“That’s a bit strong, that is,” Manuel threw at him. He then whispered, “So she’s big and has a deep voice …”
“And walks like a feller.” Alonso clapped him on the shoulder. “Just makes you wonder what’s under them skirts, don’t it?”
“Can’t keep your mind far off them thoughts, can you?”
Pepe raced back to them, gasping, “Right, line up over here you lot. I’ll go over to the mounting steps for her highness.” He paced nervously backwards and forwards over the glistening cobbles, fine watery beads gathering on his leather jerkin.
“Think he’s got ants in his pants?”
“Worried sick he is, Alonso. She scares him. I think it’s ’cause she speaks French and he can’t understand her.”
“So, if she was a feller what spoke Spanish, he’d be ’appy?” He put on a mock female voice and fluttered his eyelashes, “Parley voo Fransay, mon ami Pepe?”
“No comprendey, mate,” Manuel hissed back, hoping Pepe hadn’t seen or heard Alonso’s antics.
As this is not the weather for standing about in courtyards I suggest we move indoors as soon as possible.
Maria, Dowager Queen of Hungary and retired governor of the Netherlands, rode into the courtyard with an escort of four gentlemen. The stable lads ran to grab at bridles and reins while Pepe met Maria’s horse at the steps. He steadied it as she slipped easily and nimbly from the saddle despite carrying more than fifty years and rather too much weight.
“Bonjour les garçons.” A voice disconcertingly deep and loud filled the air, “Le wezzer makes not good, c’est vrais?”
The lads all kept their heads down stammering a jumble of ‘Good day’ and ‘your highness’, choking on guffaws.
Maria hurried down the steps booming instructions in halting Spanish to her riding companions, “Now you go. I will send when I go to leave.” Then she turned to give orders to the stable master, “Les chevaux sont …” but he hadn’t waited. Pepe had eagerly grasped the opportunity to hurry away with the queen’s horse while she was occupied with others, argui why should he wait only to be told what he knew already, how to deal with wet, steaming horses on a chilly day. In any case he wouldn’t understand a word she said.
Alonso called to Manuel from under his horse’s neck, “What did I tell you? She’s a feller. That voice is still a bleedin’ shock though, every time. But it isn’t ’alf nice to see our Pepe in one hell of a panic instead of being so bloody cocksure all the time.”
This warmth is distinctly welcoming. It feels so good to shut out that damp air, it can get right through to the old bones.
Now I can give you some background information on Carlos’s sister Maria who until only a few months ago was a total stranger to this country, and its language. She decided she would retire to Spain with Carlos and their sister Leonor. I find it most odd that after being born and raised in Flanders then spending much of her adult life there, apart from a few years in Hungary, she should choose now to live in this country. But you see you have here an example of sisterly love; desiring that the three of them should spend their twilight years together, with at long last the opportunity to enjoy each other’s company and to be at hand to support and comfort one another. The king, however, did not share his sisters’ enthusiasm, preferring to live here alone while they, at least for the moment, are staying at Jarandilla. Poor old Oropesa has to play host again.
It would be impossible not to notice that Maria is quite a robust lady, quite unlike the other sister, Leonor, who is rather frail these days and succumbs easily to illness.
About twenty‑five years ago Carlos made his sister Maria governor of Flanders and the Low Countries. There were many eminently suitable people worthy of the position, but Carlos thought a dowager queen would enhance its status somewhat. And, of course, it kept the control of the area in family hands. I hasten to add that not for one moment was I suggesting that Maria was not equal to the demands of governor; she is a very clever woman. She most certainly is; far more intelligent than Carlos and much wiser too, someone to whom he has readily turned for advice over the years, not that he usually heeded it.
But here comes Quijada.
“Votre Altesse,” Quijada came rushing to greet Maria. “Cela fait plaisir a vous voir. Mais, aujourd’hui …?”
“You know well enough the weather never bothers me.”
