A Matter of Pride

by Linda Carlino

  The courier held out a letter; the awaited letter. “I have the honour to bring this letter from His Majesty, King Felipe.”

  “Here, Gaztelu, read it. Must sit down.”

  Gaztelu, spectacles perched on the tip of his nose, broke the seal. “This is from Beaurevoire, near Saint‑Quentin and dated August 10,

  I kiss Your Majesty’'s hands. Savoy has informed me that our armies have been victorious. Montmorency has been captured. Savoy and Egmont have completely routed his troops, and Savoy lost only five hundred men whereas Montmorency lost five thousand …

  oh, such news, your majesty!”

  “Yes! Yes! We have beaten the goddamned French,” Carlos punched at the air. “Go on.”

  “I am to visit the field tomorrow and will forward more information.”

  “With permission, there is a second letter,” the courier handed it to Gaztelu.

  “What have we here?

  Today I visited Saint‑Quentin to congratulate the troops. I also inspected the lines of prisoners and I am pleased to report that there were some illustrious names amongst them including Montmorency who is quite seriously wounded. The captured colours, more than eighty, made an impressive sight. Savoy thought to kiss my hand, but I hugged him instead saying I should be the one to kiss his hands for he was the one who had gained such a great and glorious victory. And that we should have won such an important battle on San Lorenzo's day! I am determined to build a church to commemorate the occasion.”

  “Well, this is certainly worthy of a celebration.” Carlos, overcome, dabbed at tear‑smeared cheeks. “Such a damn fine victory, Zuñiga. Get this man a drink to rid his mouth of dust so he can give us details. A victory against the French on San Lorenzo’s day.” He stopped then spluttered, “But why was Felipe not there? Where in God’s name was he, what was he doing?”

  “There will be reason enough,” said Zuñiga offering the messenger a goblet of cool beer.

  “So tell us about the battle for Saint‑Quentin, Don whoever‑you‑are?”

  “Don Fernando, your majesty. Your health,” he drank deeply, draining the goblet, wiping his mouth across the back of his hand. “Initially the Duke of Savoy deliberately confused the French. He had marched his men to and fro along the border of France so that the French had no idea where he was going to make the breakthrough. It worked! They thought he had decided to attack Champagne and moved all their troops there to defend it, and that is when Saint‑Quentin was attacked. Frenchmen were hurriedly brought to defend it. We cut off half of them but the rest managed to get into the town …”

  “Good God! Savoy slipped up a bit there I would say.” Carlos sought agreement from his friend. Zuñiga merely shrugged his shoulders.

  Don Fernando continued, “The Duke of Savoy and Lord Pembroke then commenced the siege. Somehow or other the French managed to despatch a messenger urgently requesting further reinforcements from Montmorency; and they arrived, thousands of them. Next thing we knew they were trying to force an entry into the town, while Montmorency diverted our attention. Thank God we killed most of them before they could …”

  “You mean some did get into the town?”

  “A few, my lord.”

  “How many is a few? A dozen, fifty, a hundred?” Carlos demanded.

  “About five hundred or thereabouts.”

  “Jesus wept! That is more than a few, man!” He looked again at Zuñiga. “A reinforcement of five hundred got by them, for God’s sake! Some commander Savoy turned out to be!”

  Zuñiga shook his head still saying nothing.

  “Sire, Montmorency then advanced, but he got trapped. You see he had moved too deep into our lines. Before long there was absolute chaos and confusion amongst his men. They turned tail, falling over each other; routed they were. Montmorency surrendered.”

  “How many were taken prisoner?”

  “We took about four thousand. And five thousand dead.”

  Carlos was ecstatic, “Yes. Oh yes! Now that does sound like a victory, eh, Zuñiga? An army routed, thousands killed, thousands taken prisoner? And on our side, what were the casualties?”

  “No more than five or six hundred dead, my lord.”

  “Good. Very good. Better than good; excellent!”

  “A wonderful start to your son’s reign, my lord,” suggested Gaztelu.

