“I shall ignore that.”
“Another consideration is that I am uprooting Magdalena from her home, her beloved duties and responsibilities to the local church, the convent, and the poor of the village.”
Carlos brushed aside any possible difficulties. “Oh, you will see that everything will work out for the best, for all of us. But what a man, eh, Gaztelu? He has thought it all through already, and it cannot be too long before we see this lad. Excellent news, eh?”
“Why yes,” he replied, “I suppose so. Why, I should say most definitely.”
Gaztelu had almost cried aloud yes at the prospect of meeting two people he had heard so much of recently, and who, whenever mentioned, were showered with superlatives: this boy, Juan, of humble beginnings, who was now apparently handsome, intelligent, strong and of noble bearing; Quijada’s beautiful, young, but childless wife, a lady of fine breeding, deciding to take on the daunting challenge of raising this particular humble child (when the church orphanages were filled with unwanted bastard children from many a noble family). Seeing Juan and Magdalena would make a wonderful change to the interminable days so often filled with routine letter writing, his master’s ill temper, tolerating the enforced isolation of this small community in the middle of nowhere. Was this excellent news? It was indeed, and he earnestly prayed it would become a reality; but it was best not to get too excited.
“Now I do feel cheered, I have something to look forward to. An aspiring soldier to chat with. We can get out all my campaign maps and charts, go over battles. I can barely wait. Now, how about the celebrations for our patron saint’s day? We have tarried far too long. To the grand salon, it is time to eat and drink and of course to be merry. Summon those chair lads.”
“Indeed, my lord,” Quijada bowed. “And then I must tell you my joke about the enormous censer in Santiago Cathedral.”
You must find it truly amazing that only yesterday Carlos was promoting the young prince’s claim to the Portuguese throne should Sebastian die, but today is bedevilled by doubts about, to put not too fine a point on it, his sanity; such a change of attitude. A sovereign having to be of sound mind must be of little consequence after all! There are obviously rules for some and not others. I was put in mind of Carlos’s mother. But I am not here to pass judgement, and I digress. Forgive me.
August
Pen or Sword?
I
An elderly visitor had just arrived in the courtyard. As he dismounted he stopped, turning at the sound of other hoof falls.
A broad smile of surprise spread across his face. “My lord, this is indeed a sight that gladdens my heart. I never thought to see it. Up and about and riding, no less.”
He handed the reins to a stable lad, straightened his cape about his shoulders as he waited for Carlos.
“Zuñiga! Here in Yuste at last and after so long an absence. I thank God you came to my call. I need a friend desperately. No one to talk to you see. Quijada has gone home.”
Alonso and Manuel helped the king out of his saddle. José and Samuel stood by his chair ready to receive him.
Carlos steadied himself, leaning heavily on Alonso, “You. What is your name again?”
“Alonso, your majesty,” he bowed.
Carlos let go of him to ease his stiff back with his hands. Alonso returned to patting and stroking the king’s one‑eyed mule; a longtime favourite.
“Alonso. Well, you did a grand job out there today Alonso. You led her well. She did everything you asked. A good ride, a damn good ride. But I will have to get more practice if I am to accompany a young visitor who is coming soon; the old back, you know. Yes, you are good with horses. Worked with them long?”
“Pleasing your majesty, I’ve been workin’ with horses for years. I was with you at Mühlberg and Metz an’ all. Both me and me mate got to looking after your horses at Metz …”
“Yes. Yes. Well, there you are then,” Carlos looked away, he was not about to allow this day to be marred by memories of that disastrous military campaign at Metz. “Tell your mate as you call him,” he nodded towards Manuel who was handing over an eiderdown to the chair boys, it having fulfilled its task of protectie royal backside and its haemorrhoids from the discomforts of too firm a saddle, “tell him he was most helpful too.”
The master of the wardrobe almost ran down the cobbled ramp, “My lord, do you wish me to get warm water, towels? Are you requiring fresh …?”
