A Matter of Pride

by Linda Carlino

  “So tell me more. How old is he? His name?”ont>

  “He is eleven years old.” He smiled. “Originally he was called Jerome, but my wife changed his name to Juan. She said that the name Jerome was more suited to someone who would become a priest whereas this little lad was cut out for an adventurous life. He has a courageous spirit, loves horse riding, fencing, and she says the name of Juan reflects this.”

  “And his parents?”

  “Juan is the son of a very dear friend of mine. A friend, who, for many reasons, wishes to keep his name secret; I respect his wishes and on pain of death would not reveal it. Ah here is Gaztelu. Good morning.”

  “Good morning to you both. An early start for you Father Francisco; a good day for travelling,” his eyes squinted up at and found confirmation in the almost cloudless skies. “I will wish you success; although there is no doubting the outcome. Catalina will do as her brother bids, and after all he is not asking the impossible. By the way, Princess Juana’s ambassador will remain here for a further two days which will give you ample opportunity to deal with the king’s private business.”

  “I do not care for the implication that I might be doing something underhand.” Again his thoughts returned to Juana, the young woman on her knees seeking absolution, weeping.

  “No. No. It is, rather, that after dealing first with the matters of state you will have sufficient time to smooth the way for the ambassador. It is going to be a difficult situation for him, presenting as Juana’s ambassador but only carrying papers from his majesty.”

  “Just so; I shall do my very best to ensure there is as little embarrassment as possible for the man and to dismiss any misunderstandings caused by the lack of personally written condolences. I shall certainly find it easy enough to support the Princess Juana; I know her better than any and am convinced she is being misjudged.” He pictured the innocent Juana with those large, honest, hazel eyes.

  The horses and mules were now ready, hooves shuffling in anticipation. Packs and rolls had been securely tied, all final adjustments made, riders only awaiting the order to mount.

  Alonso and Manuel stood apart from the rest sketching arcs in the stony earth with the toes of their boots.

  “Who’s a lucky son‑of‑a‑bitch, then?”

  “It’s not luck, Manuel, it’s ’cause me talents is recognised. They needed someone special, like, someone who’d know better than anybody how to look after the horses.”

  “Yeah, but how come you and not me?”

  “I had me ear to the ground, mate. I heard very quick from Maria about this lot getting pulled together, so‑to‑speak, to go to Portugal with that priest over there. Right out of the blue comes this decision to send him there, something to do with the king of Portugal dying. Maria says that the widow is our king’s sister. So I ’specks he wants to send the priest to let her know just how cut up he is. Anyway, Maria hotfoots it to let me know what’s up, so I goes to boss Pepe and volunteers, like.”

  Manuel kicked out in frustration destroying the pattern that he had been so diligently forming, “Did they not want more than you, Alonso? I mean, I’m your mate.”

  “Do you really think I didn’t try to have you to come along with me? Course you’re me mate, and course I asked, but it was no go.”

  “Some folk get all the luck, all the same. Least that’s the way I sees it. I mean, just look at your Maria, not here any time at all and there she is doing the pressing of the clothes, no less.”

  “Now you’re right there mate. That is good luck; well it was bad luck for the other lass. She ups and dies of some horrible fever and Maria steps right into her shoes.”

  “Ooh, don’t you talk about dead men’s shoes, gives me the creeps. I could just feel a cold shiver go up me back right then I could, exactly that moment when you said that. Anyway, just you wait and see; she’ll be after something better afore long, I know her sort.”

  “You’re right there an’ all, Manuel. She’s told me, says she wants to make something of herself. Cleaning and polishing is what she’s after next.”

  “Who’s she hoping will die this time? Hey up, though, you know she might just be heading for a nasty fall.”

  Alonso was taken aback, “How do you reckon that, then, Manuel; you know something I don’t?”