He helped her remove the hooded waterproof cloak and untie the soggy ribbons of her travelling hat, motioning to a waiting servant to take away the dripping garments. “A hot drink of some kind, perhaps?”
“Good Lord no, Quijada. I am not the least bit cold; damp perhaps but not cold. I say but it is damnably hot in here.”
“I think we may have all grown accustomed to it, ma’am. The large salon, however, will perhaps be more comfortable; with the option of course that should you feel a slight chill there is the choice of a roaring fire or a hot stove. This way ma’am. I have informed his majesty of your presence.”
“Good, good, but why so formal today? No need for it at all.”
She stepped into the large salon taking mental notes, not wishing to omit the smallest detail when she reported back to her sister: the long dark oak dining table; the chairs with either red leather or red velvet cushioned seats; the tall clocks, two with gold faces; halberds standing to attention with their silver points and blades emerging from ruffs of red, yellow and black ribbons; next to them the shields with their protective two‑headed eagles; the side tables one of which was being hurriedly covered with red velvet and the gold and silver plate set back in their places; the portraits and finally the tapestries, her gift to her brother to celebrate his victory at Tunis.
Quijada beckoned the busy young girl, “You may go now. Tell your mistress that the Dowager Queen Maria will be in this room for some time and is not to be disturbed. You will have to finish your work later.”
The maidservant bobbed a curtsey and snatched a swift look at her namesake as she left. What she saw was a plump lady old enough to be her mother, perhaps grandmother; it was hard to tell, for hers were both long dead. The lady was, she reckoned, the same age or older than Madame Male. The ratample lady was dressed in black velvet. Running all around the hem of the skirt were two rows of what looked like very fine silver chains. Black satin bows tipped with silver aglets went all the way up the front of the skirt and the sleeves. Her hair and neck were entirely covered with a widow’s barb of the finest Holland.
As she closed the door behind her young Maria called down the corridor in a loud whisper to Samuel and José who stood waiting for the king, “Do you know it’s like she just stepped down from one of them pictures on the walls in there. Gawd, them clothes must’ve cost a fortune. If only she lived here, her hand‑me‑downs would still be in pretty good nick by the time it was my turn to get them.”
“If they didn’t get sold first,” José teased.
“Enjoy your dreams, Maria,” Samuel sniggered.
“And to think we even have the same name. Fancy that, eh, her and me, both called Maria. Ooh, heck, there’s that cold draught again, I wish folk would make sure them doors is closed.”
José nudged Samuel before advising her, “Better get one of your servants to check, Doa Maria.”
“Cheeky devil!”
Our little village girl is gradually climbing up her social ladder. I am happy to inform you that this time it wasn’t a case of dead men’s shoes or should I say women’s shoes; the last person simply left; an offer of marriage.
II
The portrait of Mary Tudor looked down at the Dowager Queen Maria and Quijada with an icy stare full of mistrust; almost ready to accuse.
“And she is Felipe’s bride?” Maria wrinkled her nose studying the portrait. “Good Lord! Might have been a fair lass once upon a time, but not for a young man to marry now. Difficult, very difficult. I doubt if it was such a wise decision to promote this marriage. By all accounts it is not very successful.”
“The La
dy Mary has not had a very easy life almost from the beginning. Perhaps that is what we see written on her face; the fears and anguish of those earlier years.”
“It might have been better had she chosen more attractive colours for her clothes; the dowdy browns and flat greys and beige do little to help.” Maria turned to Quijada, “Let us hope that God in His mercy brings her pregnancy to term and she is delivered safely of a child.”
“I would like to say amen to that, but as you know there are grave doubts in fact about there actually being a pregnancy.”
