A Matter of Pride

by Linda Carlino

  The mystery of the Blomberg chap was sadly not to be revealed but at least Carlos’s mood had lightened which was a blessing of sorts.

  “If I were you, my lord, I would take care to guard him well, as you would a priceless treasure.” Gaztelu allowed himself a little chuckle, the day had definitely brightened; this was much more like old times.

  “True. Quijada you have been a sorry miss over the last few weeks,” Carlos sighed. “I await your gems of wisdom. So then, let us begin with the facts. I leave it to you Gaztelu and mind you tell them the way I see them.”

  “Pope Paul sent his ambassador to the French Court demanding that King Henry help rid him of the Spanish. The Duke of Guise was despatched immediately with an army of twenty thousand. And there was many a French nobleman tagging along thinking it an honour, as they had at Metz, to accompany their hero; desperate to distinguish themselves in the field.”

  “Naturally,” observed Quijada, “he is an outstanding example of excellent leadership: an intelligent military strategist, a man who leads by example, a man of great compassion towards the enemy’s sick and wounded. Why, even our soldiers sang his praises. They had been left for dand he saved them, commanding his own men to care for them.”

  Carlos screamed, bursting into tears, “Enough of that! There will be no talk of Metz!”

  Quijada offered him a fresh handkerchief, “Weeping will not wash away those facts.”

  Gaztelu gave them both a mock disapproving look, enjoying every moment. “Back to my story; you are also aware that his progress through Italy met with no resistance as all our forces were deployed in the defence of Naples.”

  “Yes, and Guise was given a tumultuous welcome by the citizens of Rome,” continued Quijada.

  Carlos spluttered, “I am sick to death of hearing about Guise, the blasted saintly knight in his blasted shining armour! More to the point; what about the pope? May the devil take his bones and grind them into … The pope, at the same time as he was welcoming this hero, this god of war, was refusing to pray for my soul. Ha! Some Christian he is.”

  “But we know why; he has never forgiven you for violating the sanctity of Rome those many years ago. Nor did Felipe improve matters when he ordered Alba to march his troops into Vatican territory after the pope’s refusal to talk peace. So you see all three of you are guilty of spilling the blood of holy men and of profaning holy places. Nor would Pope Paul be best pleased that disgruntled exiles from Rome had decided to join Alba, hoping to regain the land which the pope had stolen from them.”

  “The pope is a two‑faced swine, Quijada. He pretended to agree to a truce with Alba and all the while the devious bastard was buying time until the arrival of the hero of heroes, Guise. He dares call himself pope!”

  A squawking, “Pope Paul’s a bastard, Pope Paul’s a bastard,” came from under the cover of the bird cage.

  “Gentlemen, if I might proceed!” Gaztelu exclaimed, feeling rather like a parrot himself always being called upon to repeat words everyone had heard countless times. “Guise was soon to discover that although it had been an easy matter for Rome to drum up crowds for his triumphal entry into the Holy City, it was a far different story when it came to forming an army. The pope had actually promised to furnish a contingent to equal the French. But all he had to offer was a pathetic gathering of pretty poor specimens.”

  “I have always told you that you cannot trust this pope! He got the French to fight his battles for him by promising support. He is a liar; he had no support to offer!”

  “Yes, my lord,” Gaztelu sighed, “but Guise was not deterred, he had every confidence in himself and his soldiers. He advanced on Naples. Unfortunately for him that turned out to be a complete disaster. He had to retire.”

  “Dishonourably, in my opinion,” Carlos interjected.

  “You will insist on giving your opinions at every turn,” Quijada retorted, “I thought you were seeking mine?”

  “Please, the pair of you, no further interruptions.” Gaztelu shook his head in despair. “Guise still hoped to engage Alba’s troops. But Alba would not take up the fight, no matter how much his men tried to persuade him. He said he was not prepared to wager the Kingdom of Naples against nothing more than an embroidered surcoat, which was about all Guise had to lose by then. In any case by that time Guise had far greater enemies to contend with. His army was bogged down by incessant rains, the gunpowder was ruined, food was spoiled, rampant disease and death decimated his troops. So he set about a hasty retreat; he had to. Then, would you believe it, King Henry chose that very moment to recall him to France, because he needed every available soldier following the disastrous defeat at Saint‑Quentin.”

