You are shocked and offended by Maria’s revelations of family life amongst the common folk? What she says is perfectly true. I can assure you it is more of a surprise that she should be objecting. It is quite acceptable for men to take their pleasure with any of the females in the family.
II
Returning to our visitor. He is a priest, Francisco de Borja. But first I must tell you a little more about Queen Juana, Carlos’s mother.
The setting is Tordesillas, a small hilltown standing high above a river not far from Valladolid. You nod your head, you know it? Of course you do, you saw the delightful sketch Carlos has in his salon. Could you hope for a more idyllic setting than that to retire to? You have simply to cross the bridge and up the little rise to rech peace and tranquillity. It was in a little used palace in that town where the widowed Queen Juana was hidden away from the public eye by her father. It proved as secure as any prison could ever be. Yes, he had her locked up then settled himself down to rule as Regent of Castile.
It would take too long to tell of the indignities and torture she suffered at his hands but suffer she did and for several years. Juana’s only solace throughout this time was her youngest daughter Catalina.
Well, her father died a few years later and Carlos was summoned from Flanders. Juana, freed at last from her father’s tyranny, had transformed her prison into a palace once more. It was splendid: exquisite furnishings had been rediscovered; the walls were hung with luxurious tapestries; silver and gold plate made welcome reappearances to be displayed on chests and sideboards.
The family was reunited. Happiness and joy abounding? Oh, if only … But Carlos set about organising the palace in Tordesillas to his liking, not his mother’s; and it is at this point that Francisco enters the story.
Shall we sit a while in the shade of this oak? Allow me to spread my cloak over this fallen bough. These trees are colossal, such height and strength. How many centuries have they stood here witnessing events? If trees and buildings could only speak, such tales might they tell!
Where was I? Yes, this Francisco was a member of an elite little circle of boys and girls chosen to accompany Catalina in her studies, her dancing classes, her sport, and her riding. Juana, however, was not to enjoy any of the court activities. Nor was she was ever allowed outside the palace. She was granted no favours; in fact she was removed to more isolated apartments, and these were situated in a rear yard overlooking the kitchens and sculleries and the rotting heaps of rubbish hurled from their doors!
Francisco remained in Catalina’s court for about eight years, until she left for Portugal to marry King John III. Not long afterwards Carlos married Isabel and he entered their household. Yes, he became a part of the court of the beautiful Isabel, the Isabel everybody loved. Do you know, it was even rumoured that Francisco was greatly enamoured of her. I shall say no more about that except that a ballad was distributed which told of his heart’s affliction and his inconsolable days of mourning when she died.
Now, before you fall into the trap of believing that Isabel was all virtue (and I must confess to that probably being my fault) I should point out that she, as well as others in Juana’s family, was not averse to a little thieving. Perhaps you would prefer calling it unauthorized borrowing without any intention of returning.
In bygone days Juana had found great pleasure in beautiful jewellery, and had brought a considerable number of very fine pieces with her to Tordesillas. These were all packed away in caskets as she wore very little in the way of adornments at this time. Carlos, from his very first visit to the palace had helped himself liberally to many a handful. Isabel considered herself equally free to take whatever caught her fancy, and believe me she did fancy quite a few items; never a by your leave or may I.
Sorry; back to my story. Both Carlos and Isabel thought so highly of Francisco that he was found a Portuguese wife. She brought a most generous dowry with her; I would remind you that the nobility of Portugal as well as its royal house are very rich. Francisco was created a marqués, a move to make him equal in status with his rich bride.
Sadly, Isabel’s thirteen years of marriage came to a sudden and tragic end. Shortly after her seventh pregnancy, which ended in a miscarriage, she died of puerperal fever. Carlos was inconsolable and retired to a monastery with his confessor for a month while his son Felipe and Francisco were given the task, in the searing heat of summer, to accompany the funeral cortege to Granada, where Isabel’s mortal remains were to be laid to rest.
The body had to be identified prior to the committal ceremony. The lead‑lined coffin was opened and Francisco fell to the ground mumbling almost incoherently that he could not swear other than that this must be the body which he had seen robed in the Franciscan habit and placed in this coffin in Toledo, but as for what he now actually saw? Alas, the beautiful face of his beloved queen had become a heaving, worm‑ridden, fetid mass of stinking putrefaction. It was then that he expressed a desire for a life of reflection and piety; aware, painfully aware, that human flesh is nothing, the human soul everything.
When his wife died he renounced his wealth and title in favour of his son and retired from the pomp and splendours of court life to join the Jesuits.
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This, then, is the person we are to meet a little later today, the Jesuit priest Father Francisco.
Doubts
I
The June sun flooded in across the furnishings and floor of the private salon to be stopped short by the chill about Carlos as he sat hunched forward in his chair his face set in a grim mask. He peered through his glasses first at one then another of the sheets of paper handed to him in glum silence by Gaztelu and Quijada.
“Yes. Yes. Do you have to bore me with such trivia, for God’s sake? I am having a very bad day and there is no need to make it worse. Have the chair boys gone?”