Carlos’s sister was now giving the portrait of Isabel her full attention. She spoke without ever moving her gaze from the painting, “Aye, dear Lord, she was beautiful. Carlos was lucky there. I wish I could have met her. I remember … it was not long after her death; I received a letter from Carlos asking if I could find a likeness of her in our aunt’s palace in Mechelin. He said that he seemed to remember seeing one there. Astonishing, really, to think he did not possess even one portrait of his beloved wife. So I went looking, and sure enough I found a small portrait, supposedly of Isabel. I sent it along with a note excusing it for being so poor and really not worth the bother. Now that I see this masterpiece I am embarrassed. I expect Carlos destroyed it.”
“This is a masterpiece indeed. I was fortunate to see her highness, and believe me if this portrait could be given breath, I swear it would be … So tragic she died so young.” Quijada cleared his throat.
“My brother is right, you are an emotional chap; a leader in battle, strong and resilient, but sentimental when it comes to the ladies. Not a bad fault. Of course you are in a position where you can allow yourself that luxury.”
“Meaning, ma’am?”
“I was musing on the luxury of emotions, Quijada. When I was sent to Brussels to become governor, I implored Carlos to appoint our brother Ferdinand instead. Of course I realised later that it would have placed too much power in his hands and that would never do. But at the time I was unwell and I was afraid of going there on my own. By God, but he gave me short shrift. Told me to consider how lucky I was, that he, himself, would be only too happy to be there but that his duties took him elsewhere. But I was a young widow you understand, only twenty‑five yearsld, and still needing sympathy. My pleading went unheeded. Apparently royalty must always sacrifice their own feelings for the greater good of their people. ‘Responsibility, not sentimentality’; how often have I heard that?”
Quijada was surprised at her speaking so openly about private family affairs and moved the conversation on. “You never sought a second husband, someone to be at your side, to …?”
“God, no, Quijada. I even made that a condition of accepting the position. No, I had had a wonderful marriage. Sadly it had lasted only five years. No one on this earth could possibly have taken the place of my Luis.”
“But Carlos did eventually relent and gave you a special, a close, adviser.”
“Yes, but only when he was forced into recognising just how ill I was. No one can fully appreciate the despair of a young widow when she has lost someone so dear, so wonderful.” Maria’s voice became surprisingly mellow and soft, like the velvet of her skirts. She moved to the window and looked out at the greyness of the day, at the wet shrouds enveloping the garden and its ghostly trees, the ditchwater dullness of the fishpond. “I am not such a fool as to think that his actions were entirely fraternal, regarding either my health or happiness. He was desperate to have me well again in order to govern. Later on I discovered that he was also worried that I was suffering an illness similar to our mother’s and he was determined to lift me from the depths of my melancholy.”
Quijada raised his eyebrows.
While Maria lost herself to the remembered devotion and attentiveness of her treasured companion Quijada was thinking if only Carlos had offered the same support to his mother. Ah, but there was the difference, he needed Maria to rule, whereas he had been afraid that his mother might decide to do just that or even be persuaded to. He smiled at Maria, “So you did, in effect, have someone at your side. That was good.”
“Yes, a companion without equal. A firm but gentle master. He made me follow the doctors’ orders, take their medicines. We walked and talked, and he kept me free of all duties until I was strong enough. Good Lord, Quijada, he sounds like a duplicate of you! No wonder my brother holds you in such high regard and will not let you go.”
“I thank you ma’am.”
Maria recovered. I am temped to say that she recovered purely and simply because of the aid and support of her companion and that all other medications were unnecessary. He was with her almost day and night. There were those, of course, who suggested that their relationship went far beyond the bounds of friendship. Well, twenty‑five is young to be a widow and as long as she was returned to full health who are we that we should judge? Queen Juana at one stage had found such an attentive companion but only briefly. Carlos found him unsuitable for his plans and had him replaced.
“If I may change the subject, are you planning to stay overnight? It will take some degree of organising; for it does mean there are five extra to feed no matter at which table they sit.”
“I know, Quijada, food is scarce enough as it is without us imposing on you. Do not look so worried. I intend to ride home today. It has been dreadful these past few months, there is no denying it; poor weather, bad harvests.”
