Chattels
I
It was a clear, bright December morning. The November rains had finally ceased and the grey blankets of mist had rolled away, disappearing over the hills. It was, however, much too cold for Carlos to venture out. He had to content himself with a short stroll in Felipe’s room, the room he had planned for his son when the very first drafts were drawn up for this quiet little palace. All other visitors would be offered accommodation in one of the rooms built onto the exterior of the second cloister or given lodging in Cuacos; only Felipe would be allowed this intimacy.
He looked about him; over there was Felipe’s bed with its red velvet covers and curtains, his coat of arms on the canopy. A chair standing by the fire was where his son would sit while his servant helped him pull on his hose and his boots. Not far away was the desk where, no doubt, Felipe would spend interminable hours writing those endless letters of his.
“Right, let us try for the window, José,” he leaned heavily on the young lad’s shoulder as he urged his reluctant legs forward, planting a shaking stick a few tentative inches ahead of each shuffled step. Samuel walked alongside should he be needed. Having negotiated the few feet successfully Carlos tried releasing his hold of José to rest against the wooden frame of the window. “Damn and blast it lads. The old legs are useless. And it is too damned cold, God what a draught. A man could catch a chill. Need to get out of here.”
Carlos was installed in his chair and neatly tucked about with furs in next to no time. “Now that is decidedly better; nothing like creature comforts I say.”
Quijada entered cheerily rubbing away the winter’s cold from his hands, “The news is that they are almost here.”
“Good. The sooner we get it over with, the better. I hope to God they will not be here for long.”
“Sire,” Quijada tut‑tutted. “These are your sisters.”
“They will be in a cantankerous mood, and well you know it.”
“Misunderstandings that can easily be dealt with, and as soon as Leonor is with her daughter, I am convinced …”
“Humph. Just you wait and see. I blame Maria. She will not let things be; forever questioning, putting doubts in her sister’s mind. Leonor on her own would be easy to deal with but with Maria beside her with her constant demands for answers, for explanations; I tell you I smell trouble”
“Here they are, my lord.”
The grinding of wheels over the cobbles in the courtyard below announced the arrival of the king’s visitors.
Samuel craned his neck to look down, “Holy Moses,” he gasped, “take a look at that José.”
Quijada was touched by their amazement, “Not seen a carriage before, lads? My son Juan found it beyond belief the first time he saw one. I tell you his eyes grew as big and as round as the wheels themselves.” He turned his head towards Carlos, “His bewilderment was precious, my lord.”
Samuel pointed excitedly at the huge, lumbering box, “Sir, it’s a house on wheels. I mean, look, it has a roof, a door, and windows.”
“Gawd,” continued José, “what a clever idea. It’s marvellous isn’t it the things what people can think of? I like them windows, all fancy like, with that wooden lattice stuff. Blow me it has curtains as well.”
Quijada stared down at the carriage, remembering that it was the wonder at a carriage so similar to this that had so readily persuaded the seven‑year‑old Juan to allow himself to be lifted up to sit alongside him and opposite a dumpling shaped nurse. Never once did he look back at the little village, his home, and the elderly lady who had had to care for him on her own after her husband died. But then again perhaps he hadn’t realised, didn’t know that he was being lifted up and away from it all never to return.
What a day that had been.
d c
“Look here! See over there,” the excited young Juan called from the other side of the curtains drawn against the dust kicked up by the horses. All that was visible of the child were dirty grey breeches reaching down to his knees, a pair of sturdy tanned legs and filthy feet in badly worn sandals standing tiptoe on the richly carpeted floor.
Tiring of the view or afraid of missing something he scrambled between the knees of Quijada and the nurse’s abundant brown skirts, clambered onto the cushioned bench seat and lifted the curtain on the other side of the carriage. He watched the vineyards and olive groves come and go; his eyes followed goats, whose bells accompanied their dainty skipping and scrambling over stones and rocks. The rumble from the rutted road beneath them changed from time to time to a splashing and clattering over the stones as they passed through fords.
“It just goes on for ever,” Juan emerged once more this time to sit cross‑legged, hugging his sandaled feet, inspecting the cushioned seats, the sil covered interior, the curtains at the windows, the rich carpet. He saw Quijada’s eyes fixed on him and chuckled, “It’s like a make believe house that somebody’s put on wheels.” But now was surely the time for more adventure. “Where is your horse?”
“Travelling behind; hitched to our make believe house on wheels.”
“Let’s ride on it. I’ve never been on a horse.”
“Not today.”
“I could sit in front of you. I’d sit very still.”
“Another day, I promise.”
Disappointed, Juan returned to his window to continue his sightseeing.