  Carlos grunted, “And thereby allowing Guise to avoid ignominy by a hair’s breadth. I would dearly have liked to have seen the pope’s face when he was told that King Henryithdrawing the French soldiers. Worth a few thousand ducados to witness that, eh?”

  “Alba just let them go, nudging them in the rear, a little harassing here and there to make sure they were leaving Italy. And now it was Alba who had the satisfaction of being welcomed into all the towns on his way. He next turned his attention to the Papal States.”

  “And then by God, the pope was in a damned hurry to settle for peace!” Carlos pointed a bandaged hand at Quijada.

  “Please, no more interruptions,” insisted Gaztelu. “Alba’s troops threatened the city. The Romans panicked and begged the pope to start peace negotiations. The treaty demanded the pope revoke his alliance with France and henceforth remain neutral. King Felipe must surrender all the towns within the papal territory, and Spain must seek forgiveness for having taken up arms against God’s Vicar on earth.”

  Quijada shrugged his shoulders, “Sounds like a victory to me.”

  “Then just wait till you hear this part,” Carlos was jubilant with I‑told‑you‑so satisfaction.

  “The Duque de Alba went to Rome for an audience with Pope Paul and prostrated himself before His Eminence and kissed his feet.”

  “Aha! And there you have it!” Carlos beamed. “Who won this blasted war then? Tell me, who was the victor? And as for Alba, demeaning himself, belittling our nation …”

  Gaztelu spoke to Quijada, “Zuñiga was here the other day and he had a letter from Alba. It sought permission to come to kiss the king’s hand on his return to Spain. It also mentioned his distaste at having had to prostrate himself at the papal feet. He felt it should have been quite the other way about, with Pope Paul seeking forgiveness from King Felipe. But when Zuñiga read the letter our royal master feigned deaness, pretended not to hear a word.”

  “The royal prerogative of bad manners? Shame on you, sire.”

  “Quijada, I do not want him here, do not want to hear anything more of the whole disgraceful affair. Anyway, your opinion?”

  “I see no problem with the peace treaty if that is what you mean.”

  “What do you mean no problem?” Carlos spluttered. “Have you gone soft in the head?”

  “Think about it. King Felipe sees himself as a champion of the Catholic Church, and as such would never wish to be at war with the pope. I am of the opinion that it must have pained him greatly when he issued the order for Alba to harass the Papal States. Now, with this treaty, he has found a way of finally extricating Spain and the pope from all those years of bitter antagonism. He may also have provided an opportunity to unite and strengthen the Church in these difficult days of reform. My lord, Felipe has lost nothing, indeed he will have gained much by this diplomatic move. You must admit it is most unseemly for a Christian king to conduct a war against the Holy Father.”

  “But why did Alba kneel to him? It would make the pope feel he was the victor. I hope Felipe gives him a flea in his ear.”

  Gaztelu turned once more to Quijada, “Alba did say in his letter that he was following Felipe’s instructions and that it grieved him to …”

  “I refuse to listen to that!” Carlos shut him up. “But imagine what swee
t music it would have been to my ears to hear from Alba’s lips that that eighty‑year‑old bastard of a pope was dead. But sadly …”

  “Shame on you to hang onto those old grievances; it is time to forgive and forget,” Quijada butted in. “But let me remind you yet again that you have retired from public life, handing the reins of government to Felipe. Let go of those reins! You must recognise your son as king and respect his authority. Everything he does is for Spain and, more importantly, for God. I will tell you something more; something I witnessed on my journey here. All Spain is jubilant; bonfires of celebration are ablaze throughout the land. What better indication of a country’s thanksgiving for its leader’s decision to make peace with the Holy Father! Finally, I would suggest that by going over events beyond your control and influence you are wearying yourself and others, and to no good purpose.”