“I can tell you we would not have survived without the caravans of provisions arriving regularly from Valladolid. I was beginning to wonder what we could offer you other than iced water, of which we have an abundance.” He smiled.
“You jest of course. I tell you one thing, Quijada, a scarcity of food would do my brother the power of good. I am sure you do your best to curtail him, but he got into the habit of surrendering to his passions at the table and, by God, in ladies’ bedchambers at a very early age.”
Quijada was rescued from the need to reply by the timely appearance of Gaztelu to say that Carlos was in his private salon and ready to see his sister. He and Quijada stood aside to allow Maria to pass.
“Gaztelu, I tell you, the dowager queen is still outrageously outspoken. No shrinking violet by Jove. I thank God you arrived when you did.” Quijada tut‑tutted his way down the corridor.
III
“Mon cher frère, comment vas‑tu?” Maria curtsied and gently took one of her brother’s hands in hers.
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“Très bien, et toi aussi j’espère.”
“Never felt better.”
“What brought you here, then? It is such a dreadful day. You had best not stay long.”
“Well thank you so much for the hearty welcome! But I will not be dismissed so easily. I am here for my own diversion not yours. To tell the truth I could not bear to remain indoors at Jarandilla a moment longer.”
Carlos turned to Quijada, “My sisters ought not to be at Jarandilla, find them lodging in Cuacos. I cannot have my sister riding such a distance to visit me.”
“Sire I will do what I can, but I am afraid you are asking the impossible.”
Maria shook her head. “Do not begin to trouble yourself. My sister and I are quite comfortable. And I might add that I have seen enough of Cuacos to know that I have no desire to move there; a dreary collection of cottages, nothing more, and not worthy of consideration.”
“And this from a sister at one time ready to move Heaven and earth that we might live together as one happy family under one roof.”
“Did I go that far? Ah, well, enough of that good brother. See, I have brought you this gift from Valladolid. Your daughter had them made especially for you to convey her joy and congratulations on the success of the Italian campaign. Both Leonor and I are greatly impressed with the workmanship.”
Carlos grappled with the package which refused to be opened, “Someone has tied this too tight; I give up, you do it.”
Maria untied the yellow, black and red ribbons, “A thoughtful touch of Juana’s to use yo
ur colours, brother,” she unfolded the protective linen cover to reveal a pair of gloves exquisitely embroidered with gold thread and studded with precious stones.
“Jesus! The stupid woman; whose hands are these supposed to fit? Just look at them; look at my hands.”
He studied his balloon‑shaped hands with their misshapen fingers that would never fit inside the gloves.
“Ah, well, Juana did her best. It is the thought that counts, after all,” Quijada shrugged. “And who knows but that with determined effort on your part, they may fit one day.”
“No lectures, thank you. Put the damned things away,” Carlos tossed them aside. “So you came alone? No Leonor?”
“Leonor is not fully well. She is still determined to make the journey to Badajoz to see her daughter so we felt it wiser for her to remain indoors on a day such as this.”
Carlos nodded, “Sensible. Gaztelu is everything arranged for my sisters?”
“Everything, my lord. Ma’am may you both have a safe and pleasant journey and a happy reunion with the Princess Maria.”
Carlos invited his sister to sit beside him. Quijada and Gaztelu moved some distance away.
“So, tell me the truth, why are you here?” Carlos curtly demanded of his sister.
“Come, come. I have brought you Juana’s congratulations and a gift. I also came because I wanted to see you. And then I thought too that you might want to wish me a belated happy birthday.”
Carlos grunted something resembling birthday wishes.
“I also came because I was tired of being cooped up indoors with a sickly sister. Mostly, I suppose, I came because of late I have been given to reminiscing – and thinking about my eventful but lonely life.”
“I have told you often enough that royals cannot choose a life for themselves.”
A Matter of Pride Page 19