  “Yes.Yes. So, Fernando, if there is nothing else you may go. Get yourself some more beer, some food, some rest. Gaztelu, show him where to go. Send for the prior. I want him here immediately, we have to discuss prayers, processions, a Victory Mass.”

  III

  No sooner were Carlos and Zuñiga left on their own Carlos gave vent to his anger. Starting with the mildest observation that Felipe should now be well on his way to Paris, he changed abruptly to screams of rage. “And Felipe not at Saint‑Quentin! Where was he? He was in a blasted village writing damn letters, for God’s sake! How are we going to live with the shame of it all? Why did he not use his power as king of Spain to insist they wait for him to lead the charge? How could I have sired someone so pathetically weak? What is he made of? A pen in his hand instead of a sword. Ink in his blasted veins instad of fighting blood. Damn well afraid to fight.”

  Zuñiga sought to calm him, reminding him of the events leading up to the action: the delayed English, the delayed Germans, Felipe’s role as commander in chief, then Savoy having no choice but to move against Montmorency. His words were no match for the barrage of oaths exploding over him like canon fire.

  He capitulated, threw his arms in the air in despair and walked away. He looked down from the balcony to the tranquil garden below; his ears, his whole being, bombarded with the ranting and raging behind him. It was that dreadful debacle at Metz all over again with Carlos screaming and shouting blaming everyone but himself.

  Oh dear, Felipe does not appear to have fulfilled the role of soldier as well as had been expected and desired. But, who knows, another day’s news may yet prove more favourable. I wonder what we do now. To celebrate or not to celebrate. If only Quijada were here, he would know exactly how to deal with Carlos and this unwarranted tantrum. He simply would not tolerate it.

  Ah, here is Gaztelu with the prior. And the master of the wardrobe, too, probably anticipating orders for a particular outfit for Carlos suitable for the occasion.

  Would you believe it? This is incredible. Look at Carlos; the purple‑faced, spluttering‑jowled rage has gone. The invective, the execrations, the maledictions, quite disappeared. It is as though they had never occurred. Amazing.

  Carlos greeted the prior, smiling, “Excellent news. King Felipe has vanquished the French at Saint‑Quentin. Paris is ours for the taking. I want a Victory Mass, tomorrow, with full processionals, et cetera, and it has to bear special reference to San Lorenzo, for that was the day God guided us to our victory. Following the Mass we shall have a celebratory feast.”

  “Your majesty it will be an honour and a privilege for our community to play our part in so momentous a period of our country’s history. May I take this opportunity to congratulate you, the King Felipe, and the glorious Spanish forces.”

  “You may indeed,” Carlos beamed with pride. “Yes, we can feel justly proud of all our gallant Spanish heroes, from the highest to the lowliest, from my son to the humble foot soldier.”

  I hate to nitpick, but it is only fair to point out that only an eighth of those gallant heroes were Spanish, equal in number to the English. For the rest: about a quarter came from the Netherlands; the bulk of the army was therefore German.

  “So, good prior, you know what is required of you; you will want to get started,” Carlos waved him away. “Now, I want my casket of chains. Oh, and my purse as well. I want the courier back here too.”

  Gaztelu and the master of the wardrobe set off along the gallery, Gaztelu muttering, “I feel no better than a courier myself today; bring the letters, take Don Fernando to the refectory, find the prior, bring Don Fernando back here.”

  �
��Well at least I have saved you the task of bringing the master of the king’s jewels with the casket and purse. Why do you suppose he wants those?”

  Carlos looked about him, “Zuñiga? Ah yes, still here. Come here. You are about to witness the actions of a very happy and magnanimous man.” Carlos couldn’t contain his delight. “You are about to be astonished.”

  After witnessing the pendulum swings of Carlos’s emotions Zuñiga knew that nothing could possibly astonish him. “Today is certainly a day for surprises, my lord.”

  “What surprises? The news was hardly a surprise, we expected it man!”

  “I only mean it has been a most eventful day, one way and another.”

  “Well, I say it is an excellent day. Here they come with our messenger.” Carlos beckoned the young man towards him, “It was remiss of me to send you away without some token of our gratitude. I will not detain you longer than is necessary. Now let me see what I should give.”

