Quijada tapped the edge of the letter against his chin, “Well, it seems to reinforce everything Father Francisco said.”
“A spoiled little madam, more like. Whimpering, I tell you, because she was never allowed to have all her own way. For three years I had seen to it that she had everything she wished: jewels, silks, satins, velvets. And how was I repaid? With behaviour nearing treachery; fraternising with rebels. She needed humbling and Denia was the man to do it. Good God, man, she was only fourteen years old.”
“No doubt Denia enjoyed his role. It all sounds rather harsh to me.” Quijada took another letter from the box.
Carlos shook his head, “Exaggerations, no more. Yes, I was right. She had to be put in her place. What do you have there?”
“Something from the admiral, the queen’s uncle.”
“Dear God, another relative to plague me. My mother and sister had him completely hoodwinked. He refused to recognise the truth. Go on then, we will hear what the interfering old beggar had to say.”
“We are not forgetting, of course, that the admiral was the one who put down the revolt in ’twenty‑two and brought order to Castile for you, the man who proved himself an excellent regent during your absence in Flanders. However, here we go, he says,
When we were in Tordesillas I observed Catalina very closely and certainly she appears to be a most sensible young lady. She is concerned about her mother, especially her accommodation. This does not suit the governor and he ignores her pleas; I include detailed notes on this.”
Quijada shuffled through the contents of the box but was disappointed. “Nothing here, unfortunately.”
“Would not be the least surprised if they no longer exist. The man should have minded his own business and allowed others to mind theirs. Anyway, forget that letter; he was a dithering incompetent by then. I want you to bear that in mind.”
“Another time I would take issue with you on that. I wish I could have found those notes, they would have been most enlightening.”
“And I tell you they are not important, Quijada. What you continue to fail to realise is that the admiral was old and therefore easily manipulated by Catalina. In any case I was not prepared to listen to anything he said.”
“My lord you surprise me for I thought you were very much in his debt; and old or not, let me reiterate it was he who put an end to the uprising, who raised a huge army at his own expense, who persuaded other Grandees to join your cause. Yes, by Jove, once they saw his colours tied to the mast they soon followed, quelling civil strife, ensuring peace in Spain. So what on earth could he have done or said to be so out of favour?”
“Do not lecture me Quijada! Listen and learn instead. He had my mother sign a letter telling the rebels to lay down their arms.”
“An excellent move. He would naturally believe that they would respond speedily to the queen’s command.”
“Do not play the idiot with me! There it was in a nutshell. The queen. It was a command from the queen. God, you must be nave if not an idiot. A command from a queen who must have been of sound mind, able to rule; Queen Juana of Spain! Where would that have left me? Reduced to a nobody, and with some scheming grandee waiting for such an opportunity to seize power for himself. Thank God the admiral was shown the folly of his ways and the letter was destroyed.”
“And she was of sound mind?” Quijada enquired with an air of innocence.
“Not you too! Dear God in Heaven!” he screamed. “What is this obsession that is infecting everybody? Why is everyone so preoccupied with this? You should all attend to your own affairs. I will not be judged by any of you. I know better than any. I shall say no more. The subject is closed. No; it is not closed, not yet,” he grinned his satisfaction. “I have the best card still waiting to be played in this game. Read me the one from Denia. That might help must be nderstand better, give you the other side of the coin – or it would were you not so damned biased.”
“I have found one here. This was also written shortly after the rebellion was put down,
Most Sacred, Imperial and Catholic Majesty, Our Lord be praised that your majesty enjoys the health your vassals desire and may it ever be so.
Goodness me just listen to the man as he grovels. Obsequiousness thy name is Denia.
The illness of the queen is as usual but at present she is paying more attention to her personal cleanliness and to the care of her clothes.
Strange. Whatever can the man be talking about, were there not enough servants to attend to her majesty? The rest of this is in code. It must have been sensitive material for the man to be so secretive.”
“Do not play coy with me.”
Carlos was busy congratulating himself for decisions made more than thirty years ago when Quijada cried out, “Dear God in Heaven, I cannot believe my eyes, he writes
…… allow me to apply torture, it would be a good thing.”
He watched as Carlos squirmed for a second before regaining control.
“Quijada, explanations would take too long, and you have come to your unshakable conclusions already, so there would be little point.”
“Here it says that the queen walked out of Matins, taking Catalina with her.”
“Exactly! Now, that is what I wanted you to see. That was the other great worry! Surely you can understand why. It is all very well Francisco excusing her behaviour as that of a wilful child, but supposing it became common knowledge! The shame would have been too much. And what of the threat of the Inquisition, and the damnation of our souls? By God, Denia took care of everything. Kept the whole of the situation under control; never a slip‑up. He had to be firm.”
“It all makes me uneasy, here where it says using the necessary force and here, torture and here, her obstinacy or here, taking the most suitable action. No, no more letters. I cannot be convinced that the man was anything other than a despicable brute, enjoying his power over Queen Juana.”
