A Matter of Pride

by Linda Carlino

  “If they hold sufficient power they can! But I was more than happy once, with Luis. We loved each other so much; and he had such plans for us. Yes, those were five blissful years. The Turk ended it all for me. Brother, if you could have seen my handsome Christian Knight setting out to defeat the infidel; the Cross marching out against the Crescent.” Her voice cracked and wavered as she tried to sing;

  “Oh unfortunate Luis, Luis you darling

  Where are you young king

  So full of life, and so charming.”

  “Humph; sickening sentimentality. At your age it is unbecoming. He had no chance, anyway, the young fool, not a clue about military tactics. His head was too full of romances, tales of valour. Infantile; nave.”

  “Of course he was. He was young, only twenty years old, and inexperienced. His army was pathetically lacking in numbers and experience. But he believed that with God on our side …”

  “Come here, Quijada,” Carlos beckoned, “you remember the battle. Remind Maria of the facts.”

  “No need Quijada,” Maria stopped him, “God knows they are engraved on my heart. We had less than thirty thousand men, while Solyman had ten times as many. What good would any tactics have been facing that horde? My darling husband, the dear, sweet, innocent man, thought that riding out onto the plain following a bishop wearing the habit of a Franciscan friar would be enough to ensure victory. Oh, brother, what a senseless waste of a beautiful life. My husband and most of his men slaughtered. Hungary was lost; the crown gone.”

  Carlos’s harsh voice broke the silence, startling everyone, “You know, of course, that King Francis lied when he said it was my fault that you got no support. I tried. As God is my witness, I tried to get support as soon as I heard the news. It would have been short‑sighted not to. Good Heavens, Christianity was in danger, the damned Turk not so very far from Austria, our family home was under threat.”

  At the time Carlos had only recently married and, in fact, the news of this appalling defeat at the hands of the Turk was received when Carlos and Isabel were on their honeymoon in Granada.

  Carlos continued, “There was no support though. Oh, the nobles said they would fight, provided I paid them. They refused to come up with their own money, complaining they were always emptying their purses for one cause or another. The clergy decided not to help either because they were put out about my disagreements with the pope. God, what a petty minded lot. So there I was, unable to do anything.”

  “But years later when you finally did march against Solyman and sent him packing from Austria, why did you not continue the fight? That would have helped our brother to regain Hungary.”

  “Dear sister, you may have the wisdom of an excellent governor but you do not possess the practical brain of a soldier. As you say we advanced on Vienna and Solyman withdrew. Victory was ours. The kudos was ours. How stupid it would have been to have thrown all that away pursuing a cause that may have brought devastating consequences.” He fought off an uncomfortable twinge of guilt remembering his campaign in France when he had forged ahead ignoring all the danger signals; remembering the dead and the dying he had had to leave behind. “One has to consider these things. Anyway I did leave Ferdinand my Italian recruits.”

  “And a fine lot they turned out to be! They lost no time in deserting.” She paused. “And come to think of it exactly the same thing happened in Tunis. Once again you stopped short of total victory.”

  Carlos sat rigid in his chair, glowering, “What is all this? Have you come here to set yourself up as my superior? You dare to criticize my judgements?”

  “I simply enjoy putting my mind to subjects beyond sewing and embroidery, nothing more. So to continue, you had won the most glorious battle at , but then you …”

  “The tapestries you had made for me are incredible, Maria. Have you seen them in the salon? The galleons; the galleys; the flags of Spain, Italy, Portugal all reaching out impatient for action.”

  “I will not suffer to be put off. Why after Tunis did you not finish the Turk off there and then instead of waiting years to then suffer that dreadful disaster of, where was it? Where was it, Quijada?”

  Quijada, who, along with Gaztelu was thoroughly enjoying Maria’s daring, as bold as any a man, offered the dreaded name; Algiers.

  “I did not finish off the enemy, sister, because I did not need to take the battle further at that time. You do not risk men unnecessarily!” he snapped at her remembering once again the decimation of his troops in France. “And I would like to remind you that it was not the Turk who defeated us at Algiers, it was the weather.”