The countryside eventually gave way to the streets of Valladolid, the coach wheels now rattling their way over cobbles. The nurse pulled Juan to her side. She straightened his tunic about his shoulders, re‑threaded and tied the lacing at the neck, then with the hem of her skirts rubbed at the shabby sandals, dismayed at the state of his feet.
Horseshoes and iron clad wheels clattered through a gate and across flagstones then came to a halt in the arcaded patio of a convent. Quijada stepped down then turned to lift the boy, but Juan avoided his arms to leap down and scamper to the stone wall of the arcade. He pulled open the front of his breeches and with boyish delight aimed his pee here and there, making a series of dark, glistening rivulets.
Quijada looked Heavenward in full agreement with the nurse as she nervously made several signs of the cross on her anxious chest, hoping that none of the nuns had witnessed such behaviour.
“Now then, young man, a most important lady has asked to see you before I take you to your new home.” Quijada patted him on the shoulder, “All I ask is that you remain still and quiet.”
“What new home? What about Mama Ana? Is she coming?”
“No. That has all changed. But you will be happy in your new home; have no fears about that little fellow. My wife will love you like no oer mother ever could. Believe me everything will turn out perfectly; why, you will even have a little horse of your own!”
“But Mama Ana has to come, she’ll be lonely. That’s why she was crying, because I’m not going back,” tears began to well up. “I want to live with Mama Ana. I want to go home.”
“Ana is too old and too ill. My wife and I will care for you now, and, listen to this, I am sending someone to care for Ana; she will not be alone. So, come now, dry those tears; show me you are a brave little soldier.”
This oddly assorted three; the gentleman in his finery, the old, waddling nurse in her workaday woollens, and the tear‑smudged dishevelled peasant boy, made their way up the steps and along a corridor. They were ushered into a large salon of Princess Juana’s apartments.
Juan’s eyes darted from huge windows to grand tables and chairs, the enormous fireplace, the tapestries, the candelabra, the beautiful woman in a magnificent gown before he was drawn down to kneel beside Quijada.
“Your highness.”
“Welcome Don Luis Quijada.”
Quijada kissed the hand of the Regent Princess Juana. He was then invited to stand.
Princess Juana inspected the child at Quijada’s side, the child who had so aroused her curiosity, the child that had brought Quijada across half of Spain to rescue. Who was he? What was
he? He was nothing but a street urchin, or a peasant child, a little ragamuffin.
“I suspected as much, Don Luis, but my imagination had not gone quite this far. I cannot possibly allow your good lady wife to see him like this. What has he been doing, how did he get into such a state?”
“Anything and everything he has ever wanted to. There has been no control.”
A door opened and a voice boomed, “His Royal Highness Prince Carlos.”
For an instant Juan saw a boy, probably about his own age, start to s the room to bow to the lady who curtsied to him before Quijada already on bended knee pulled Juan down beside him greeting the prince, “Your royal highness.”
When they stood up Juan stared open‑mouthed at this boy’s clothes. He was dressed so strangely, in a doublet with bright red slashes in its sleeves and padded and paned trunk hose that looked for the world like some sort of stuffed fancy cushion with his legs sticking out from the bottom. There was a short cloak over one shoulder, which was definitely higher than the other, and he was wearing a small bonnet with a rather grand feather. And, marvel of marvels, he had a boy‑sized sword.
“Is this the one who is to have some of my old clothes?” squeaked this person called Prince Carlos.
Princess Juana smiled and spoke gently, “Yes, your highness, this is the boy we have spoken of.”
Prince Carlos limped towards him. “So, is Quijada your real father or your pretend father come to look after you? You should consider yourself fortunate either way; fathers are difficult to come by.”
“I don’t know,” Juan answered before throwing in a swift, “your highness”, since everybody seemed to be called that. He looked up at Quijada through a tangle of wayward blond curls, “Are you my father?”
Quijada tousled the boy’s hair, “As of today I am your father.”
Juana turned to a small group of servants hovering in the doorway, “Is everything ready?”
“Yes, your highness.”
“Then follow them good nurse.”
The round nurse, all bosom and hips took a reluctant Juan by the hand to follow a small group of servants to an awaiting much‑needed bath and change of clothes.
“You must tell me why you have gone to such lengths, Don Luis, for a … for a … words fail me.”
Quijada bowed, “In due course, your highness, I am sure all will be revealed; but until that time I am honour bound to say nothing.”
size="2" face="Times New Roman"> “And your wife, is she a party to this secret?”
“No, nor can I travel to Villagarcía to explain the boy’s presence. My squire Galarza will give her my letter of brief explanation and that must suffice. I pray she has faith in me.”
“Amen to that. Let us turn to business; so much time has been lost because of the child.”