  Manuel laughed, “Didn’t mean to scare you mate, it’s only the old story about the farm girl on her way to market. You don’t know it? Sounds just like your Maria she does. Well, see, there’s this young lass on her way to market carrying a basket of eggs on her head, like they do. And going through her mind is what she’s going to do with the money she gets. She says to herself, I’ll buy more chickens, they’ll lay more eggs to sell so I can buy more so’s I can start to raise chickens to sell as well as eggs. Then I’ll buy some land. I’ll get richer and richer. Then as she’s going along she decides she’ll need a husband and she imagines herself telling her father. He says, How about a farmer? What? You must be joking, she says. A gentleman, then? No, not good enough, she says. I know, you wants a nobleman, he says. That I do not!, she says, stamping her foot. I know, me girl, you wants nothing less than a prince, I’m right, aren’t I? And she nods her head. Get it? She nods her head. The daft beggar nods her head for real, and down comes the basket, eggs and all. Well your Maria and her fanciful ideas put me in mind of that story, that’s all.”

  “She says you and me is just two simple stick‑in‑the‑mud fellers. Leastwise that’s the way she sees it.”

  “She can keep her opinions to herself, who does she think she is and her not here five minutes.” He sought revenge, “So how’s the hayloft romps? Going to miss them for the next few weeks?”

  “Nah,” Alonso sniffed, rubbing his nose on the back of his hand and wiping his hand down the side of his breeches, “not really; cooled off a bit it has.”

  “Who? You or her?” He knew the answer and felt he had evened the score somewhat with Alonso.

  Alonso sniffed again.

  Father Francisco was up on his horse and calling, “Time to be on our way.”

  Those who were accompanying him swung up into their saddles. With a hesitant start they were off, while those who remained in the courtyard watched them follow the stony track along to the cluster of trees at the corner, saw them as they turned left to disappear down the hill one by one until all that remained was the dying souns of hooves and the occasional voice.

  Manuel returned to the stables, with a firmly engraved image of Alonso’s triumphant grin as he turned to him from the saddle, settling his wide‑brimmed hat on his head.

  “Lucky sod. I still says as there’s some gets all the luck.”

  II

  “An auspicious day to embark on such an undertaking,” Gaztelu turned to Quijada.

  “Auspicious day? Indeed you are right. I had forgotten, what with one thing and another. Yes, the day of Santiago el Mayor, Spain’s patron saint. I tell you, Gaztelu, I sometimes wonder if I am not growing too old for this job. I am becoming ever more forgetful. Fortunately I keep catching myself out before others do. But you caught me out today. Ah well.”

  “Have you ever visited the shrine of the saint at Santiago de Compostela? No? What an experience, my friend. The cathedral is quite magnificent. The doorway with its apostles, prophets, and angels playing their musical instruments; all of them looking so real you could swear they were moving. And then there is this enormous censer, half the size of a grown man, hanging from the dome where the transept crosses the knave. When it is required for the solemn ceremonies it hurtles the full length of the transept like some celestial being, like a comet perhaps or some enormous magical projectile leaving a trail of fire and perfumed smoke. Someone told me that it is swung not so much as a part of the church ritual but to sweeten the air. I can believe that; the stink from the hundreds of dirty, sweaty pilgrims from all over Europe crowded into every available inch of the nave is indescribable.”

  “It would certainly alter the odour of Christi
an virtue from the physical to the mystical.” Quijada chuckled, “I like that, very clever, must remember to tell it again. I wonder if it would amuse the king? Changing the odour from physical to …”

  “You are light of heart today, Quijada. Is it because of your intended visit home, returning to your young bride? You have been better blessed with your marriage than our King Felipe to be sure.”

  “Aye, poor Felipe. A second disastrous match. And today is the anniversary of his wedding. Now, you see, I have remembered that. July the twenty‑fifth; some wedding day that must have been! Sad, old Mary Tudor. Well when I say old, I realise she is only forty or so, but to become a bride at the age of thirty‑eight and to someone eleven years her junior … well, what can one say? Have you seen the portrait? It has just arrived, a gift for Carlos. I think she might well have been pretty once, but she looks far more like she should be Felipe’s mother and not his wife.”

