A Matter of Pride

by Linda Carlino

  I see you shake your head, is that a mild rebuke? I apologise for the criticisms. As usual, I digress.

  It appears that all are present, and everyone turned out in their best. And see, his friends are all here for the celebration. Quickly, watch Carlos. You see the purse he is handing to the priest? Inside are fifty‑seven gold coins; one for every year of his life. They will be blessed and then handed out after the service. I wonder how many squabbles there will be over who should receive one; but when your master is often late with salaries and is generally parsimonious any handout would be greedily sought.

  When the service is concluded we shall make our way down the corridor to the grand salon, the audience room, which today is being prepared for a feast that befits the occasion.

  III

  How glad I am to find you here. I wondered what had become of you. What made you leave? Perhaps the obsequiousness was too much? If there had been a levy on all praises after the first half dozen a small fortune would have been raised for the Treasury today. And it is all so hypocritical. There is not one of those priests wants him here.

  Do you like this Grand Salon? The arched recesses mirroring the arches of the windows offer it some character, do you think? Even so it remains a rectangular box. I say thank goodness for those tapestries with the Christian armies felling the Turk. Some lively scenes there to dwell on. In fairness I do think the room has two redeeming features: its southerly aspect, and the delightful view overlooking the garden with its fish pond.

  Ah, I see the portraits have caught your attention. The artist is Titian, a great favourite of the emperor. They often spent more time talking than actually getting the portraits painted. We will never have the opportunity to meet the master himself, alas, but at least we can enjoy the one or two works Carlos brought with him.

  Yes indeed, that one, the study of the late Empress Isabel. Such a beautiful lady, and yet Titian, a master craftsman, reveals more than superficial beauty. Her whole personality positively speaks to us. It is little wonder that Carlos was always faithful to her; he must have thanked God every night for his good fortune in finding such a wife.

  Actually, he was betrothed to Mary Tudor his six‑year‑old cousin on the English side of the family. But such a marriage would not have been to Carlos’s advantage. Some years would have to pass before Mary was of a suitable age and he was already so deeply in debt to the king of England that she would have come to him a penniless bride, her dowry being gobbled up in the cancellation of his debts. Now what use would that be when an emperor needs all the money he can lay his hands on? Meanwhile Carlos’s sister Leonor initiated negotiations for this marriage with Isabel. And lo and behold the prospective wife was not only beautiful but came with a dowry of nine hundred thousand Portuguese doblas – all promptly spent on his journey to Italy for his coronation!

  Oh, those eyes are so wistful, tender, patient, understanding, and yes, they are proud. That face says so much to me of years spent without her husband, years of painful separation. Those around her said she was often low in spirits and wept easily. As for the royal garments, what other brush could show the contrast between the heavy velvets, the stiff brocades and the ruched fine Holland at her throat and wrists, or the small sparkling gems and the heavy and bold ruby and pearl brooch with its looped chain of enormous pearls?

  Footsteps. You hear them? It is time for us to make way for the arrival of the feast. I warrant you have never seen so much food at one time.

  Servants brought in gold‑plated dishes of olives, asparagus, and truffles and set them down on the awaiting tables.

  “Here we go again lads; he’s finished with the God bit now here comes the gorging. He never changes,” one of them whispered from the side of his mouth as he crossed the path of yet more bearers of laden dishes and tureens. These held pies: pork, mutton, and eel.

  “At least there’ll be leftovers for us lot,” someone else whispered heartily.

  Yet another table was being covered with silver platters of fish: trout, flounders, lamprey. More gold dishes were delivered filled with eels, frogs, pickled herrings, sardines, anchovies, and oysters. Last to arrive at the tables were partridges, wild boar, venison, cured beef, bears’ legs, chickens, and sausages.

  Gold and silver wine pitchers, goblets, and large beer jugs stood marshalled on other side tables.

  Carlos stopped in the doorway to survey the scene. He was followed by Zuñiga, a specially invited military friend then Quijada and Gaztelu.

  “Magnificent! Now for one of my favourite pastimes,” cried a jubilant Carlos rubbing his hands and beaming at his companions as he studied the tables and sideboards. “Everything I asked for is here. Where shall I start?”

  Zuñiga nodded his head in approval at the variety and richness of the spread.

  Quijada viewed the scene with despair knowing full well the results of today’s feasting.

  Gaztelu peered between the two and the corners of his mouth twitched with pleasure at the prospect of sinking his teeth into one of those savoury pies, preferably the venison; after Carlos had had his fill, naturally.

  The king’s dining chair was turned from the wall to face the table, and he was carefully manoeuvred into it.

  “Enough, no more fussing. Now, perhaps a few olives then the pies. Not bad, not bad. Someone remind me to have my cook get a decent recipe to prepare the sad little olives that grow here, they need soething to give them some vigour. Beer for the thirst,” he spluttered.

  Quijada and Gaztelu made their way to the far side of the room to join Regla and the doctor.