  Carlos snorted, “Anyway I have had enough for today. Gaztelu, go for Doctor Mathys. These bandages need to be changed; and my backside is getting sore. Quijada stay until Mathys arrives.”

  Gaztelu bowed and left the room, his face a picture of disappointment, certain that the Trooper Blomberg story was about to unfold.

  There are times when others speak so eloquently for me. I think that Quijada is quite splendid. He voices all the right arguments. As ever, Carlos is loath to hear opinions which differ from his own.

  II

  “My lord; that was very nearly a most embarrassing situation, you mentioning Trooper Blomberg; what does Gaztelu know?”

  “Nothing at all; never mentioned the name until today.”

  “With respect, you must be more guarded. I could so easily have fallen into the trap of believing you had allowed Gaztelu into your confidence.”

  “You worry too much. Anyway you are the one at fault for not being here when I needed you; I could have got it all off my chest there and then, the day the courier came, so I will not have you placing any blame on me! But Barbara was bold alright, just like her mother. I had her nicely set up in Ratisbon so she could wait for me there until the battle had been won. But that was unacceptable, remember?”

  “Impossible to forget; we were holding a conference in your tent at the time.”

  “And word came that a trooper had arrived with a message for me. I had no idea what to think because a courier had only recently arrived with the latest despatches.” Lines of pain and age softed about Carlos’s eyes and mouth.

  “And I went out to discover what it could be that could not wait until morning,” Quijada added. It was as though it had happened only yesterday.

  Carlos closed his eyes.

  d c

  Two guards stood either side of the brazier, red and yellow flame patterns danced on their armour and halberds. Four other soldiers were nearby, their glinting swords drawn against a young soldier. Torches in their iron sconces burned in angry twisted yellow flames, their black smoked edges curling and chasing in the bitter wind.

  Quijada allowed the tent flap to fall closed behind him and pulled his fur‑lined cloak tight across his chest.

  “What is it trooper that cannot wait until morning? His majesty is not to have his precious time wasted.”

  The trooper, on his knees, directed some mumbled words towards the ice‑hard ground.

  “Speak up man,” Quijada ordered.

  “… important information, must not wait.”

  “Give it to me.”

  “No, I must deliver …”

  “Stand up. Come here. Give me …”

  The trooper stood up, rubbing agitatedly at his forehead before pulling his hat further down over his ears.

  “I must see the king,” the trooper pleaded, the words almost lost in his cloak.

  Something told Quijada that although it might be irresponsible he had to let this lad in to see the king. He also knew that if need be he could deal with the young lightweight whipper snapper. “This is quite in order,” he told the guard, “the lad will come with me.”

  Once inside the tent Quijada addressed the huge hat on the lowered head. “What message do you bring trooper?”

  “A private message.” The voice seemed to struggle.

  “Wait here.”

  Within minutes, generals, chiefs of staff, and their aides emerged from behind a brocade curtain. Helmets and maps were thrust under arms; fur cloaks slung over shoulders.

  “You may go in. His majesty will see you now.”

  The trooper strode by him and into the royal presence. Quijada watched just long enough to see the trooper go down on one knee before letting the curtain fall back into place.

  The young man pulled off his hat, and long golden curls tumbled free, the bluest of blue eyes looked up at Carlos and burned into his heart.

  “Your majesty, Trooper Blomberg at your service.”

  For a moment Carlos was unable to speak. He was still recovering from the shock of Quijada’s urgent whispering about a soldier Blomberg being here with some important news. Assuming the soldier to be Barbara’s officer brother he hurriedly dismissed his military chiefs of staff. And now here he was face to face with his beloved, his dear heart. Could he trust his eyes and ears? He leaned forward to cup her face in his hands.

  “What in God’s name are you doing here? I left you safe with your chaperone. Dear God, did she come with you? Tell Quijada to take her somewhere, deal with her. We have no room here. In any case she scares the life out of me.”

