the chapel will be too crowded to see anything. So, if you are ready, we had best make our way now to the king’s bedchamber.

  Now, through the door to the chapel. You remember it from the other day? Up these few stairs. Perfect; an uninterrupted view of the entire nave.

  There is Carlos. How magnificently he is dressed today, perhaps looking with nostalgia to long‑lost days by adding crimson satin and gold cloth to his everyday black; a touch here and there on his cap and in the slashes to his sleeves. Some jewelled pins too and of course his gold chain with The Golden Fleece. These are similar to the colours he wore for his triumphant entry into Castile when he was but a youth, only seventeen years old.

  On that day, he was handsomely dressed in yellow, white and red. Some said at the time, and I am convinced they were all Flemish, that Castile had never had a king so noble and triumphant enter Valladolid. He rode under a canopy of cloth of gold carried on four silver poles. The precious stones he wore were worth a king’s ransom, I can tell you. His horse was caparisoned in crimson, gold and silver. Carlos has never been conservative or cautious about spending money, whether his own or someone else’s! Though not wanting to sound churlish, I would point out that the same Flems who sang his praises carefully forgot to mention that he always looked tired and debilitated, was stubborn and morose; but that would detract somewhat from the picture of the noble and triumphant king.