“They are at the door.”
“Not good enough. I want them out.”
Quijada turned to José and Samuel, “Wait outside lads.”
They bowed and left, José mumbling, “That’s a bleedin’ disappointment. Bet we’re going to miss some gossip.”
Carlos sighed, “Do you not have some news from home, Quijada, to cheer us? How is Doña Magdalena?”
“Lonely. If it were not for the boy …”
“Bring her here to Cuacos! How often do I have to say it?”
“That will be far from easy.”
“Well, thank you for sounding so positive! Is that what you consider cheerfu news? What about the boy?”
Quijada gazed out through the window, into the distance, his thoughts crossing the miles between Yuste and Villagarcía, smiling. “Doña Magdalena tells me he has completely charmed all the village womenfolk. At the bull fight last week a bull escaped from the ring in the village square. Admittedly it was very young and quite small but, nevertheless, a bull, and it was on the wrong side of the barricade. There was screaming, people fleeing or climbing to safety. The lad simply stepped out in front of the animal, holding his cloak before him like a shield. The bull stopped dead in its tracks, pawed at the ground, lifted its head, and looked him square in the eye.”
“And?” Carlos leaned forward anxiously.
“And the bull turned and allowed itself to be ushered back to the ring, with a few slaps across its hindquarters to encourage it. Delighted ladies threw down flowers from upper windows, men cheered and waved their neckerchiefs and, I believe, a few of the other young lads there were just a tiny bit envious.”
Carlos relaxed and shook his head, “By God, but you have a fearless one there. Must be your influence, Quijada, you were never one to shy away from danger. Just so long as the boy is careful, sensible and not being foolhardy or headstrong.”
“My squire is his guide and mentor; I have no concerns. He is also instructing him in horsemanship for hunting and jousting. Juan is an excellent pupil; it is as if he were born in the saddle.”
“I was damned good myself once.”
/> “Would that he might prove to be half the horseman you were.”
“And his studies?”
“He applies himself well, but not for long, his thoughts soon drift to the outdoor pursuits.”
Carlos chuckled, “I hated the schoolroom. I was always being censured by my tutors for being inattentive. Books were of little significance to me as a youth. Let the lad beware, got to get his priorities right. What of his music?”
“Quite good; improving. At least the musician did us a favour there. Also, according to my wife, the lad appears to have some natural talent. You will understand that it wold not be for me to comment, you know my limitations when it comes to music.”
“Too true. Has there been a letter from Barbara?”
Gaztelu, who had listened, pleasantly diverted, to the progress report of this child snatched from the arms of its mother somewhere in Germany, hoping to hear something to really excite, now pricked up his ears. Barbara; this was a new name.
“A request for money.”
“Again? Her husband had a decent enough pension as a commissary, surely?”
Gaztelu blinked over his spectacles; this could prove interesting. That lady’s hand on all those letters, he now assumed, belonged to someone called Barbara, and she was apparently often asking for money in those letters. Moreover, it was not a secret that Quijada withheld from the king as he had suspected.
“She requests a one‑off payment, a pension for her chaperone.”
Carlos tugged first at his grizzled beard then at his lower lip revealing the few yellow, broken teeth, randomly scattered along the gums of his protruding lower jaw. “Everything to do with that family is on a ‘just this once’ basis, have you noticed?”
“Indeed I have; all the same, perhaps a gesture would be in order. As a chaperone she did perform a sterling service as I recall.”
“It took no effort; good God, she was such a fearsome woman. There was only Barbara who would ever dare say anything to her without dreading a counterblast. Yes, I suppose you could give what you think is appropriate, but insist that there will be no further allowances of any sort. How long am I to be made to pay for that voice?”
“You do surprise me. I might remind you that it was Barbara’s voice that calmed you, rid you of all pains and concerns.”
“All of ten years ago or more!”
So the question was finally answered and it was so disappoining. This Barbara, the writer of all those letters, the letters Quijada often hid in his jerkin, used to sing for Carlos. There was no real mystery after all; although Gaztelu still found it a little strange that he had never heard of her until now. He removed his spectacles, placed them on his papers, then, without a hint of guile, offered, “May I venture, my lord, that given your very high standards the lady must have had a remarkable voice to be remembered for so long and with such affection.”
Carlos and Quijada, shocked to discover that Gaztelu had been sitting there all this time and listening to their conversation, could only stare at him.
Ah, the timely arrival of Francisco de Borja, our visiting priest. Shall we stand as close as we can to the open window? We can enjoy the occasional breeze carrying the precious mountain air perfumed by summer flowers from the garden below.
II
Carlos cheerily called across the room, “The Old Duque himself, come to visit!”
His joy immediately changed to irritation, “For goodness sake get up off your knees. You know quite well I am a nobody these days. And in any case I have known you too long for such formalities. We shall be as cousins, and we are more or less, thanks to Grandfather Ferdinand straying from the straight and narrow. Sit down, sit down, you make me damn nervous hovering over me in those dreary robes.”
