“My friend,” tut‑tutted Carlos, “we all know you are prone to exaggeration and while I have been known to bask in it, we must surely draw the line here.” He pulled Zuñiga close then lowered his voice. “You know as well as I there was no sensible reason for the French to prolong that war and King Henry, a man with at least a modicum of intelligence unlike his father, decided to leave the field and retain his dignity. Dear Zuñiga you must ask your artist to repaint the retreat giving it at least some semblance of the truth. A pity though, the idea is a good one, and I wager it does make a damn fine picture.” He belched then sighed, “It is too damned bad that all I can do to celebrate is to have church services and banquets, eh, Quijada?”
Quijada, who hadatched in dismay if not alarm at the vast quantities of food and drink that were being rapidly despatched, shook his head. “It is indeed, and you show no inclination to push yourself away from the table.”
“I meant, Quijada, the loss of my dancing days.”
“Precisely, if only you had always done more dancing and less eating and drinking.”
“Never danced that night at my birthday ball in Germany.”
“You mean you were unable to dance at your birthday ball, you were too sated with food and drink. You could do no other than sit and watch. What a way to celebrate your birthday!”
“I shall ignore that. But that woman was there, and …” an explosive belch put an end to his story. He had eaten too much, had drunk far more than usual. His chin sank onto his chest and he drifted into a strange world of dreams and memories.
d c
He was in Germany at one of those glittering occasions befitting the birthday celebrations of a Holy Roman Emperor. Everybody who was anybody was there in their best velvets and satins and sparkling with jewels from head to toe. The banquet had been everything he could have asked for, and he had asked for a great many things and in huge quantities.
Now everyone had gathered in an enormous hall lit by hundreds of candles and, should Carlos be affected by the February cold, two enormous fires blazed their comfort. There was dancing, cards, chess, and gossiping, lots of gossiping.
At the far end of the hall Carlos sat on his throne on a dais, near his musicians; at least he could enjoy the music.
A stately pavan followed by a galliard had just ended and the dancers were slowly drifting towards the outer edges of the room.
“Good God, Quijada!” Carlos leaned towards his aide. “Look; the widow‑woman Blomberg is here again. What, in God’s name, is she here for this time; and how did she get an invitation? This is the second time.”
“I have no idea, my lord; her name was most definitely not on the list.”
Katherine Blomberg approached Carlos, making three deep reverences, and making the young maiden at her side follow her example.
Four guards with their halberds hurriedly barred their way.
“Have no fear, good sirs,” she chided, “I intend going no further. I am quite content to say what I have to say right here.”
Carlos motioned the guards to stand aside.
Katherine curtsied once more to Carlos then turned to address the astonished gathering. “My lords, ladies, you are in the presence of the most Christian monarch ever known to mankind. Some time ago I begged a favour; that my son be given a commission in the Imperial Army. I was penniless, a widow unable to afford to buy one. Knowing nothing of me the emperor granted my request. I am here to publicly thank him. It is because of his most generous spirit that my family is able to maintain its dignity and pride.”
Carlos tugged at Quijada’s sleeve, “What do you suppose the old woman wants this time, a husband for the damsel she has dragged along with her? Go ask the widow what she wants; be kind, but firm and say no. Mind you, that is a very pretty young wench at her side.”
In fact, throughout Katherine’s speech his eyes had never left the young lady. She was tall with hair the colour of gold framing the most beautiful face he had ever seen since that of his beloved Isabel. He was angry with himself for comparing the looks of a nobody, she was not even a noblewoman, with the exquisite and most royal Isabel.
But he was no different from any other man, he told himself, and he was taken by the girl’s wonderful figure, her milk‑white breasts modestly revealed by the cut of her satin gown, a satin gown as blue as the skies in summer; and her golden hair the shimmering sun.
He was beginning to drown in feelings unknown for years. The room was growing too hot; there were too many people, too many candles, and there was suddenly no need for those two huge fires.
Quijada returned, smiling. “Frau Blomberg wishes nothing more than to be given the honour of kissing your hand in gratitude.”
“Are you sure she wants nothing more?”
“That is what she said.”
“She may approach.”
Katherine came forward, the young lady in tow. She knelt at her emperor’s feet and kissed the proffered hand.
Carlos nodded, smiled; pleased to have been of service. He raised a hand towards the musicians, the ball could now continue.
The next thing he heard was not music but the voice of Katherine Blomberg announcing that, by special request, her daughter Barbara was going to sing.
Carlos managed to remain seated by grasping the chair arms, Quijada visibly rocked on his feet as if having been dealt an enormous blow.
“Quijada, this is embarrassing.”
“Only for the two ladies. I suggest you let them have their moment then the audience’s reaction will be sufficient to speed them on their way.”
“Get me a handkerchief. I would hate to be seen as ungallant; must have something to bury my face in.”
A golden dish with a snowy pile of linen squares was offered.
Katherine hugged her daughter then joined the onlookers and proudly waited.
