A Matter of Pride

by Linda Carlino

  “What would the king say if he were to find out?” Gaztelu tut‑tutted.

  “Who knows? And who knows what he would say if he knew of Felipe’s present philanderings in Brussels. You know his opinions on infidelity.”

  For no reason at all an unsummoned image of Barbara suddenly flashed before Quijada. It lasted no longer than a second; he was opening the door to Carlos’s bed chamber, she was slipping past him, he was closto Carlr.

  “Enough for now, Gaztelu. Shall we go in?”

  So Carlos was prepared to send his son to a hostile country. He was content to marry him off to a woman whose only hope of having a child would be by some miracle. For what reason; Hapsburg pride, personal triumph? I would question if any of his plans for Mary and England could possibly be regarded as realistic. Did he not stop to consider that this marriage might cause deeper hatred and resentment for the Catholic Faith and the Spanish throne? I ask you, was this the action of the great statesman, the great Caesar? Or was it the rash, insensitive behaviour of a man besotted with power?

  Forgive me, I have allowed myself, first, to become angry and, second, to try to draw an opinion from you. Let us follow the two gentlemen indoors to await the king.

  July

  A Suitable Monarch

  “Good morning, my lord,” chorused Quijada and Gaztelu, bowing to Carlos as his chair boys wheeled him into his private salon.

  “There is nothing good about it,” he growled at them over his shoulder.

  “But it is a glorious day, and so perfect for the feast of Santiago el Mayor.”

  “You heard me say that there is nothing good about it so far as I am concerned; and that is exactly how I feel.”

  “Oh, my, to what do we attribute such good humour today?” Quijada gibed.

  “I am not of a mood to play games, Quijada. I have had not one wink of sleep. Not the gout chair, fools, the other chair! God Almighty,” he snarled at Samuel and José as they lifted him. “And what do you think you are carrying? Think I am nothing more than a sack of corn? Watch out or you will be out on your arses, the pair of you.”

  The lads set him down in his chair then fell on their knees before him, muttering a stream of apologies.

  “Get out of my sight! Impossible to rely on anyone these days.”

  They had backed their way to the door and taken up their regular stance.

  “What the bloody ’ell did we do wrong, José?”

  “Beats me. Nowt, if you wants to know the truth. It’s just him this mornin’, he’s like a bear with a sore head.”

  “Bleedin’ scary, talking about bootin’ us out though, José?”

  “Nah, it’ll all be forgotten by the time he wants us again, just you see.”

  “Gawd, I hopes so. I mean, where’d we go? What’d we do?”

  Quijada made sure that the footstool was in the best position for the comfort of the king’s legs and feet. He fussed with the cushions hoping that this would give Carlos time to compose himself, “Should I dismiss the boys, my lord?”

  “Yes, yes. I told them already to get out of my sight.”

  “I think they were so frightened by your anger, they did not fully understand, my lord.”

  “No bloody use in the army, the pair of them!”

  Quijada told Samuel and José to leave then turned to Carlos, “And you did not sleep?”

  “I said I had not one wink of sleep.”

  “Not even one wink?”

  “Are you determined to annoy me this morning, Quijada?”

  “No. Are you unwell?”

  “I am not unwell. I am deeply troubled.”

  Gaztelu stepped closer, “Is there anything I can do to help, my lord?”

  “Dear God in Heaven, if only someone could.”

  “Have you received some bad news since our meeting yesterday?”

  “No, Gaztelu, nothing new. My brain is in a torment about my grandson, Prince Carlos.”

  Quijada asked, “And what was it about the young prince that kept you from your sleep?”

  “Everything. The boy worries me, worries me deeply. Good God, you just have to look at him.”

  Quijada put his hands on his hips, looked questioningly first at Carlos then at the secretary, tilted his head and laughed, “If we are to speak of looks, not one of us in this room is what you would call an oil painting.”