“Not now. Later. Do not fuss me man! Right now I am going to talk to my friend Zuñiga. Go and tell them we expect refreshments out here. Immediately.” He beckoned José and Samuel, “Right lads, we can dispense with the chair, today I am going to walk. Let us see if I can make it up the ramp and after that the gallery.”
The three set off together, Carlos leaning heavily on the lads’ shoulders. Zuñiga followed accommodating his pace to theirs. The master of the wardrobe scuttled off to seek out the servants.
Alonso and Manuel led the mule and Zuñiga’s horse to the stables.
Alonso couldn’t hold back a moment longer bursting out with, “Did you notice? He didn’t want to talk about Metz, did he? Sharp changed the subject he did.”
Manuel agreed, “Would you want to talk about it, if you’d been in charge of that bleedin’ mess? Middle of winter, bleedin’ snow and rain. All of us up to our bloody necks in mud, blood, and guts we were; noses filled with the stench of vomit and shit, making you want to retch something terrible. And everybody moaning, complaining, and arguing; all of us wanting to get away from death what was looming on all quarters. Scared stiff I was. Jesus we was lucky. When you think how many thousands died. Yeh, the only good thing about that whole stinkin’ business was that we came out of it alive and all in one piece.”
“You’re right. Trouble was the poor old boy was past it; had no bloody idea what was going on. He was sick, he was, with his headaches and what have yer. And having trouble with his private parts, front and back. Aye, and I heard plenty enough folk saying as how he couldn’t make the right decision if it came up, stared ’im in the face and grabbed him by the throat. Some great leader, eh?”
“Yeh, he was already gettin’ too old by then. Somebody told me as ’ow all he wanted to doas. play with his clocks. Folk dying right, left, and centre and he’s playing at clock repairs; I ask you! Mind you he’s had his successes.”
Alonso snorted, “Maybees that was when he should’ve stopped, when he still knew what he was doing.”
Yes indeed, Metz was miserable for everyone, not least his aides. Day after day the Duque de Alba and other generals had to contend with the king’s outbursts of rage, or weeping and puking like a child, and at times his total inability to comprehend what was happening around him, refusing their advice. Yes, the campaign at Metz was, well, words are inadequate to describe the horror of it all. Thirty thousand dead and the pitiful spectacle of the remnants of his army in retreat.
But enough of that. Carlos is looking decidedly better than he has in a long while. And obviously he is feeling well enough to take a short ride through the olive groves and vineyards. A few weeks ago I would have thought the only possible way of his travelling anywhere would be by horse litter. On this occasion I am more than happy to be proven wrong. Shall we join them to discover to what he attributes this new vigour, this new lease of life? Thanks be to God that Carlos has opted for the shade of the gallery rather than the delights of the fly‑infested garden.
“My old comrade, Zuñiga. Sit down, do sit down. I have been so impatient to see you, to tell you all the news. It is just unfortunate that Quijada cannot be here to share these wonderful times.”
They sat at a table facing out over the garden and fish pond.
“I am delighted to see you enjoying such good health, my lord.”
“I tell you, Zuñiga, I feel years younger. And here comes Gaztelu to join us. You brought the letter?”
Gaztelu’s feet propelled him at double his normal shuffle along the gallery and he was looking po
sitively jubilant. “Yes, my lord, when I was told of the arrival of your gu knew you would want to show him. It is so good to see you, Zuñiga.”
“I see you have a certain lightness in your step, Gaztelu. Something extraordinary is going on here for sure. Do tell.”
“Zuñiga,” beamed Carlos, “we have received such heartening reports from France, but I will leave it to my secretary; he can read you the letter. Felipe’s handwriting is almost indecipherable; God knows what his tutor was about.”