  Barbara put her hands over his and laughed a melody of silver notes, “You are safe, there was no soldier’s uniform large enough, or a horse strong enough to carry her.”

  “And you have ridden here alone? My dear that was foolhardy, dangerous.”

  “Who would dare to stop a soldier on a mission for his emperor? And danger doesn’t exist for me when I want to be by your side.”

  He stroked her silken hair. “Some wine to warm you.” Carlos pushed himself from his chair drawing his Barbara to his breast to hold her tight, his eyes flooding.

  “To the invincible soldier.” He offered her a silver goblet, shaking his head at this vision in the leather jerkin and thigh boots, the thick woollen breeches. He raised his goblet in homage.

  “And to her warrior king,” she responded.

  Of one accord they began to undress, Barbara joking about the ease with which men’s clothing can be unfastened and removed.

  The bed was small, little better than a truckle bed, but surprisingly big enough for the two of them.

  “I can only stay until dawn when I must leave to return the horse.”

  Carlos chuckled, “Then Quijada is in for a long night! Oh, sing to me, Barbara.”

  “A thousand times I regret to leave you

  And go far from your loving face …”

  a b

  “How could I have been so fortunate, Quijada, to have had someone like Barbara to love me; someone half my age, beautiful, courageous.”

  “Tender, devoted …”

  “Was I stupid? Was she using her charms only to seduce me, to use me?”

  “Never allow such thoughts to take shape or form themselves into words. You know it to be untrue. She was always there for you whenever you needed her to bring comfort.”

  “And to rekindle … I had feelings for her that I had never felt before. That night I held her face, stroked her hair, and before long there was life in this old dog again!”

  “It is all very much the stuff of ballads; a beautiful stranger, a lonely knight, a tent, flickering candlelight, wine, fur rugs.”

  “And she slipped away before dawn, saying she had promised faithfully to return the horse before sun‑up.”

  “And she would, my lord, she was always a woman of her word.”

  “God, how good it is to have you back, Quijada.”

  Surprisingly, sometimes I make no comment whatsoever.

  November

  Errors of Judgement

  I

  The tranquil swishing of brushes and cloths, the squeaking of leathe
r and the jingling of metal came to an abrupt halt.

  “Qui, lads, let’s be ’aving you out here now, double quick.” It was Pepe, the stable master, out of breath and nervous.

  Manuel threw down some reins along with his waxing cloth onto an already cluttered worktable. He rubbed his hands on the rag hanging from a nail giving them a final wipe down the front of his tunic then threw on his wool coat and ran out into a veil of cold grey mizzle. “What’s goin’ on sir? You made it sound bad.”

  “It’s the king’s sister Maria, that’s what,” the stable master groaned. “She’s here. Just caught sight of her coming up the hill. Gawd, and me not understanding a bleeding word she says. And then I go and get all flustered.” He turned to shout back into the tack room, “I said you had to be double quick, didn’t I? You want to keep your job don’t you? Alonso, where the hell are you? Come on you other lot. Let’s be having you. Now!” He scurried across the yard muttering, “I’d better warn them over at the house.”

  “Who did he say was coming?” Alonso shouted from the corner where he leaned across a water barrel washing his hands. “Bloody murder getting them brasses clean. It’ll be good to get away from it for a bit. So, who’d he say?”

  “The king’s sister, Queen Maria.”

  “Oh, him.” Alonso was unimpressed.

  “Jesus, you shouldn’t say things like that,” Manuel nervously hissed back noticing two or three other stable lads coming to join them. If they heard, they might just report them; it was one way to get their jobs, sure enough.

  “Everybody else does. She’s a man in ladies’ skirts is what they all say. You just listen when she opens her mouth. You just watch the way she walks. And if that’s not enough, what the ’ell does a lady want to be riding over here in this kind of weather for? I mean, it’s not right, is it? There’s some things as men do and some things women do. Now this tells me she falls into the category of blokes.”