“Damn it, Quijada, I had hoped for a moment that you might understand. Desperate circumstances call for desperate measures.”
“Ah, so the end justifies the means.”
Carlos straightened his hunched shoulders in defiance, and wagged a warning finger, “I will have you know I will answer to God and to Him alone about anything I have done or that was done in my name. So let that be an end to it. I tell you I will not go shamefaced before my Maker. A king has to do what he is called upon to do.”
He interlaced his fingers across his chest, rested his elbows on the chair arms and looked smug. “Now then, my self‑righteous friend; we both know that you, too, have taken unilateral decisions without any concern for other people’s feelings, is that not so?”
Quijada looked at him puzzled. Carlos enjoyed a moment of total satisfaction.
“Shall I remind you how you ran roughshod over the poor musician’s widow? There was no explanation, no apologies, no compensation. You rode up to her house, unannounced, followed by a thundering carriage. That, I would imagine, was threatening enough. Then you demanded the boy be brought to you telling her you intended taking him away. It broke the woman’s heart. She loved him, had loved him for nearly seven years. You then proceeded to berate her for her slovenly home, the boy’s unkempt appearance, his singular lack of education; you would not allow her to utter one word in her own defence. She got on her knees to you, holding the child to her breast. Without further ado you simply pulled him free and bundled him into the carriage.” Carlos leaned forward, exhausted yet exhilarated by his speech. He rubbed his hands, “Touché, I believe, Quijada?”
“Nothing of the sort; you know you exaggerate to suit your argument! My actions were all justifiable; and you make them sound far worse than they were. To put not too fine a point on it, the child did and does deserve better than to be allowed to run about wild, a raggedy‑arsed urchin. The couple had had seven years to follow my instructions; and what had I discovered? The priest who was supposed to be in charge of his education had delegated the job to an illiterate sacris
tan while he pocketed the money! When, and if, I might add, the lad went to school; he had to walk miles to get there. Most of the time he was not in school; he was fighting with other ruffians, stealing from orchards, wantonly killing birds and animals with his sling. Was that what fifty ducados a year was supposed to ensure? No, the couple had had their chance, and I could not in good conscience allow the situation to continue. I insist that my decision was taken solely for the good of the child and to ease the heart and mind of a friend.” “A friend? Are you sure?”
“I earnestly hope so.”
“Well, so be it, perhaps. Then suppose we forget that argument and move on to your letter to your wife. Was that not high‑handed and insensitive?”
“Not if she loves me; and I know she does. She has complete trust in me and when I said I could not disclose the father’s name, she knew it was for a very good reason and she has never pressed the issue. And the letter had to be short, terse even; the more one tries to explain the more complicated and dangerous it becomes. My wife appreciates that everything I have done was in a good cause.”
“Exactly, my friend! And so you see your reasoning is echoing mine when I maintain that a king has to do what he is called upon to do. I say again, touché.”
“And will it make you feel even better if I concede victory?”
“Oh, yes!” Carlos was positively jubilant. “I now feel so good I am of a mind to send to Tordesillas for the recipe for my mother’s famous sausages. Have Gaztelu write a letter. Now I think I shall go to the chapel with my confessor to pray for King John.”
“Then, my lord, if my services are no longer required, I shall go down to Cuacos. The ride in the comforting evening sunshine will lighten my wretched spirits.”
The letters were returned to the casket, the lid firmly shut and locked.
Quijada mumbled down at his hat and gloves as he took them from the table by the door. “Gracious me, the man now talks of sausages as if we had been merely concerning ourselves with a provisions list: deceit, intrigue, incarceration, torture, a boy’s abduction – sausages!”
He turned and bowed in the doorway. “Adieu, my lord, I shall tell the chair boys to come in, and send for Regla.”
“Do that. Do not be late tomorrow morning. I shall need you to be here very early.”
Those letters tell a disturbing story. And what of Quijada’s reactions? At least you now see that I do not stand alone in my opinions and judgements. And how cunning of Carlos to turn the tables on Quijada! They make a fine pair.
A Family Business
I
I am sorry to rush you but we must hurry for they are on their way; and I might add that some are not in a good humour this morning. That, along with such an early start, will sorely try tempers. Ah, here they come.
Quijada was accompanying Brother Francisco to the private salon where he had been summoned to await the king’s presence. They walked swiftly along the outer gallery leading from the new cloister. Additional rooms had been constructed on the exterior of the cloister’s south side to accommodate palace officials and the occasional visitors; the gallery linked these rooms directly to the king’s apartments. The two gentlemen passed through doors hurriedly opened to them, the major‑domo scurrying along beside the priest.
Eventually they stepped into the central corridor, the last door closing behind them.
“And then; the sheer audacity, the arrogance of that man, Brother Francisco. Simply outrageous behaviour,” Quijada continued. “I could not rid my mind of it yesterday. But you were actually in Tordesillas; you must have witnessed what was going on.”
Quijada had barely paused for breath since they met. He had been almost running at times to keep pace with his companion, tugging at his sleeve; to slow him down, to command his attention, to emphasise the extent of his anger.
