A Matter of Pride

by Linda Carlino

  Torriano almost laughed, he certainly smiled, “The very thing. It may just keep him ticking over better than the other recipes.”

  Carlos glowered, “Was that supposed to be humorous?”

  “Actually we have tried to humour his majesty as well as keep him on the straight and narrow,” Doctor Mathys continued. “And it has been no easy task I can assure you. We are heartily pleased to see you. The king needs you, yes, but we probably need you more.”

  All echoed his words except Male, who simply nodded from where he stood, almost asleep, leaning heavily against a table.

  “Male how tired you look. I take it that the king had a wakeful night, one of several?” Quijada touched his shoulder sympathetically.

  “I am always glad to be of service.”

  Carlos feigned surprise at Male’s presence, “Good God man, you still here? You should be in your bed. Get you gone this minute.”

  Quijada wasn’t fooled. “You need not pretend with me. How often have you put upon Male in my absence? I know your ways; you keep him standing by your bedside reading to you until some unearthly hour and then expect him to be here in the morning ready to be of further service. You ask too much of the man. If it is for no other reason than Male’s comfort I can say that I am pleased to be back.”

  Carlos pouted, “How was I supposed to remember details such as when his rest times are? And before you accuse me of further thoughtlessness, I want you to know that I am doing him a great favour; giving him a reward, if you prefer. You know that poem he has been helping me translate, The Determined Knight? Well, I have given him permission to go ahead and have it printed. All the profits will be his. That is true is it not, Male?”

  “Correct, my lord.”

  “So, what have you to say to that, Quijada?”

  “Most kind; and I take it your majesty, that your name will also appear on the book and that you will share the cost of the printing?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “But it must have occurred to you that Male might not sell many copies without your name; shame on you.”

  “Good God, Quijada I have made a generous enough offer in giving him the blasted book. Off you go Male, get you to bed.”

  The book will never be printed. King Felipe, a few years hence, will demand the manuscript be destroyed. Poor Male, he is such an unlucky sort of fellow.

  II

  Gaztelu shuffled into the room, his face suddenly brightening on seeing Quijada. “My friend, how good it is to see you,” he hugged him warmly before turning to Carlos. “And how are you this morning, your majesty?”

  “Feeling much better for the presence of this man. We might get my house back into some semblance of order now that he is here. Quijada you would not believe what has happened in your absence. The blasted villagers have turned into a bunch of thieving, rebellious bastards. I cannot understand it. All because some of my cattle strayed into their fields or gardens or whatever. Good God, they have started stealing my fruit and fishing my streams, and even daring to rob my shipments from Valladolid. Damned infuriating. And after all I have done for them. Come on, Gaztelu, remind us all how good I have been to the ignorant hijos de putas.”

  “You have always been most liberal, my lord. You have set money aside for debtors to be released from prison, you have provided money for young maidens wishing to marry, and you have shown charity to many a household. It is my humble opinion that once you start giving to these people their wants increase. And they expect even more from you now because their crops are failing.” He appealed to Quijada, “Yet there has to be a limit to handouts. I realise how strong the temptation must be for the poor and needy when their bellies are gnawing their painful emptiness, and their eyes tell those same bellies that there is food to be found in gardens and streams nearby, that there are supplies on their way from Valladolid.” He turned once more to Carlos, “Do not misunderstand me, your majesty, I do not condone …”

  Carlos screamed at him, “I never asked you for a bloody lecture or to make excuses for them! God, were it not for these useless arms and legs I would have been down to Cuacos to let them know who is master.”

  “Calm yourself. I am sure everything will be amicably resolved,” Quijada spoke with his customary reassurance. “I shall attend to it personally. I have never had any trouble with the villagers, we always see eye to eye. It helps, of course, my sending extra income their way for them to provide accommodation and prepare meals for the many visitors who come here to see you.”

  “Most of whom I have no desire to meet, and most of whom I refuse to meet. Anyway, whatever you may have done for them is no match for my generosity,” Carlos added.

  “You are right. Does anything else trouble you?”

  “Yes, something else damn well does trouble me. You others go now. I only want Quijada and Gaztelu with me.” He waited until the door closed. “I am only going to mention this because you are not aware of what has happened, Quijada, but once I have told you we will forget the whole terrible business. It is too distressing to contemplate.” He took a deep breath, “Some money has gone missing. A casket of money. It grieves me to have to admit to you that someone in this house has robbed me.”

  “How much?”

  “Eight hundred gold ducados.”

  “Dear God, I cannot believe it! Eight hundred? That is outrageous. Surely a mistake? Perhaps it was put somewhere for safekeeping and the place then forgotten? Has there been a thorough search?”

  “Yes we have been thorough,” Gaztelu replied. “Every conceivable place has been searched, and there is no sign.”

  “Then there must be a search of the belongings of all who work here.”

  “Everything has been done that could be done, Quijada.”

  “The last resort then is physical persuasion, that never fails to provide …”

  Carlos raised one hand, wincing with pain at even this simple movement, “I refuse to allow that. In any case the whole affair sickens me so much I would prefer to remain ignorant of the identity of someone who would do such a thing against me, their lord and benefactor.”