  “Speak for yourself. I was a good looking chap when I was young, I can tell you. Had women falling for me wherever I went,” Carlos wagged an angry finger at him, “I even had someone desperate to be at my side not so many years ago. You know who I mean.”

  “Ah, you mean the singer Barbara.”

  “Damned right, Barbara. You cannot deny it can you?”

  Gaztelu hastily reached for his spectacles expecting to hear more, at last. Then Quijada changed the subject.

  “Nor can I deny that you are a crosspatch today. Come then, if you must, tell us all about it. Hopefully that will rid you of your temper and we can begin to enjoy the day of Santiago el Mayor. I am almost tempted to offer you an early luncheon if I knew that would help cheer you. However let us speak of Prince Carlos. The boy, as you say is not handsome. We are all aware of that.”

  “His head is too damned big for his body. That is bad, no denying it. It shows that his brain might be … and one leg is longer than the other, his back is crooked … and he seems to have to drag one side of his body.”

  Gaztelu set his spectacles down and leaned towards him, “My lord, the birthing if you recall? It was very difficult. A delicate matter to discuss, but, well, did not the midwife have to, how shall I put it? The child would never have come into this world without a lot of help to release him from his mother’s womb. The instruments, the pulling and twisting; these surely are the reasons for his physical imperfections: the size and shape of his head, his twisted legs and spine.” He pressed the palms of his hands flat against his chest, “But these are nothing. Many a time nature has seen fit to impede the start of a child’s life, and as a consequence some children have to carry the scars of the midwife’s actions. Yet I would venture far rather this than the alternative of the child not given the chance to live? We must surely thank God that He granted him the precious gift of life.”

  “Gaztelu you look and sound like a blasted priest, except that your words, unlike the priest’s, are of little comfort. In any case you know as well as I that these are the least of his problems.” Carlos stared down at his misshapen fingers as if to find some answers there.

  No one spoke, no one stirred. The two companions occasionally exchanged glances until Quijada could bear the silence no longer, “My lord,” he said gently, “if you are referring to the reports of the doctors, there are many who try to disguise their own ignorance and who seek to confuse us with a pompous manner and arcane language …”

  “Another blasted priest with us!” Carlos thundered “I have a monastery full of them next door, I do not need any more thank you,” he slapped at the arms of his chair. “So how do you excuse his biting the breasts of three of his wet nurses?”

  “Ah, quite easily,” Gaztelu spoke with a greater confidence than he actually felt, “the child was stillckling at an age when most, but by no means all I hasten to add, are content with a bowl and spoon. There is no doubting that this would cause some discomfort for the nurses. And then you know how women exaggerate.” He smiled nervously, “Goodness me, here we are, three men talking women’s talk. I beg you, sire, let us leave this sort of nonsense to the ladies as they gossip over their needlework.”

  “And how are you going to explain away his speech?” Carlos demanded of them.

  Gaztelu shook his head, “We can do no more than repeat what you already know. It is true that he was late in learning to speak, but that was no fault of his. Poor mite; everyone thought he was dumb until he was more than three years old, when all the while he was tongue‑tied and needed surgery to set it free. Perhaps somewhat remiss of the doctors? I have great sympathy for
the young prince; he has had much to contend with. Might I venture to suggest you are too hard on him? Quijada, would you not agree with me?”

  “I would indeed. I wonder, my lord, if you set too high a standard for the boy, and because he does not match your expectations, you …”

  “My standards too high?” Carlos bellowed, “Unable to match expectations? If only that were true. His tutors are very disappointed in him too. They say that he finds reading and writing too difficult. Dear God, he is eleven years old. They have been trying to teach him Latin; Latin, when he cannot even master Spanish, for God’s sake. He cannot, or refuses to, take any of his studies seriously no matter how his tutors beat him. He has told them they can beat him as much as they like but they will only get work from him if they pay him first.”

  The other two laughed.