Gaztelu unfolded a letter, “It comes from Brussels and says,
It has been decided, finally, to take Saint‑Quentin. It will prevent the French advancing beyond her territory, and it will provide us with a route to Paris. I have sent orders for the Italian and German troops to rendezvous near the town with those from the Netherlands. Meanwhile I have organised the supply of munitions and food. I hope to be in Saint‑Quentin within a few days. I cannot leave here sooner because I am still waiting for the English forces. It really is very annoying but after all the difficulties in getting the English to finally declare war on France it would be churlish for me to leave without them. Munchausen and his regiment have not arrived either. I told Savoy not to enter into battle until I arrive, unless it cannot be avoided. Naturally he is eager for action, seeing this as a prelude to his return to his homeland. If we win, I should say when we win, we should net some fine fish. I hope that this letter will bring some joy to your heart.”
“Now then, Zuñiga, what do you have to say? We shall have those damned Frenchies by the scruff of their nes. That should put them in their place. And my son Felipe at last is a soldier king, just like his father!” Carlos chuckled and rubbed his hands with childlike glee.
“The French certainly need to be brought to heel,” Zuñiga concurred, “and Savoy will see this as a grand opportunity to open his campaign to regain his lands. And how gratifying for you after so long a wait to have Felipe win his spurs. Of course he was given a good grounding in all the military skills.”
“Damned right, I saw to that,” Carlos glowed with pride. “Even if I could not be present I insisted he was raised a soldier.” His face clouded suddenly, “But I am bothered by so many delays. I just hope to God that Felipe will get to Saint‑Quentin in time.”
“No worries should he not,” Zuñiga shook his head, “for the Duke of Savoy will surely have plenty of men under his command to continue without him. And I remember you often saying how skilled he is in the art of warfare; second to none you said; told me that you had immediately recognised his potential, his abilities. You even nicknamed him Philibert the Ironhead.”
Gaztelu’s laughter was chilled by Carlos’s stony look. Those high spirits were disappearing fast.
“I am not talking about how bloody wonderful Savoy is nor about how many men he has. Goddammit, I am talking about my son being there! My son must be there to lead the troops …”
“With permission,” Gaztelu interrupted, “Savoy is there, a man with an outstanding military record. I am certain you, as well as King Felipe, can trust him to make the right decisions. King Felipe’s responsibilities go far beyond being present at the scene of action.”
“You refuse to get the point! I could not give a damn about how good Savoy is; I want Felipe to be in command!”
“Well it is not for us from this great distance to judge the situation, my lord,” proposed Zuñiga. “Ah, perhaps I see yourroblem. You are frustrated because you are not there to take over Felipe’s role so that he could then be deployed alongside Savoy and the others. I hate to disappoint you but I think Felipe seems to have everything perfectly under control, from tactics to supplies. This will inspire everyone with confidence. But I am interested to know how Felipe managed to persuade Queen Mary to send English troops.”
“You tell him Gaztelu, obviously nobody wants to listen to me,” a sour, surly, and very disgruntled Carlos mumbled.
“Queen Mary of course is always ready to support King Felipe. It was her council who were loath to get involved. Anyway the French themselves finally settled the issue. They played right into Mary’s hands. Let me explain; for years they have plundered English ships, and have continued to secretly support English rebels.”
“Makes it all the more bloody remarkable that it has taken the English so long to come to their senses,” Carlos grumbled into his beard.
“Yes, indeed, sire. Well it came about like this. In April a spy handed the English a plan of one of their ports. It was recognised as a place called Scarborough, on the North East coast of the country. At first it was thought it must be where the French had chosen to invade. But no, it was forty or so Englishmen who landed; and every one of them a French spy. They seized the town proclaiming that all kinds of evil would befall the country at the hands of the dreaded Spanish. They said Queen Mary was Spanish at heart. Fortunately they were all captured and hanged. However this was the catalyst we so desperately needed. The climate of opinion changed immediately; the English were now afraid of the French, so they provided us with an army.”
Carlos clapped his hands and laughed, all frustration forgotten, “Aha! So there you are Zuñiga. Another victory. We have at long last got England off her arse, to come out openly against France. What an achievement! I knew all along that marrying Felipe to Mary would turn out to be a brilliant move on my part. It takes intelligent planning, you see; one has to have the wit to foresee these things. And there is yet more good news. Tell him about Portugal.”