Then Barbara sang. Her voice was perfection. Carlos had never heard a voice with such colour and velvety richness.
“Oh, Barbara.”
a b
“Oh, Barbara.” Carlos raised his head with a jerk. “Quijada, are you there? Have I been saying anything?”
“Nothing, my lord. You dozed off and snored a little; not surprisingly, considering.”
“Wine,” Carlos demanded.
“My lord, a word of advice,” whispered Quijada, “think of tomorrow and the likely repercussions of today’s intemperance.”
“Quijada, if I have another attack of gout my doctor will have the remedies.”
“You possess the best remedy, my lord, in keeping your mouth shut and refraining from eating and drinking to excess. But as usual …”
“You are an incredible killjoy. I said I want wine!”
My friend, it goes without saying that Quijada is right; the morning will bring great pain and suffering for the king. We shall postpone our next meeting until his health and the accompanying ill temper improve. Some very stormy, disagreeable days lie ahead.
I noticed you were intrigued with Carlos muttering the name Barbara. More of that another time.
March
Still in Command?
I
You were most wise to stay away. I promise you we will not remain long in this dreary bedchamber. Life has centred round the bed of Carlos day and night for weeks. You may recall from your last visit his friends and advisers, including his doctor, all warning him of the consequences of his gluttony. But years ago it was already too late to make Carlos see reason, and he is certainly not of a mind to heed advice now; he is like a man driven.
Following his day of intemperance he was forced to take to his bed suffering from an extremely painful attack of gout afflicting his feet, legs, hands and arms. He has also been tormented by agonisingly painful haemorrhoids, another ailment he has had to endure for years. Then there is the unpleasant business of syphilis, but perhaps it would be indelicate to go further on that; forgive me. Carlos has been dosing himself daily with barley water, egg yolks, and senna wine in the hope
that these would flush and cleanse his system.
The people you see about his bed, young Dr. Mathys and his assistants, have never been far from his bedside, while potions and ointments have been prepared daily by the pharmacist. They could all probably do their work blindfold, after goodness knows how many years practice of mixing and applying; no doubt they would prefer to. At the moment a thick paste of chicken grease and barley flour mixed with wallflowers and parsley is being applied to the inflamed piles, the royal rectum will then be cosseted in a napkin. You know, people often complain about the money doctors make. They mock them, mouthing unkind sentiments such as, ‘You can tell he is a doctor, pisspot in one hand a money bag in the other’. I tell you I do not envy them their task not for one moment, nor the money in their purses.
“How does that feel, your majesty?” Doctor Mathys enquired as Carlos was gently rolled onto his back.
“Good; for now; but we shall see when I am dressed and sitting in my chair.”
“And do you require fresh plasters for your arm assista legs?”
“No, I certainly do not want fresh plasters! How would I dress with arms and legs bound in windings of linen? In any case I have no desire to go about the place reeking of vinegar.”
“I had thought perhaps comfrey root plasters?”
“Are you trying to annoy me? I said; no plasters!”
Carlos was manoeuvred to the side of his bed so that his hose could be inched slowly over swollen feet and ankles then distended knees; toes were guided into wrapover shoes of the softest suede. Next, the night shirt was removed and his arms carefully fed through the sleeves of a fresh chemise. He was lifted and propped up by strong arms under his shoulders as the linen was tucked deep into his hose to cover the protective napkin. That done, a bowl was held beneath his chin as first he had his face refreshed with a sponge of welcoming warm water, then his beard tidied by his barber. Warm towels patted dry the wrinkled cheeks. After his hair was combed, a wool skull cap was pulled into place. Finally, his doublet and jerkin were on and fastened and his bonnet positioned over his skull cap.
“God, but it feels good to be dressed again. I feel like a new man.” He beckoned his chair boys José and Samuel, “Right, lads, lift me over to my table and chair. I am going to have breakfast. Van Male, let the cook know I am ready.” He beamed from ear to ear, already savouring the treat to come.
Van Male, a man in his late forties, all in black except for the elegant silver buckles on his shoes, a gift from his previous employer the Duque de Alba, and the broad red sash of the Companion of the Bedchamber across his breast, forced his weary feet forward carrying him towards the door, his head determinedly held high despite his exhaustion.
Ah, Male. Poor fellow, such a quiet and placid man; he is far too amenable, too self‑effacing. Those who decide not to overlook him take advantage of him. He served in the army for a while in the service of the Duque de Alba. A friend then succeeded in finding him a position in the king’s household about five years ago. It is Male’s privilege to read aloud far into the night when pain keeps Carlos from his sleep, stopping at times to change the cloths about his temples or sprinkling them now and then with a mixture of opium, henbane and mandragora. Have you tried it? Very soothing I assure you. He has permission to rest on a truckle bed nearby when and if Carlos does fall asleep.
Let me share an amusing anecdote with you. When Male mared recently, instead of the more usual gift of a piece of leather for shoes, or a bolt of cloth, or even a piece of jewellery; the king gave him what? I ought not to ask; if you had a thousand attempts you would never guess. He offered him his wise counsel upon entering into the matrimonial state! And that was it, nothing more!