  “Exactly, it was the ill‑timing of the enterprise. I warned you at the time.”

  “Maria, in Brussels you coped admirably with diplomats, with all the intricacies and intrigues of government, but it is as well that you were never a military commander.”

  “If you say so brother. I did not come to argue. I shall yield to your judgement.”

  Carlos sighed and beamed a benevolent smile on his sister, happy to be released from his conscience, relieved, too, that they would not, after all, be discussing his disastrous North African campay">and the subsequent loss of Menorca. “Well, there we are then! What else do you want to talk about?”

  “I want to praise you for the way you dealt with the rebels in Ghent.”

  “Hear that, you two?” At last he was on safe ground. “Come over here and listen to my sister praise me.”

  IV

  Maria beamed first at Carlos then at Quijada and Gaztelu. “Gentlemen, you will remember full well the uprising after the imposition of additional taxes to pay for our defence against the invading French.”

  Carlos grumbled, “Always were a suspect lot those Ghents, even ready to side with the blasted French given the opportunity.”

  “Brother, please. Well, after the rising was suppressed, Carlos and I were on a dais in the patio at the Prinzhof Palace, and the Ghents came en masse to beg his pardon. Many wore black and were bareheaded. Others had a hangman’s rope round their neck. Some had even crawled all the way on their knees. The place was filled with their chanting of the Misericordia. Then I stood up to intercede for them. I played the part so well. Was I not impressive pleading their case, Carlos? Then you spoke to them.”

  “Not I, you have got that all wrong!” growled Carlos, “I would not waste my breath on them.”

  “Let me finish. I grant you, you spoke to them via your chancellor. They were told they were forgiven, but that if they ever attempted such a thing again you would show such wrath and vengeance.” She turned again to her listeners, “He was so powerful, so magnificent.”

  “I showed them who was master. I had all the houses torn down in the centre of the city and ordered a castle to be built there. I was determined to show them who ruled.”

  “Oh, gentlemen, he was marvellous. An emperor through and through; imperious! How fortunate I am to have such a brother,” Maria looked at her brother, and glowed with pride.

  “And I am fortunate to be blessed with such a sister.” He reached for her hands, “Maria you have always been so level‑headed, shown such wisdom and diplomacy; I would ask a favour of you. Maria, I only ask because of my implicit trust in you and your thinking – I want you to be the regent of Spain.”

  Gaztelu looked at Quijada, shocked. Quijada was more than shocked, he was furious and for the moment speechless.

  “Oh! But I am too old. I am not Spanish. And yet, if you need me? What does my niece say? Does Juana no longer wish to be regent?”

  “My daughter Juana is a damn nuisance! She has been a thorn in my flesh for long enough,” Carlos fumed.

  Quijada had to put an end to this nonsense. “Sire, with respect, let me remind you that these days it is not you but your son that makes appointments.”

  Gaztelu quickly added, “Your majesty, all this reminiscing has caused us all to forget that we are, all of us, supposedly retired from the world of politics. Surely none of us wishes to return?�
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  Maria rose and crossed to Gaztelu to give him a resounding clap on the back. “How right you are Gaztelu. Our heads were turned by triumphs of the past. It was too stupid of me to contemplate such a responsibility. And yes, Quijada, it is for Felipe to decide. But I thank my dear brother for showing such confidence in me. Those are warm thoughts to carry back to Jarandilla. Now, I will bid you farewell. I shall see you soon.”

  She turned to go then stopped. “There now; such heady thoughts made me almost forget. I received a letter the other day from Brussels, from the Governor Marguerite de Parma.”