Francisco stopped. He placed his hand gently on Quijada’s shoulder, “I cannot say anything which might be considered controversial when the king is not present. Nor will I speak of matters which may be nothing more than pure conjecture. What I will tell you is that there were two distinct periods during my stay there in my youth, and there were also two quite separate households, one for Princess Catalina the other for Queen Juana. Repeating what I said yesterday, there were those first joyous years in Catalina’s newly established court. We, her courtiers, were all young with no responsibilities other than those to our princess. We were free to enjoy all the good things of life. That was our philosophy if you wish. The second phase followed the rebellion, when, it is true, Denia ruled like a mythical despot. However, we youngsters still had our dancing, riding, hunting, excursions, and when youth has so many diversions it is relatively easy to forget those things which at first are all‑consuming subjects for gossip.”
They took several steps before halting again, the priest lost in thought, Quijada impatient for him to continue.
“The other household, and nothing to do with our lives, was that of the queen.” Francisco paused, his thoughts staying in the past leaving Quijada isolated and frustrated.
“Her apartments; what were they like?”
“To be honest, I had no idea at the time. They were, naturally, some distance from the public rooms and the smaller salons too, all of which were solely for our use. It was only recently that I discovered they were to the rear of the palace and overlooking a small courtyard. Queen Juana, being unwell more often than not, rarely, if ever, left her apartments; but enough, I did say I would not discuss …”
Quijada, aggravated by Francisco’s determined diplomacy then urged, “Tell me what are your opinions on the Denia dynasty?”
They entered the private salon making their way towards the windows to stand there silently; the priest in quiet thought, Quijada in restrained exasperation.
“Come along, Francisco, we all know how the king felt and continues to feel about that family. We have also all heard the rumours that have issued from the palace year in and year out about their despicable behaviour. What I want to know is what did you honestly think of them and the callous way they treated Queen Juana?”
Francisco responded gently, as if to appease a fractious child without yielding to its demands, “As for the older Denia, we could not fail to notice his fawning over the king when he visited. Also, Denia and the truth were total strangers. He was pompous, obnoxious, and we made him the butt of many a private joke. The son living there now is very like his father. But I will say no more.”
“I shall tell you what I discovered yesterday. Did you know that when Queen Juana was in her forties he actually wrote to Carlos about the need to use force against her, to torture her, and that she should be imprisoned in the fortress at Arévalo? Did Denia actually carry out any of his recommendations?”
“No more. I said I would not involve myself further,” Francisco raised his hand to close the subject. “Fortunately for us both I think I hear the arrival of the king.”
Carlos was wheeled across to the fire and transferred to his gout chair. Gaztelu followed close behind, a sheaf of blank paper tucked under his arm and clutching several freshly prepared quills to his chest.
“Good morning your majesty,” Francisco bowed deeply. “Hopefully you have slept well.”
“Stop this bowing nonsense, for God’s sake! And no, I did not sleep well. Too many damned things on my mind, including a special errand for you.” Carlos beckoned him close to whisper. “But first I must know, once and for all, about my mother’s sanity and faith at the time of her death. I tell you I am still concerned that my own soul is at risk.”
“My lord,” Francisco also kept his voice low, “all is well with the soul of the queen, have no fears. If it will give you comfort and reassurance I will tell you of her passing into glory.”
Carlos rubbed his hands together then beckoned to the others, “Gentlemen, we shall all listen to what Francisco has to say.” He snapped impatiently at the chair boys, “I want to be nearer the miserable remnants of a so‑called fire.
This room is always damned cold in the morning. Does no one listen to my orders? I insisted on fires in every room, every day. Is that supposed to be a fire? Put more wood on it, right now.”
Samuel picked up a couple of logs and added them to the smouldering remains sending ash and a few angry sparks across the hearth and a curling plume of grey smoke up the chimney.
“Now fix my chair; raise my legs. Why are you so damned slow this morning?”
There was a clanking and grating of ratchets as the leg supports were adjusted. “Now lower the back a little more.” More metal rasped against metal and the king was at last comfortable.
Their tasks completed the young lads retired to wait at the doorway. They took up their positions, hands behind their backs as they had been instructed, and began to whisper as they had taught themselves, never taking their eyes from their boots, heads as if made of stone, never moving.
“With a bit of luck Sam, they’ll forget we’re here. Bet we did miss some good stuff yesterday, eh?”
“Yeh, but never mind that, what’s all this he’s talking about, José? What does he mean about the queen’s sanity?”
“You mean you never heard of Crazy Juana? Well whether you heard it or not, Crazy Juana is what everybody was calling his mother; the one who lived in Tordesillas.”
“I know about her; she had an affair with a bloke, her palace governor. He was a really ’andsome feller. Like love birds they were, never apart, her playing the vihuela and him the lute, and them both singing. Then they’d read love poems to each other. But I guess he had to be sent packing in case he married her.”
A Matter of Pride Page 10