  “But to have the villain continue to live under your roof?”

  “I said I only wished to inform you and nothing more. The subject is closed.”

  “The servants will remain suspicious of one another.”

  “I will leave it to you to come up with some explanation. I am tired of it all,” Carlos eased his position, groaning, his face distorted, tears of pain and self pity flowing freely.

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  Gaztelu, having heard nothing but misery and moans since he came in clapped his hands. “But we must bring Quijada up to date with the news from France. How much do you know?”

  “Only what you said in your letter telling of Savoy’s success at Saint‑Quentin. And I presume his majesty’s indisposition is the result of the ensuing celebrations?”

  “Yes. Yes.” Carlos grumbled, “But I had to celebrate. I would hate the world to think I had not been impressed with the valour of our soldiers, the glory of it all. But it seems we can never have good news without bad news hanging on its skirts.”

  Quijada glanced at Gaztelu, “Nothing has gone wrong, I hope. King Felipe is not wounded?”

  Gaztelu shook his head, “Have no fear, he is safe and well and has personally led his men to victory.”

  “Then what is this about bad news?”

  Carlos grunted, “Felipe led his men to victory, humph! Some victory. He led his men to take the town of Saint‑Quentin alright, but only after the major battle had already been won. Then on he went to capture two pathetically small towns nearby. My God, boys’ stuff, humph! Why did he not decide to advance his troops to take Paris?”

  Quijada did not disguise his impatience, “Come now; be fair. You know full well that Saint‑Quentin is the gateway to Paris; a staging post for movements from France into other parts of Europe. It was also vitally important to take out any other towns in the area le
st they reinforce their garrisons. Anyone could see that.”

  “No guts, the lot of them; should have marched on Paris!” bellowed Carlos.

  “I repeat, my lord, you are unjust.”

  “I will silence you yet Quijada. You listen and you shall see what is fair, what is just. Get those letters, Gaztelu. Good Lord, if only Felipe would have spent more time with a sword instead of a blasted pen, how different it all could have been.”

  “Each commander has his own individual style.”

  “Quijada, I hope that when you meet your Maker you will find Him to be as ready to absolve you of your failings as you are for others, and that He will forgive you for the many excuses you have put forward for them. God knows, I sometimes find it hard enough to forgive you; you can be so damned exasperating at times. Listen to the letter from Ruy Gomez.”

  “He writes,

  The victory was all of God's making, for it was gained without experience, without troops, without money.”…

  “You see what I mean? A hollow victory; a victory won by God’s grace or sheer damned luck. What sort of men are we talking of here, bumbling idiots led by those with barely more than an ounce of wit?” Carlos fumed.

  “For a start Gomez is no soldier. You surprise me by taking any heed of his words,” Quijada argued.

  “More excuses? Carry on Gaztelu.”

  “It was decided that after taking Saint‑Quentin we would retire the troops to our winter quarters, money being in short supply for a further campaign. We agreed that a withdrawal following such a glorious victory would be viewed as being entirely honourable.”

  “Exactly. An intelligent course of action.” Quijada reasoned, “Had Felipe marched his troops towards Paris, as you would have preferred, and assuming that the men would have obeyed orders and not mutinied when they discovered, as Gomez says, that there was neither pay nor food, he would have marched his men to their deaths. Let me have the letter, Gaztelu. Ah, yes, it says that the French king was already calling up thousands of reserves. We know how quickly and easily that can be done, it takes practically no time to recall all the retired soldiers, to impose levies on towns and villages.”

  “I know, I know. But supposing they had set off immediately instead of sitting on their backsides around a table talking, talking; all that interminable talking; God if they are not talking they are writing goddamn letters. What if they had set off straight away, they may well have …”

  “You shock me with your ‘may well have’! That is all you can say; and what kind of basis is that on which to build any kind of military strategy?”

  Carlos grunted, “Well, I will wait to see what you dare say about Felipe’s letter.”

  Gaztelu unfolded a second piece of paper, this one bearing the royal seal. “Right, here you are.”

  Quijada scanned Felipe’s scrawl,

  “Tomorrow we head for the Netherlands. I know you will be disappointed that we have turned our backs on Paris, but I was not prepared to have our valiant men be a subject of French ridicule. You will recall how they mocked your soldiers for entering France dining on the best of meats, but leaving France scratching the earth for roots to gnaw upon. No, I was not going to allow strong, healthy men who had fought gallantly to become starving wrecks dragging their bones through foreign fields and along alien roads only to die.”

  He returned the letter.

  “The insolent young pup, daring to throw that in my face!” Carlos choked on his anger: a strangled coughing, spluttering, howling, purple‑faced temper.

  “Sadly it is all so devastatingly true. One cannot change facts,” Quijada reminded him as he brought a calming drink. The cries of fury had become a wheezing, gasping fight for breath.

  Do not concern yourself; Carlos will recover in a moment or two.