  “That is priceless. I like it. Clever thinking on his part,” said Quijada.

  “I wish that I had tried that when I was young,” commented Gaztelu.

  “Stop trying to make light of a very serious situation,” Carlos would not be humoured.

  “How many of us, if we are to be honest, were willing students?” Quijada suggested. “Look on the positive side, the prince is fit and well. He is strong.”

  “Strong enough to throttle hares,” snarled Carlos. “Strong enough to hold live, struggling rabbits over flames; strong enough to go amongst the horses in the stables to slit their throats and wallow in their blood as they kicked and screamed.”

  Gaztelu interjected swiftly for even he had heard this gruesome gossip, “My lord, have we not all been guilty of some cruelty or other when we were boys? I remember once …”

  “I know none of us ever bit off the head of a pet tortoise to teach it a lesson for nipping our finger!”

  Quijada tried to assuage his master’s despair with platitudes, “I am certain that many of his problems will be rectified given time and patience. Be fair to the boy, he has had a most unhappy childhood. For a start he has never known a mother, God calling her to Him only days after he was born. Throughout his infancy and early youth he has rarely seen his father who is out of the country much of the time. The final blow for the child must have been when his dear Aunt Juana, whom we know he loves so dearly, and is the only one ever to show him affection, abandoned him to go to Portugal.”

  “Speaking of which,” Carlos broke in, “the boy blubbered, And what will that little prince do when his aunt has gone away and left him, when he is left all on his own? That is how a baby talks!”

  “Perhaps it was his method of emphasising his distress?” Gaztelu hoped he sounded philosophical.

  Carlos lowered his head into his hands and screamed, “Shut up! Shut up, the pair of you! You make me sick with your unending sermonising. Say nothing. Do you hear? Just say nothing, not one word,” he mopped at his face with his handkerchief. “I blame Juana. She is the one at fault. It is not love she shows him, it is indulgence. She panders to him in every way. She still treats him as though he were an infant. God, she has yet to teach him that I am not his father and Felipe is not his brother. How dare she allow this to continue? And discipline? No such thing exists. When I was with him in Valladolid, he made me feel damned uncomfortable I can tell you. Would not suffer to be corrected; damned infuriating; I have commanded thousands of men, and not one of them insubordinate like him; refusing to obey any of my orders. Two days I spent with him. Two days too many.” He glowered at Quijada when he saw him about to interrupt, “Not one word from you, I said. And temper! Juana ought to have dealt with that long ago, as well, but no, she lets him do or say what he likes. This is the very lady who wants to return to Portugal to be regent, to be responsible for the education of her son. God help us should that ever come to pass. Do you know what happened one day? Prince Carlos wanted my portable stove, nay, demanded it. I explained – imagine my having to explain anything to anyone – that he could not have it, told him I needed it for my aches and pains and that I took it everywhere with me. The scene that followed was unbelievable. He clenched his fists, started stamping his feet. He turned purple, screaming that he wanted it, must have it, would have it. The only way I got him to calm down was by promising it would be his after my death. An eleven‑year‑old having tantrums like that. I ask you, is that right? A three‑year‑old might, but surely to God not an eleven‑year‑old?”

  Gaztelu and Quijada said nothing, as ordered.

  “And what about this then – and not another soul must hear this – I thought I would tell him a war story, just a very short one, thinking to entertain him for a few moments. I expected him to find it exciting; that I, the famous conquering hero, should have found myself in such a precarious situation. Well, I was wrong, because when I started to tell of my retreat from Innsbruck he interrupted screaming that he would never commit such a cowardly act; refused to listen as I tried to continue, to explain that I only had my personal guard with me; refused to accept that we would be no match for an opposing army. He refused to see that the daring escape of our tiny group at night in a violent snowstorm, me in my litter, and every horse slipping and sliding over the snow‑clad mountain pass, was our only possible means of survival. No, by God, he lunged at me, screeching, You lily‑livered excuse for a man. You disgust me. I shall be forever ashamed of you! I have never known such a thing, never seen anyone carry on like that. My Isabel would never have tolerated it. She gave Felipe many a clip around the ear for far less. That is what he should have had, that is what has been lacking!”