“The king is referring to the succesn to the Portuguese throne.”
“He knows what we are referring to, Gaztelu.”
“Father Francisco has been an excellent diplomat and ambassador. His majesty sent him to Portugal regarding legal rights to the throne, concerned that there might have been some doubts about the wording of various Papal Dispensations. He has reported back that everything is correct in every detail, and has been approved by the Portuguese. Juana’s son Sebastian inherits the crown.” Gaztelu became serious, “Incidentally, Father Francisco almost died. He is sometimes too hard on himself. He is not a young man, and yet he felt that God would prefer it, and indeed would lend strength to his endeavours, if he were to walk to Portugal instead of travelling on horseback.”
“Zuñiga doesn’t want to hear all that twaddle! Get on with the story. This is the best part.”
“In the event of Sebastian dying without issue, Prince Carlos will become king of Portugal.”
“Am I not a genius? I have sorted out the English and the Portuguese! Now I only await news from Bohemia. I must have one of my granddaughters marry Sebastian. Before you say this is all premature because he is very young, allow me to tell you the damned French are already making overtures.”
“His majesty rightly suspected this from the beginning,” Gaztelu announced with pride.
Carlos positively glowed at this further evidence of his continuing astuteness.
“It seems that you have everything going to plan. It is little wonder you are in such high spirits. I congratulate you,” Zuñiga bowed.
“But I do miss Quijada. I can tell you it has been a damned nuisance without him. The priests are useless, and to tell the truth they get on my nerves. They are only good for priests’ business and nothing more. This place has become a bloody nightmare; and Cuacos too with no one to keep control. Everything everywhere is in total chaos. Anyway, Gaztelu has written to Villagarcía demanding his return. But not only will we have him here again, oh no, he will be bringing his wife and foster‑child with him.”
“Ah, the young Jerome, destined for the priesthood.”
Carlos leaned towards Zuñiga, slapping him jovially on the knee, “Wrong on both counts. You see, you have been away too long. Doa Magdalena has changed his name to Juan, and, would you believe, he has decided to be a military man! We are to have a little soldier in our midst, only too eager to hear my tales of the battlefields.”
“And you intend to ride with him, judging by what I witness
ed this morning?”
“Precisely.”
Faint sounds of a horse galloping at some speed put an end to the subject. Zuñiga rose, “It sounds like even more excitement on its way.”
All attention was focused on the gateway to the courtyard, waiting for the sounds of clattering hooves to grow louder, to take shape and form. Then suddenly the horse and rider were there – it was a courier.
II
Carlos pushed himself up from his seat, gabbling, “A messenger from Valladolid, Portugal, France? Must I go myself? Damn it get him here. All this waiting.”
Gaztelu placed a restraining hand on his arm, “Why so impatient, my lord? Is good news not well worth the wait? And we cannot doubt that it is good news.”
Zuñiga smiled, “Why, do you know, it is quite like old times. Do you remember? The anticipation, nerves all a‑tingle, waiting for the latest despatches? Ah; and here he is.”
A man of about thirty years, his ruggedly handsome face burnt by wind and sun, strode along the gallery, the jingling of his spurs accompanying his heavy steps. He removed his hat mopping his forehead with his sleeve as he did so. With dark eyes reddened with fatigue he sought out the king and fell to his knees before him.
“Welcome, welcome. Stop all this bowing nonsense. Hand over the letters. Quickly man.”
“Your majesty I mean no disrespect coming before you in this befouled state, but I thought it important to come straight to you.” He looked down at himself, inspecting his lamentable appearance. He was hot, dusty and exhausted, his brown jerkin flecked with horse spume, the band of his hat and his armpits stained black with sweat, his dark hair glistening with wet, dripping curls. He took his satchel from his shoulder and fumbled with the buckle.
“Good God, man, do you have to be so damn clumsy,” Carlos reached to wrest the leather bag from him.
A Matter of Pride Page 15