  The casket was opened. Carlos studied its contents carefully before withdrawing a broad solid gold chain. “Here, my fine fellow; let me place this on your shoulders. There we are. And now the purse. Count out sixty gold ducados, for that is fitting for someone who has been the bearer of such welcome tidings.”

  All were stunned, dumbfounded, by this display of sheer madness. The king had just given away an exceptionally valuable gold chain and a fortune in gold coins – to a messenger!

  Don Fernando’s travel‑stained face turned an ever‑deepening red of confusion and embarrassment.

  Carlos beamed at each one in his audience. He was well pleased with his demonstration of royal generosity, and remembered for a moment how he had rewarded another soldier, years ago, a certain Trooper Blomberg. It was only natural, as well as fitting, to show gratitude when the heart and soul are wonderfully warmed and gladdened.

  The Best Leader

  I

  The two chair lads are still waiting, unoccupied, outside the king’s bedchamber; it has been this way for days, and it appears that yet another day will go by with Carlos remaining confined.

  He will never learn. You would think that at his age and having suffered so many distressing and painful attacks he would have some sense; show some restraint.

  We should stand aside for a moment to allow Madame Male and the soiled sheets and nightshirts to pass. Here come those whose role it is to bear the washbowls and the covered pots and bowls of waste. I always think it such a shame for damask and lace to be relegated to the lowly task of shielding the eyes from unsightly matters. And astly here comes another servant with a salver and its mountain of crumpled and stained bandages.

  I must say I have never known it to be so quiet. Have you noticed that there is no laughter, no banter to be heard from the kitchen or stables; in fact anywhere? The place is like a tomb. Hopefully that will all change very soon; Quijada arrived in Cuacos last night and should be here this morning.

  And speak of the devil, I beg his pardon, an unfortunate choice of expression, here is the man himself.

  “Cheer up lads. No work for you today?” Quijada greeted the glum chair boys.

  “No sir.”

  “And no work yesterday, nor the day before?”

  “Not for many a day, sir. Couldn’t begin to count, sir.”

  “Meanwhile you wait here to be summoned for nothing more than perhaps the occasional trip to the lavatory? And to make matters worse, there is nothing for you to eavesdrop on, am I right?”

  José and Samuel shuffled their feet, swallowed hard, straightened their tunics, determined to look innocent of any such crime.

  “Never worry lads. My lips are sealed. Your job needs some perks, even if it is but a jug of beer as a reward for your idle gossip. But why so miserable? Not just you, all the others too. Even Manuel and Alonso are down in the mouth. I had hoped to receive a happier welcome, but they had little to say.”

  José could barely wait to answer, “With permission sir, we’s all as ’appy as can be to see you back. You can’t know how ’appy, truly. It’s been bleedin’ miserable for us all for weeks, it ’as …”

  Samuel cut him short, “You shouldn’t talk to your betters like that. The way things is these days, that could be just enough to get us kicked out.”

  Quijada shook his head, “No, you do right to let me know of any discontent, otherwise how will I be able to set things to rights. I must have a happy, orderly household for his majesty. So, please, tell me the cause of all these long faces.”

  “Sir, it starts with the king hisself. He’s in a real foul mood with everything and everybody.”

  “Shut up, José. I tell you, you’re doing your bleedin’ best to get us slung out.”

  “Well, maybes you’re right. What you ‘as to understand, sir, is all the villagers is in uproar. They’s arguing with us, chucking stones at us if we’s anywhere near them. An’ we do have to go near the bastards to chase them out of the king’s orchards, away from our streams.”

  Quijada was shocked, “Are you telling me that the villagers are stealing?”

  “Stealin’? Thieving something rotten they are. Plunderin’ more like. The king’ll be lucky to have a apple, a orange, or a fish left for hisself. And they’ve done worse than that an’ all,” José was well into his stride now. “Do you know they’s had the bleedin’ cheek to stop the mules what brings the king’s food from Valladolid. Yeh, they have, and they takes what they wants.”

  “But lads, something must have gone sorely wrong. There must be some serious discontent at the root of this.”