  “Did she mention her son Alessandro by any chance?” The nervous words were out before Carlos had time to prevent them. He fervently hoped not, he couldn’t face the prospect of another difference of opinion with his sister and this time about his efforts to arrange a marriage between Marguerite’s son and Leonor’s daughter. This had been his latest foray into arranging marriage contracts. Marguerite had not been best pleased, bthat was because she, like so many, couldn’t see the greater picture. One should always try to keep power within the family. He had endeavoured to explain this to this obstinate love child of his, reminding her of how and why she had been chosen governor of the Low Countries. He had repeatedly emphasised that this marriage with Portugal would help maintain and strengthen the family’s power. Of what importance was it that Alessandro was only twelve and Princess Maria of Portugal well into her thirties? Yet Marguerite was stubbornly refusing to allow her son to be pushed into a marriage in which the bride was older than his own mother.

  “No, nothing about her son, but she mentioned a Barbara Kegel’s son.”

  “Barbara Kegel, Barbara Kegel?” Carlos sighed with relief, there was to be no fuss about Alessandro. “Do I know a Barbara Kegel, Quijada?”

  “If I may remind you, sire, many years ago as a favour to the widow Katherine Blomberg, you gave her son a commission in the Imperial Army and then found a husband for her daughter Barbara. She married Jerome Kegel, a commissary in the Imperial Court.”

  At the mention of Barbara Blomberg Gaztelu was moved to take his spectacles out of his pouch. He rubbed the lenses eagerly on his wide black sleeves, preparing himself for some gossip. The dowager’s sport with Carlos had been entertaining to a degree, but this should be better by far.

  Carlos thought a moment or two. “Ah, that Barbara. Yes, the mother had fallen on hard times. The daughter Barbara was a tavern singer, am I right?

  Quijada was completely at a loss as to why Carlos had adopted this line, “I have no recollection of that but I know she did sing most charmingly at your birthday celebrations on one occasion in Ratisbon.”

  “Well, it is of little importance where she was singing,” Carlos snapped. “But what of this son?” He desperately wanted, but was more than a little anxious, to hear Marguerite’s news. He forced himself to sound only vaguely interested.

  “In her letter, Marguerite said she was sure you would remember the family, but if she is mistaken …”

  Gaztelu beseeched both her and Quijada with his pleading bespectacled eyes. Quijada came to his rescue, “Oh, but we do remember the family; I assure you. Your majesty, if you recall this lady, this Barbara, got married and had two sons.”

  “You are right, of course, how stupid of me to forget. Go on, Maria.”

  “There has been an appalling tragedy; the youngest child. Evidently the little fellow was playing in the courtyard, exploring, I suppose, and being overly inquisitive or daring, he clambered up the side of a barrel and tumbled in head first. Poor little chap was drowned. It must be dreadful for the mother. Her heart must be breaking. Life can be so very cruel. Sorry to have been the bearer of bad news. Now I really must go.”

  “Allow me to escort you,” Quijada accompanied the dowager queen from the room.

  My heart goes out to Barbara. How does a parent cope with the death of a child, especially when that child was happy and healthy. Imagine; he was playing merrily outdoors one moment, then dead the next. Think of the pain.

  Quijada returned bringing a hint of cheer with him, “Your sister will have a more pleasant ride home. The rain has cleared and the sun is making every effort to show itself.”

  “Good, good.” Carlos shook his head, “You see how easily, so damned easily, these accidents can happen. I hope that the Kegel fellow can give her the comfort she deserves.”

  “Sadly not, your majesty, he died. He was much older than Barbara.”

  “Her mother dead, her husband dead; dear God, then she has no one! What can we do for her, Quijada? We must think of something.”

  Gaztelu removed his spectacles and squinted at Carlos. Two minutes ago in the presence of Maria the king had pretended not to know his favourite musician, now he was all concern for her. That business of her possibly being a tavern singer might be the very clue. Carlos must not want his sister to know he had been involved with a common woman, someone from the lower classes.

  Quijada was quick to reassure him. “There is no need to upset yourself, sire, I am sure everything will turn out well. The chaperone will probably decide not to retire after all; we both know she loved Barbara as if she were her dearest child.”