  I suggest we follow the example of these gentlemen and direct our attention elsewhere for a little while. I would not recommend watching the king eat, it is offensive both to the eye and stomach. Let me remind you that he cannot close his mouth so his food is sloshed and squashed about in his mouth for a moment or two before being sluiced down his throat with a good swilling of beer or wine. The spittle, flotsam and jetsam scattered over his beard, the debris about his person, not to mention the belching is, to speak plainly, disgusting.

  Although embarrassing for all concerned throughout his entire life he has had no alternative but to take some of his meals in public; one of those inescapable duties of a monarch. As you can imagine he prefers to dine alone and his companions are more than happy when he does.

  His guests today will partake of a small repast from the dishes he sets aside as he abandons one savoury delight for another.

  But, how remiss of me, you have yet to meet Zuñiga. He was the Commander of the Imperial Cavalry; saw action in Africa, France, and Germany; quite a historian too. I think he still looks every bit the soldier and, although the hair is white, the shoulders no longer pulled back and perhaps he has grown somewhat rounder, the traces of the dashing officer linger on.

  IV

  “Pavia was a damn fine victory then, Zuñiga?” Carlos spluttered across the table in the direction of his old comrade in arms. “Remind us all, marqus, why we are celebrating Pavia. You always enjoy telling a good war story, and you do it so well. Entertain me while I eat.”

  Zuñiga moved closer to the table, taking care to adopt a defensive position a little to the rear and to one side of the king.

  “As your majesty wishes. I shall begin the tale with the siege. Pavia is a strategic hilltop town in Italy, gentlemen, for those of you among us who may not know. Our General de Leyva, God rest his soul, had prevented the French from taking the town for almost four months. Those had been four cruel months of a severe Italian winter, with relentless cold and bitter blizzard‑filled winds racing up the hillside from the plains below. The French army had completely surrounded the town, holding positions all around the several miles of its perimeter. Inside the walls the food had run out long ago and they had resorted to eating the horses and mules. Firewood had become so scarce that once all the furniture, doors, carts, and whatever else they could find had been used up it was then the turn of building timbers to provide the
fuel, and that included the church beams. You are shocked, you men of the cloth? It was a question of survival. And they did survive. De Leyva saw to that by ensuring everyone was treated alike, that all should suffer the same privations, whatever their rank. But, for all that, our fine fighting forces were quickly becoming shambling wrecks of men.”

  He paused for effect giving his listeners time to appreciate the desperate situation. Then he fired angrily, “And what was happening outside the walls? That was quite a different story! As well as abbeys and castles offering shelter to the French there was a huge area, a hunting park I suppose is the best way for you to visualise it, and this was where the main French encampment was situated. They had set up a huge market with stalls groaning with all kinds of food and wines. At one point it even took on a carnival atmosphere with peddlers, vagabonds, and of course plenty of girls. So all needs were catered for, so to speak. It was a city really, albeit more of canvas than of stone, a city of thousands. You can be sure that no one there lacked a fire or suffered an empty belly! King Francis of course had a table overflowing with meats and wines, and his bed kept warm by his mistress.”

  All this talk of food reminded the listeners that they were still waiting to eat and although they were not starving they were growing hungry and would enjoy the tale much more if their own bellies were full.

  Zuñiga sensed he was losing his audience; that was always a danger when talking to non209;military men. “But as they say, all good things must come to an end. Time was running out for the French because fortune began to smile on us. Some of Francis’s troops had to be sent home to deal with internal strife. Our General Pescara finally made it to Pavia to assist in raising the siege. Now for the battle. The French were in battle formation. Our Imperial Army then advanced. The French artillery fired, round after round, all sadly finding their target. Bodies were blown to bits, limbs and torsos slung into the air like huge clods of earth …”

  “No further details, thank you,” Carlos sent a hail of pastry bullets across the table.

  “Your pardon, my lord. To continue, the survivors retreated to a point of safety. Then came King Francis’s big mistake, misreading the situation and playing right into our hands.”

  “You are not going to suggest that it had nothing to do with our brilliant strategy, surely, Zuñiga?” Carlos butted in spitting out his annoyance alongside chunks of meat, “Our commanders were well versed in military tactics.”

  “Far be it from me to belittle our glorious armies; neither their expertise nor their enthusiasm. Nor would I forget that our men had not been paid for months and yet continued to have the stomach for the fight. Nor would I ignore the pride of our generals and their zeal to represent your majesty on the field of battle. But to continue; King Francis, seeing the devastation he had inflicted on our troops, gave orders to advance. A mighty error, for in doing so he put his cavalry in front of his own guns, neatly placing them to form a Heaven‑sent shield for our men. Now it was the turn of our soldiers to move up, and putting our faith in God and yes, the inspired strategy of mixing cavalry with pikemen, lances and arquebuses, we pushed into their lines. One of their wings was quick to collapse. Then others began to fall back. Before long our men were in amongst them causing complete disarray. Francis’s horse was felled from under him. Within moments he was surrounded by those seeking him and his magnificent armour for booty. One of our chaps fiercely fought them off until our Viceroy of Naples, Lannoy, arrived. He had the French king at his feet, helpless, blood streaming from the wounds on his face, his jewelled and plumed helmet lying useless on the frozen earth. All his military commanders were either dead or dying around him. There had been three hours of fighting and ten thousand had fallen …”

  “Listen everybody, I like the next part! Pure chivalry!” Carlos rapped a dish with his knife. “Carry on, Zuñiga.”