  He was quiet for a long time. “And how about this? I heard that a pageboy had upset him, doing something trivial no doubt, but Prince Carlos said he would never eat another bite until he had seen him hanged. The servants had to hang an effigy of the pageboy in his stead to appease him. Dear God, where will it all end? Now you may speak. Now show me your wisdom, your vast experience in such matters.”

  Silence. Complete silence.

  “So, you have finally run out of excuses. Now do you see why I had no sleep last night? The boy has a sick mind, should be seen by that doctor from Salamanca, that fellow that Francisco was speaking of, the one who went to see my mother.”

  He rubbed at his eyes, dragging his hands down over his cheeks, revealing the angry redness inside the lower lids, the livid tracery of his veined eyeballs, then he shook his head, shaking off his temper and frustratioo:p>

  He sighed, and the beginnings of a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “Cheer me up, Quijada. Tell me of your young charge as I call him. How is he progressing?”

  “Are you sure you wish to hear? There is such a contrast. It seems inappropriate at this moment. It is sad that two youths almost of an age should be so different. No, this is not the best time to sing Juan’s praises; and you have heard it all before.”

  “It will rid me of my dark thoughts. Juana was most impressed when she saw him, she spoke highly of him, not that that means such a lot I suppose coming from her.”

  Gaztelu’s spectacles were retrieved and put on in readiness.

  “It was embarrassing for both of us. Her first impression of him was as a village lad; that was after all what he had been for several years. I had to explain that I had never suspected that a retired musician from your court would allow himself or the lad to live in such conditions. Massy’s pension was more than adequate to maintain a small staff, to provide a comfortable home, and then there was the additional allowance from the child’s father. Had the situation been drawn to my attention earlier I would have acted sooner. However, the princess, without any fuss, gave him clothes far better suited to a child about to meet his new foster mother. When Juan arrived at our home he looked every inch a little gentleman.”

  Carlos nodded, “And you say he is a clever boy; intelligent and learns easily.”

  “Doña Magdalena is more than pleased with his progress. But he is no bookworm, so although a life of contemplation may have been the original intention, I think a military career is favoured instead. B
ut, these are still early days.”

  “How old is this Juan of yours?”

  “He is eleven years old.”

  “Good God, eleven years old already. How the time has flown. About the same age as Carlos, a coincidence that. And what of his behaviour?”

  “Doña Magdalena has no complaints. He is a boy, however, and boys do sometimes get into mhief; the usual high spirits. He is certainly not a little saint.”

  “Describe him,” Carlos rested his head on the back of his chair and closed his eyes.

  “He is a tall, handsome youth, and strong, my lord. His forehead is a goodly size, denoting his intelligence or so my wife insists. His hair is like the golden sun and it curls about his temples. His eyes are blue and, according to my wife, they are warm and honest. You must forgive a mother’s bias. For myself, speaking as his father, I beg your pardon, his foster father; I must tell you he has a noble bearing.”

  “Noble bearing, eh? I want to see this lad of yours. I expect his true father must surely wonder … would surely want to know … Before you go to Villagarcía see to it that you find a home here. Yes, I insist you bring both Doña Magdalena and Juan to live in Cuacos.”

  “I am ahead of you already, my lord. Work will commence on a home for my wife and child within days.”

  “Nothing suitable available? That is disappointing; could take some time.”

  “It is only a small village with small houses. However, two have fallen vacant and I persuaded the tenant of the third to move into other accommodation. I have found workmen and given instructions to make a decent sized home. There will be several rooms as well as three goodly sized bedchambers and an upper corridor or gallery where Magdalena may walk on inclement days; and the Lord knows there will be plenty of those.”