  “Of course, Quijada, that is the obvious answer! Good, that is a good point at which to put an end to all my dark thoughts.” Carlos wanted only to think of the good times with Barbara and remain ignorant of any misfortune befalling her. “We will turn our minds to something far less serious, in fact not serious at all; something to brighten our spirits. But first we must have some ham and some beer.”

  Quijada covered his eyes, “Dear Lord!”

  Carlos pouted, “Just this once you win, I shall deny myself; satisfied? Maria mentioned Algiers, and that reminded me of Hernan Cortes, you remember, the one who did all the soldiering in the New World? By God, but he told us some tales about the Indians there. Come here, the pair of you. Sit down, I am about to tell you a story.”

  V

  The companions drew two chairs close to Carlos.

  “Hernan Cortes must surely have been quite old by the time he was in Algiers?” asked Gaztelu, wearily resigned to hearing another far‑fetched soldier’s tale while trying to equate a tavern singer with someone who could afford a chaperone which didn’t make any sense whatsoever.

  “He was only in his late fifties. Just a slip of a lad like me,” quipped Quijada.

  Carlos thumped his hand against his chair, “Be quiet, I want to tell you something. He told us about how the Aztec priests had boy prostitutes dressed up as girls, and how they ravaged them after having gorged themselves on roasted human arms and legs. Think about it.”

  “No thank you,” Gaztelu turned away, he would far rather be preoccupied with the mysterious Barbara.

  “Then there was the tale of some of the Indians bringing him gifts but he knew the men were really spies so he cut their hands off before sending them back to their chief.”

  “Yes, we have heard that one, too, is that not so Gaztelu?” Quijada shook his head, surrendering to the inevitable, yet another of Hernan’s tales of the New World.

  “You have not heard this one. You can blame my sister for reminding me of Algiers and how we sat steaming in our wet clothes in the heat and fug of our tents listening to his stories. You will like this, it is hilarious. Ready? There was this young warrior prince whose tribe was starving; they had suffered a terrible drought. He was sent to a neighbouring tribe that had been clever enough to devise excellent irrigation systems giving bounteous harvests. So there he is in this other land disguised as a seller of chilli peppers. He sat in the market naked as the day he was born,” he began to chuckle.

  “I doubt that he was entirely naked.” Quijada looked up from the ring on his finger, a gift from Magdalena, which he had been idly twisting this way and that. “I find that difficult to believe.”

  “Yes he was, entirely naked, goddamn it! And he was showing all his, you know, his endowments; and by God they were big. A princess cam
e along and took one look at him and was overwhelmed by the size of his, his …”

  “Chillies, my lord?” Quijada chipped in dryly, making Gaztelu snort and splutter in spite of himself.

  “You know very well what overwhelmed her. She was so filled with desire for his, and don’t say chilli, for his … well she became so ill with longing she took to her bed. The doctors could do nothing. She told her father that she must have the chilli seller. They brought him to the palace, but he refused to go to the princess. The king insisted. He was put under guard and forcibly bathed. His body was then painted; they do that sort of thing there. Then he was escorted into her chamber. And would you believe she got better in next to no time. Shows what a good …” he started to laugh then wheezed before a paroxysm of coughing overwhelmed him.

  “Obviously an excellent cure,” Quijada commented bringing him a drink. “Then they got married and lived happily ever after and had lots and lots of little chillies. My goodness what a good story, my lord. After a few beers I expect it had you all roaring and rolling with lahter.”

  “You can be an insufferable killjoy, Quijada. The number of times you spoil everything …” Carlos protested.

  “I never was one for that sort of humour; it is usually either stupid or offensive, but never funny.”

  “Well we are being self‑righteous today Quijada. You are not that bloody perfect, you know! If you are not going to listen properly to my stories, I shall have my ham and beer.”

  Gaztelu rubbed at his forehead. “Did the point of the story get lost among the chillies? What happened to the starving tribe?”

  Carlos glared at him, “Dear God preserve me! I shall have my ham and beer now.”

  We should have left the room before the tone of the conversation was lowered to such depths. The problem is, once a soldier always a soldier.

  December