But here comes breakfast.
The cook led in his small team: one bearing a gold dish with fitted dome, followed by another with a basket of bread, the next carried gold bowls, yet another held a gold jug, the last a gold salver and goblet. Male stood at the ready with table napkins.
Carlos looked merrily about him; this was his first venture into the land of real food after weeks of an enforced punishing diet.
The domed lid was raised; Carlos beamed and tore into the bread then dipped it into the greasy sardine omelette.
Doctor Mathys, with a heavy heart, ushered his assistants from the scene that heralded the beginnings of the next attack. His only course of action was to study further in an attempt to discover other cures.
“This is excellent.” Carlos wiped his oily chin. “What could be better? Well, perhaps another one. No, there is no time for such a luxury, I must meet someone – but there is time for another beer.”
This is an important meeting and will be held in private. We will make our way now to the king’s private salon.
II
This is by far the best room in the palace, a haven. One could easily spend the rest of one’s life here.
Look at all the book shelves holding but a small selection of the king’s vast library built up over the years; every one of them gems, the sacred and the profane: Psalters, Bibles, art, music, science – all so inviting. Over there on the large table, the maps and charts are all waiting, demanding investigation. Immediately above, more shelves with Torriano’s timepieces and mechanical toys. See the little trumpeter, the chickens, and the charming dancer holding her skirts, all frozen for the moment, merely waiting for someone to bring them to life. And there are even more treasures tucked away in those drawers and cupboards. Lastly there stands Carlos’s small clavichord, the lid tightly closed, but surely begging to be played.
Light and sunshine can both enter this room, from the east and from the south, and there is a splendid view of the garden.
Then, of course, the chairs and stools including Carlos’s gout chair all grouped intimately around the fire; who could ask for more?
It is, nonetheless, like all the rest, too damnably hot. May God forgive me for such an outburst!
A tall gentleman in a black velvet jerkin, a ruff of crisp undulating waves of the finest Brussels lace, padded trunk hose with green panes, a green bonnet trimmed with silver cord, was deep in conversation with Quijada and Gaztelu. Gaztelu stood facing the two, squinting up at them through his spectacles, a sheaf of papers still awaiting attention held snug against his breast.
Our visitor is quite a handsome man, perfectly proportioned. And note the face, too, with such a deep forehead, large hazel eyes keen and intelligent, a rich dark beard framing sensual lips. He could have his choice of the ladies without doubt.
This is Ruy Gomez; recently promoted to Chief Accountant of the Treasury, and close friend of King Felipe, Carlos’s son.
Carlos has known Gomez since he came to this country from Portugal with his mother, a lady in waiting to the Empress Isabel. In his early youth he was transferred to Felipe’s court; first as pageboy, then later as his chamberlain and trusted confidant. As a reward for his continued services to his king a young lady has been selected from one of the most influential Spanish families to be his bride. The bride‑to‑be as I said is young; in facize=e is just seventeen while Gomez is already forty. She is said to have an astonishingly beautiful face but is never seen without a black eye patch. Now, an incurable romantic like me insists that the reason for this is because she lost an eye while practising duelling with one of her pages; others tending more to the prosaic declare she has the misfortune to have a terrible cast in that eye.
But let us hear what they have to say.
“Yes, thank you Quijada, I am most fortunate with my accommodation in Brussels. I am staying at your former residence and enjoying the attentive services of your former staff. They were eager, by the way, to hear of the child who was so briefly in their midst before being fostered by one of the emperor’s musicians. I said I would ask.” He smiled what might be considered a mischievous smile.
“They were, were they?” Quijada was offhand.
Gaztelu put down his clutch of papers, rubbed his spectacles on his sleeve and perched
them once more on his nose as if to hear all the better.
“They said he was the most beautiful baby boy they had ever seen.”
“Did they, now? And did they have anything else to say?”
“As a matter of fact they did.” Gomez toyed first with the silver buttons on his jerkin then adjusted the lace at his wrists, “All gossip, of course, but when the child’s existence is shrouded in such mystery it is not to be wondered at.”
“I am all ears; and if I can be of any help …” Quijada’s tone was non committal as he folded his arms and leaned forward to study the toes of his shoes.
Gaztelu was all ears too. This was all news to him, even if it was just gossip; and it made such a welcome change to a life of endless letters of state, financial reports or requests.
“They told me that ten or so years ago you and the emperor’s head groom, in the middle of winter, brought this tiny babe to Brussels from Ratisbon.”
“That is true. But the child was accompanied by a nursemaid and a wet nurse, and they travelled in a carriage; so he was not exposed quite so brutally to the elements as perhaps you supposed.”
“I never doubted it. They intimated that the reason for the child’s removal had to do with his mother. I gathered from this that he is an illegitimate child, and someone on the emperor’s staff decided he should have a Spanish upbringing.”
A Matter of Pride Page 5