Francisco was saddened by the bitterness and disappointment etched on Carlos’s face and in his voice, in the droop of his shoulders. The man looked weary of this world. This was the Emperor Carlos who had ruled most of Europe with an iron will and fist. He had also hoped for a warmer welcome. “My lord, black is the colour chosen by the Jesuits, the Company of Jesus, which it pleases God to allow me to be a member.”
Carlos grumbled, “I see no need for this kind of innovation. There were plenty of well‑respected orders already. But I am not going to argue with you.”
“With respect, my lord, I would like to tell you about the Company; why we are so different.”
“We cannot wait to hear, is that not right Quijada?” Carlos made no effort to disguise his sarcasm.
“Our General, Loyola …”
“Must butt in. Your general? Makes your lot sound like a regular army to me. Is that not so, Quijada?”
“Perhaps God’s army, my lord, fighting in a different manner to those of the Empire, but with the same aim?”
“Exactly,” Francisco turned to this most receptive of his three listeners. “We are employed in the service of God working as the army of the pope doing whatever he commands, going wherever he says there is the greatest need in this world. Apart from taking the True Faith to countries far afield the Church here in Europe is in crisis and needs help. Look no further than Germany infected with growing Protestantism, cast your eyes to England with hundreds of monasteries destroyed, Sweden is lost; and as for France and its internal struggles … God needs an army such as ours. We are the fighters for the Catholic Faith.”
Carlos fumed, “Well, there is not one person can say that I have not always done my damnedest to protect the Faith with my armies! I can think of no one who could have done more. No, there is not a single soul who could criticise me on that account. So where does this ‘army’ of yours base itself? I suppose you have camps for your troops as you go about your various campaigns. You have some tents just down the road, no doubt?”
Quijada chided, “My lord, you are intent on mocking whatever Francisco says. You know well enough that he is in this area to oversee the building of one of their new colleges, and out of courtesy he came to visit you. Why not ask him about the college’s progress?”
“Jesus Christ in His wisdom, is there only me with a sense of humour this morning?” Carlos growled, “Can you people not see I am trying to bring a little levity into our conversation? God knows, the Old Duque here sounds like he is giving a lecture. Go on, go on then, tell me about your colleges. And try to make it sound interesting.”
ize="2" face="Times New Roman"> “Our colleges are among the best; we teach using the most modern methods. And yes, we do have a new one nearing completion near Plasencia.”
“Surely a university would be preferable. Sounds much more impressive. No need to answer. So, what makes you all so special, then?”
“My lord, there is not one order committed to a life serving God that can ever approximate the Jesuits. Loyola insists that as well as being educated men we must continue our studies throughout the whole of our lives. We must also preach, perform acts of charity, teach the catechism, hear confessions. To ensure we are all dedicated to carrying out all our General’s rules no one is accepted into our Company if they come from another order.”
“Ah, now then, what is this? Criticism? Pride? Superiority?” Carlos raised his eyebrows, a triumphant smile lighting up his face. He congratulated himself for he had surely nettled this priest who, so far as he was concerned, had joined a group of fanatics; and furthermore, for some inexplicable reason, had been chosen as confessor by his daughter Juana.
Francisco would not be drawn into a discussion of the shortcomings of other orders, even though they were glaringly self‑evident to anyone prepared to believe their eyes and ears. “My lord?” he replied diplomatically, “You must have some information about other orders of which I am ignorant.” He shook his head, “I was making no judgements. There was no criticism ever intended. It is simply that it is so much easier to instruct those who come to us without preconceived ideas or opinions on how to hold to the ancient and tried ways. And this is of the utmost importance in a world where it is unsafe to do otherwise.”
“Well, thank you, thank you. This is all becoming far too serious so I do not wish to hear any more. But this business of following the orders of the pope, that worries me. I do not trust him, not one iota. I could tell you a thing or two about that evil … Never mind, we will yet see victory over his villainy. Enough, I have weightier matters on my mind today.”
“Forgive me, I would not have presumed to indulge myself in … I had no idea …”
“I have received some bad news. My sister Catalina’s husband, King John of Portugal, has died. Long live the new king, his grandson, Sebastian.”
Francisco bowed his head thinking that this must be the explanation for the king’s churlish ad miserable behaviour. “Amen to that. You will allow me a few moments of private meditation? My condolences, my lord.”
God rest King John’s soul. I was speaking only this morning of Catalina’s departure from Tordesillas to marry the Portuguese king. Married for thirty‑two years, and by all accounts it was a happy marriage.
Her sister Leonor arranged it when she was married to John’s father, Emanuel. Poor Leonor, she had been furious about Carlos marrying her off to the old king, because she was in fact originally betrothed to John. Unfortunately for John, and even more so for Leonor, the father promptly fell in love with her portrait and decided he would have her for himself. Carlos jumped at the opportunity to have his sister marry the king and not the prince, even if he was sixty and she only nineteen. And, would you believe it, with this new contract he would benefit from an immediate loan of fifty thousand Portuguese doblas! Not a bad bargain, fifty thousand doblas for a sister!
A Matter of Pride Page 8