  “The thing we heard was that they ’adn’t taken kindly to the king’s cows wandering on what they calls their land; that set them going, like. Anyways, what they did was they just kept the cows, said they wouldn’t never give them back until they was paid for all the damage, like. Then ’cause they ’ad to give them back and didn’t get paid they got madder than mad. That’s about the size of it, really.”

  “Thank you, José, for telling me. Do not upset yourselves further, I will find a way to get this sorted out. Is there anything else I should know?”

  Samuel, emboldened by the reception of José’s information now felt he could speak, “Well you might as well know, sir, there’s a really bad problem here too, worse than anything in the village.” He looked at José.

  “Go on, you might as well,” José shrugged.

  “Shockin’ it is. In fact, some money ’as gone missing.”

  They were interrupted by a voice from the bedchamber; it was Carlos, “Is that Quijada out there? Has Quijada come back to us? If that is you Quijada, what are you skulking about out there for? Come in, come in! God but we are all desperate to see you.”

  Quijada reached for the door handle but wanting to stay to hear more, “Lads, I appreciate your telling me these things. Additional eyes and ears are most useful, but see to it you are never taken unawares with your ear tight pressed against any keyholes,” he tapped his temple with his forefinger then pushed open the door. His already low spirits caused by his enforced early return had dipped even lower with Samuel’s disturbing news. Could there really be a thief in the palace?

  Not a happy reception. Shall we follow him in? I am never comfortable in this room. It chills my whole being. As black and claustrophobic as a family vault. Now if we position ourselves here close to the door into the church, which mercifully someone has left open, we will know for certain that we have not been interred.

  Incense has such a soothing perfume, although I fear it will soon be overpowered by the king’s vinegar dressings. He looks most unwell. I do not remember having ever seen his face so pallid, or his eyes so bloodshot and red rimmed. Nor does his sagging jaw help, leaving his mouth gaping like that – a dark cavern with those ugly yellow stumps of teeth. How shockingly, tragically old he looks.

  Quijada was welcomed by a small group of men: Dr. Mathys, Male, Torriano, the masters of the king’s wardrobe and jewels, and the cook. The king was slumped uncomfortably on a commod
e over a steaming pot of a brew of mallow, trefoil, parsley and other herbs. His nightshift had been drawn up and a quilt placed across his knees. His arms and legs were swathed in fresh vinegar bandages. The top part of his head was encased in a thick linen skull cap. A second quilt of black velvet thrown about his shoulders completed the sorry picture.

  Quijada’s spirits sank lower still.

  Carlos pointed at him, “I will not have you look at me like that, I know what you are thinking, Quijada. Can see it in your eyes. You think me a pitiful sight.”

  “My lord, I can only say that I am shocked. I am equally saddened that I was not here at a time when you needed me. Dr. Mathys, has the patient been behaving himself? Has he been taking the prescribed medicines without argument? Has he adhered to a beneficial diet?”

  “Oh, that he would! I sometimes think the only reason he chose me as his doctor was because he knew I was not in a position to give orders, apparently being too young, too inexperienced.”

  Carlos hushed him. “Never mind asking him, Quijada, ask me. Think I cannot speak for myself? Yes I have done exactly as I was bid, unless of course I knew better, which was often the case. I have been treated with potions and pastes from every kind of flower and plant. We have had carnations, marigolds, buglass, lily‑of‑the‑valley, plantain. Got more of them inside me and spread on me than you could find in the whole damn garden. I still say you cannot beat these vinegar and rose water bandages. A young lady taught me that years ago. And we are not going to discuss food. Nothing but pap, slops. Disgusting. How can anyone expect me to survive on that filth?”

  The cook bowed. “Don Luis Quijada, his majesty has just this minute complained again about the meals I have prepared today for him. It’s all so very difficult; goodness knows I have done my best, preparing what the doctor says is necessary. But because there are no spices allowed, and washing food down with beer or wine is strictly forbidden, whatever I have cooked does not suit the royal palate. Everything I have suggested this morning has met with a swift refusal.” He wrung his hands in despair, “I am completely at a loss. Perhaps if I were to offer him a fricassee of clocks; that might be acceptable.”