  “I believe this match is far worse than the first, Quijada. Doomed from the beginning, both parties knowing in their hearts it would be a failure both for themselves and for their countries.”

  “I had heard gossip of Felipe’s opinions, in reply to Carlos’s command for this marriage, but as I was then absent from the court for some time and happily going about other business I never got to know of Mary’s feelings.”

  They strolled from the courtyard to the ramp leading up to the king’s apartments.

  “I can tell you exactly; she went through months of torment before finally deciding to marry, and since then has suffered a different torment.”

  “The English, of course, were not too happy about the marriage.”

  “Not too happy, Quijada? Good Lord, they were fanatically opposed to it. They would rather have had an outbreak of the plague. This union signalled a return to the Mass, monasteries, the pope. They feared we Spanish would force England into some kind of bondage; in fact for many the return to the Catholic Faith as it was before her father broke with Rome would be a better fate than subordination by the Spanish. You know there were uprisings? Carlos’s ambassador along with his retinue had to flee England, to save themselves from the rebels’ swords. Mary was brave, though, she never ran away; she faced those people, and she told them that she was not marrying for her own satisfaction. In fact, she vowed that if her Parliament said it would be inadvisable then she would not marry at all.”

  “Brave lady. Obviously t silenced them. But it would still be a hornet’s nest that awaited Felipe. He and his entourage would have crossed the Bay of Biscay, a sea that is friend to no man, with storms that have ended many a venture, to find himself facing even greater storms. Gaztelu, tell me honestly, did Carlos realise the dangers his son might confront?”

  “He did,” Gaztelu admitted. “And you might also ask why Mary continued to insist on the marriage. She was convinced, or someone had convinced her, that only the Spanish Catholics could rid England of its heretics, that only Spain could protect England from the French and the Scots. Last and not least she was deluded into believing that this marriage would provide an heir for England and the Netherlands.”

  Quijada shook his head, “Ridiculously optimistic on all counts, Gaztelu. It stands to reason that if she, the monarch, cannot rid her country of heretics, what chance would a foreigner have? If she cannot protect her realm from neighbouring enemies how could she expect any useful support from so distant a country? And as for producing an heir, although we hear so many rumours that Mary is with child, I fear like you that this is asking for a miracle.”

  “And let us not forget that the young Protestant Princess Elizabeth, Mary’s half‑sister, is ready and waiting and, who knows, possibly threatening. And France is forever plotting. Aye, the troubles continue.”

  “And yet, Gaztelu,” Quijada stopped, knitted his brow and stroked his trim beard before continuing, “Mary chose, as did Carlos for that matter, to go ahead with the marriage plans. Surely that was a gross misjudgement?”

  “Perhaps, but she promised her parliament that Felipe would never be more than her consort.”

  “And they swallowed it?”

  “Indeed they did.”

  “The whole thing beggars belief, Felipe would never be content as a mere consort.”

  They paused once they were on the covered terrace. Gaztelu sat on the low wall giving his knees a comforting rub. Quijada sat nearby leaning against a pillar placing his gloves by his side. They watched a small group of monks making their way to the fields and the smaller kitchen gardens.

  “Oh for the simple life, eh, Gaztelu?”

  “Just so. Getting back to Mary,” Gaztelu was eager to continue the gossip enjoying the rare occasion of being the source of information. “Did you know that it was Carlos who did all the wooing, and not Felipe, including sending the engagement ring?”

  “So what did Felipe do? He has such a reputation for the ladies, he must have thought of sending some little token of his affection.”

  Gaztelu arched his eyebrows, “Felipe? He wrote nothing, sent nothing; in effect, did nothing.”