  “The defeated King Francis took off his sword and presented it to his captor, Lannoy. Lannoy then kissed the king’s hand and gave him his sword in return saying that it did not become a monarch to remain disarmed in the presence of one of the emperor’s subjects.”

  “A moment,” Carlos fumbled with the strings of his purse. “Damned fingers.”

  Quijada whispered down into Gaztelu’s ear, “I know of someone else who can recite the whole battle almost as well as Zuñiga; and not even there, not even born then.”

  “Ah the young chap you have in your home? Perhaps his father was a military man, though I have no reason to suppose …”

  Quijada didn’t answer.

  “Infernal nuisances,” the king’s purse was at last open. “Brought this with me; here, read this Zuñiga. Everyone must hear the whole story.”

  Zuñiga unfolded the paper, “Of course; the letter from Lannoy. It says,

  Sire, we gave battle yesterday, and praise be to God, He gave you victory and handed you the king of France. Now we have him prisoner. The victory that God gave you was on the day of San Matias, your birth date.”

  “And what a gift for my birthday, eh? What a happy birthday. Now you can tell them about the bullet.”

  “One of our soldiers approached the French king and presented him with a small gold bullet saying that it was the very bullet with which he had intended to shoot him.”

  “Very good. Very good. Now it is my turn to tell you something about this King Francis. After we got him safely from Italy to Spain he wrote to his mother saying how everything had been lost save ‘honour’. That infuriated me. I tell you he never knew the meaning of the word. There is plenty I could say about his so‑called ‘honour’. Next he wrote to me bleating about, what was it Gaztelu? We were looking at it just this morning. You tell them!”

  “You will correct me if I am wrong,” his secretary wearily replied, knowing full well that he was word perfect for he had read the letter so many times. “It went something like this; I beg you to decide in your own heart what you must do with me, but I am sure that whatever you do decide it will be honourable and magnanimous. If it pleases you to offer such security as befits the king of France, it will make me a friend instead of a desperate man, a good brother instead of a prisoner. If you treat me honourably I shall be your slave forever.”

  “Precisely. So what did he do the moment I did set him free? Reneged on his oaths. He even refused to hand over Burgundy. And what is more, gentlemen, Pope Clement exonerated him of these broken vows, and then welcomed him as an ally. Just goes to show you cannot trust anybody – not even a pope!” He thumped the table venting his self‑righteous spleen. “And another thing; some of you might recall Francis’s sister. She came to Madrid to see him and to beg for his release. She tried to bribe me into giving Francis his freedom by offering to return Burgundy to us as part of a marriage settlement between her brother and my sister Leonor; but I make my own decisions and do not allow any woman to persuade me one way or the other and certainly not a damn French woman! What else was I going to say?”

  “Did you wish to tell your guests about the dog?” Gaztelu offered.

  “Of course, Gaztelu. I allowed this sister to visit Francis in his rooms in the palace; magnanimous of me I thought, and when she left she said he could keep her little black dog. Thought it would be good company for him in his confinement,” he laughed, wheezed and choked.

  A swift half goblet of wine and he was ready to continue. He waved away the alarm he had caused, “The best part is, someone else came forward with an even better idea for providing a little diversion. Good Lord I had forgotten all about it.”

  Gaztelu was embarrassed, “Perhaps, my lord, there are some who might not want to hear this?”

  “Nonsense! Francis was offered a black slave girl. Now that, my friends, truly would be a deliverance from solitude! We had many a laugh reading Francis’s letters to his dear sister telling her about how he spent at least part hour every morning playing in his bed with the ‘little black one’. The devil.”

  Carlos slapped the chair arms with both hands and roared wi
th laughter, and then drained his wine goblet signalling to have it refilled. There were several shocked faces but most were quietly enjoying images of the prisoner and his early morning pleasures.

  “You may think it sounds no better than many another one of the army tales soldiers tell but I swear I have not spoken one word of a lie, gentlemen. Playing with the ‘little black one’; the old fornicator.”

  Zuñiga’s coughs reminded him of the presence of clergy, “Perhaps, my lord, if you were to tell the story of the charcoal?”

  “Ah yes. One day the silly fool decides to black himself up with charcoal, borrow the evil smelling rags of a slave and try to pass himself off as a blackamoor so he could just walk out of the palace. All good entertainment for the guards. They had all known of the plan but it pleased them to let it run its course so they could greet him with, ‘Morning, your majesty. Going somewhere?’” Carlos tipped more wine into his mouth. “But enough. You told your tale well, Zuñiga, even if you did cut it short today. I brought your book of our campaigns with me; have it in my library. Damned exciting those Commentaries, all of them. But how much better to hear them from the master himself.”

  “Your majesty I have something even better in my home to recall our prowess in the field. Our very last battle, my lord, you remember around Renty, when we had his son Henry’s Frenchies scurrying away from the field in disorder and completely humiliated? I have had the scene painted on a wall; a dramatic mural for all my visitors to admire.”