  His campaign in France in ’thirty‑six to which Felipe was referring was a most embarrassing fiasco. More than twenty thousand died of disease or starvation. The roads were littered with the dead and the dying; corpses lay in piles by the wayside rotting and stinking alongside the remains of their once proud chargers. Perhaps now you can understand Felipe’s reservations about being drawn deeply into enemy territory. So which is the great leader? I ask you!

  Carlos whimpered, “That failure in France, was it all my fault, Quijada?”

  “Of course not, far from it. There is very little anyone can do when faced with a scorched earth policy, poisoned wells, and then dysentery decimating the troops. You had to retreat. But that was the past; far better to dwell on King Felipe’s victory. Unfortunate, all the same, that you had to celebrate the victory to excess.”

  A movement on the king’s bed caught Quijada’s eye.

  “Ah, that!” exclaimed Gaztelu. “It came while you were away.”

  A ball of gingery brown fur became a horseshoe arch with a head that was mostly yawn.

  “How did that damn cat get here?”

  “Arrived with the bird,” Carlos beamed, pointing to a rather large covered cage. “The last two of my loyal old troopers who had managed to get themselves unavoidably detained or lost on the way. But now they are here and my army is complete. Thank God I had them for company while you were away.”

  “Loyal old troopers indeed! Damned cats and birds; just so long as they keep out of my sight; you know how I feel about them. There is nothing wrong with a dog for companionship,” Quijada snapped.

  Old Grievances Run Deep

  I

  Following an obviously unsatisfactory lunch of slops and a disastrously painful visit to the lavatory Carlos summoned Quijada and Gaztelu to listen to further rantings and ravings about Felipe’s failings as a military leader. We have missed nothing, I assure you, except further repetitions of everything you have already heard.

  Quijada was annoyed. “It was bad enough that I returned to a complete breakdown in relations between the village and the palace and the suspicion of a thief amongst us without having to go over the battle for Saint‑Quentin and its aftermath yet again. It is quite unacceptable. I am sorry, my lord, but I will hear no more of it. And you know fine well that Felipe must be given credit for his decision not to commit his men to a campaign with all the hallmarks of disaster. Let that be the end of the story; oh, unless, of course, you wanted to be generous and commend him for saving the Treasury a considerable amount of money. I think congratulations are also in order for the capture of Montmorency. Savoy must find it a sweet revenge for the devastation of his homeland. No doubt he is eagerly anticipating its return from French hands.”

  Gaztelu’s little eyes twinkled with delight at Quijada’s daring.

  Quijada was not quite finished, “You are like a pup with an old slipper, not letting it go, tugging it this way and that, tearing t it because it continues to offend, growling at its very presence. At least the pup can be entertaining.”

  “Anyone would think you were my tutor the way you lecture and bully me. You are fortunate I allow you such liberties,” pouted Carlos. His face suddenly lit up and he chuckled, “The other day, Quijada, I was put in mind of Trooper Blomberg. Do you remember?”

  Quijada was completely taken aback not by the change of topic, there was nothing new in that, but by the subject. He shot a swift glance at Carlos. What had he told Gaztelu while he was away? “What exactly made you think of Trooper Blomberg?”

  “It was because everyone got themselves all upset. They felt I had been over generous when rewarding the messenger who brought us the news of the victory at Saint‑Quentin.”

  “And were you?”

  “Mere trifles, about sixty gold ducados and a gold chain.”

  “Good God, trifles indeed, and no one to prevent such madness?”

  “No one but you would dare. But it put me in mind of that night when Trooper Blomberg came to my tent,” he smiled, his lips collapsing into his mouth.

  Quijada was quick to mouth to Gaztelu, “Perhaps if you were to go.”

  Gaztelu was peeved. He could sense a good story was in
the offing about this Blomberg chap, knowing it couldn’t possibly have been the same soldier he’d heard mentioned somewhere before, because Carlos had bought that one a commission; no ordinary trooper he. But perhaps he had been demoted, relegated to the ranks for some grave misdemeanour. That could well be the story and he had no wish to miss it. He virtually bleated, “My lord, do you wish me to leave?”

  “No, no need, just thinking of due rewards for lightening the heart and raising the spirits. It cheered me up for a moment.”

  Gaztelu was more intrigued than ever; rewards for what? From an officer turned trooper? Why?

  “No,ugh of that, what I want to do now is to look at that blasted business in Italy. If you considered Felipe’s strategies in France to have been successful, Quijada, you will more than likely make the mess in Italy sound like a glorious victory.”

  Quijada addressed the ceiling stroking his bearded chin. “You refuse to leave the subject alone; you are worse than a pup, worse than a dog with a bone; worrying it to death. So, whose mess or disaster might this be? Are we discussing a defeat of Alba in Italy? I think not. Are you referring to some woeful orders of King Felipe despatched from France? Again, I think not. Or are you speaking of a disaster according to the perceptions of King Carlos? Let me consider a moment knowing, as I do, King Felipe, Alba, and you …”

  “You are no better than a sarcastic knave to treat me so. What are we to do with the man, Gaztelu?”