  “I suppose we should not be overly surprised. That damned fiasco with Portugal was embarrassing. Now that King John is dead we can hopefully put that behind us. To think the marriage contract with John’s half‑sister was virtually finalised when Carlos announced, thank you but I have had a change of mind. The king of England is dead, Mary has inherited the throne, she needs a husband; England must be helped to return to the Catholic Faith, therefore we no longer require the Portuguese princess. Such an insult,” Quijada flicked at fallen rose petals that had settled by his side. “And to think that Felipe did no more than go along with his father’s decision, saying he must, as a dutiful son ought; arguing that the Portuguese dowry had been insufficient as a basis for a realistic contract. He was prepared to marry an old woman living on a cold island knowing that there was a young, or at least a younger lady in Portugal who would be deeply wounded. Such a heartache for her; to be spurned so publicly. I imagine Catalina would not have taken kindly to that either; the princess is, after all, her niece. Perhaps another reason for our king to be so conciliatory at present?”

  “Carlos had no option but to push Felipe’s suit for he had heard that King John was all for having his brother wed Mary.”

  Quijada jumped up angrily, “And would that have made such a difference to us? I thought Spain and Portugal were at peace, have been for years, for goodness’ sake!”

  Gaztelu’s myopic eyes twinkled mischievously. “It would have been at the very least a blow to the Hapsburg pride. Carlos was determined to have a Hapsburg on the throne of England. Why, at one stage, he even pestered his brother Ferdinand to put forward one of his sons as a possible suitor. Nor should we forget that a Hapsburg on the throne of England would ensure more power against France.”

  “So our fair prince won the prize. Much good will it do him.”

  “But he was no longer a prince. Remember that Carlos thought it preferable for Felipe to go to England as the King of Naples instead of a cap in hand Prince of Spain.” He slapped his thigh, “You will enjoy this, Quijada. A Papal Dispensation was required, and for granting it the pope named his price as two mules. To my mind that smacks of pure contempt for the two royal houses.”

  “Who knows? I grow weary of it all, Gaztelu, for the world has become nothing more than a market place. Everyone is seeking for the best bargain; everyone is haggling so as not to be the loser.”

  “The happy pair was wed, a bishop blessed the bridal bed, end of story. Ruy Gomez wrote saying she was even older than they had been led to believe, that she dressed like an old lady, and was short‑sighted into the bargain. He said she had to screw up her eyes to see anything.” He smiled, cleared his throat, “Come to think of it that sounds like me, so I suppose I am not in a position to criticise. Moving on, evidently she laughs and giggles like a young maiden in love. Apparently Felipe finds all this quite nauseating.”

  “I cannot say I have much sympathy for h
im, to be honest.”

  “Well, he is free of her for now, Quijada; gone to fight the French. Poor Mary was left brokenhearted, wept pitifully as he sailed away, so I was told.”

  Quijada walked up and down before admitting, “Partings are very painful, I know only too well. But speaking of partings and adieus, I have a titbit of gossip I came across very recently; then we really must go indoors. Do you know anything of an Isabel Osorio?”

  “No, but then I am usually the last to hear any gossip or rumours.” He gave Quijada what he hoped was a meaningful look regarding his lack of information about that singer Barbara.

  “She was a lady‑in‑waiting for Princess Juana before transferring to Felipe’s court. She remained there until he left for England, spending many an evening in his bed. Well I know for a fact he is deeply in love with her, has been for some time. What I heard was,” he looked all about him then whispered, “he evidently gave the lady a document declaring that she is his wife. I am also reliably informed that he commissioned Titian to portray their love in the guise of a mythological scene, Venus and Adonis. Apparently it takes but little imagination to recognise the young fully clothed departing god, whilst the blushes of the naked lady are spared for we see only her bare backside as she reaches towards her lover for one final embrace. I believe the painting travelled to England with Felipe that he might enjoy warm memories on cold English evenings.”

  “Never,” whispered Gaztelu also peering about him for possible eavesdroppers, “surely none of this can be true.”

  “Got it from a reliable source, I assure you. And there is more. She has retired from the court. Felipe has set her up in her own home, a good sized property at that. Some people of an unkind disposition have named it The House of the Whore. The presence of children has been mentioned too.”