Quijada’s return to Flanders was imminent and they had to discuss several problems at home and abroad. Princess Juana handed him despatches for her father, the Emperor Carlos. These contained the Cortes’ decisions on proposed actions to be taken.
And then there he was, the new Juan, standing before them. The transformation was complete and astonishing. Here was another little prince.
“Quijada, when your squire delivers this young man to your home Doña Magdalena will not be disappointed.”
a b
Aye, it had been such a day for all of them.
Samuel’s voice ended his reveries. “And now, look, they’s got some lovely little steps in front of the door, so’s you can get down alright. Oh, it’s their ’ighnesses.”
They watched as the two dowager queens were helped down from the carriage while Gaztelu, his old legs doing their best to speed him, crossed the open space to greet them, and to escort them indoors.
“No time to be standing about lads,” Quijada clapped his hands, “Take his majesty to his private salon.”
“Did you see the size of them great ’orses; and four of them at that?” marvelled José.
“Yeah, well, just them wheels on their own must weigh a hell of a lot, and then there’s the, what did Don Quijada call it, a carriage? I mean that must be ’eavier than at least two farm carts.”
“Probably more. I bet they only use it when the weather’s good.”
“Don’t talk daft, how are they going to know if it’s going to be good or not?” Samuel changed his voice to a whisper, “And I’ll bet it’s a bugger to get out of the mud. I’ve had my fair share of that kind of thing, I can tell you.”
The little cortege of king in his wheelchair, the two lads pushing, and Quijada following behind made its rumbling journey through the apartments to the welcoming fireside of the smaller salon.
Carlos sat apprehensively awaiting the inescapable confrontation with his sisters whose approaching voices were sounding a warning message. Discontent was in the air.
“I told you, Quijada, this is not going to be easy,” Carlos scratched at his temple and scowled.
The king is justifiably concerned. Leonor and Maria ought to be all a‑quiver with anticipation (insofar as older and more mature ladies find themselves a‑quiver at anything) for at last they are on their way to meet Leonor’s daughter. Thirty years have passed since she was abandoned. Call me over‑sensitive, but I find it distinctly disturbing that deserting one’s child should be so readily accepted, almost as a matter of course. It happens all the time with royalty. Carlos, Leonor, Maria and their sister Isabel were all left in Flanders to be raised by their aunt then a few years later their brother Ferdinand was left in Spain. Most recently you heard of the infant Sebastian left in Portugal when his mother Princess Juana came home to be Spain’s regent.
Leonor had to leave her daughter in Portugal when Carlos had her marry the French king. I dare say there will be many who would cite all the political reasons for such decisions but I could never be persuaded; to my mind all these little ones I have just mentioned were abandoned by their parents. Yes, the little princess was deserted by her mother Leonor at a tender age. But that was not all; there was worse to come. Carlos might well feel some discomfort for his part in it. But here come the ladies.
II
Maria and Leonor brought with them a waft of winter air clinging to the folds of their velvets and furs. They were two old ladies dressed in black, two dowager queens, two sisters, and yet so unlike: Maria with determined step, Leonor treading with caution; Maria’s stance at once receptive and challenging, Leonor simply quiescent and accommodating; Maria’s round face with large eyes speaking of wisdom, gravity, intelligence, Leonor gaunt, her pale blue eyes with barely a trace of their former beauty and sparkle; Maria’s mouth always firm but today perhaps more tightly drawn, Leonor’s once inviting laughing rosebud lips now colourless and curved downwards; Maria’s wrinkles drawn on her skin to emphasise she is still a force to be reckoned with, Leonor’s lines the haphazard cracks of an old parchment worn and weary.
Leonor stopped to set down a small wooden box on a nearby table while Maria strode towards her brother and the fire, “I would much rather be on horseback any day, brother; a carriage can be damnably cold. Greetings, I hope we find you well,” she kissed his hand.
“Good day to you brother,” Leonor bobbed a curtsy, then she too kissed his hand.
“But you look a miserable pair of old crows; a fine sight for my niece to set her eyes on. Top to toe in black and if that is not bad enough, those heavy black veils streaming out behind the pair of you; you look like crows descending on carrion or ghosts come to haunt. Would improve matters, you know, if you wore some gold chains, a few jewels here and there.”
Carlos knew from the moment he opened his mouth in criticism he had committed a dreadful mistake. He was inviting retaliation from Maria, but their dreary appearance had aggravated him. It was too late now; the hornet’s nest had been disturbed.
“Brother, I have much of my jewellery carefully packed to take to my daughter,” Leonor turned slightly towards the carved box standing proudly on the table.
pan>“Why would you wish to give away your jewels at this time? Best to hold onto them, I would have thought. Never know when they may come in useful.”
“I shall tell you why she is taking the jewels.” Maria was angry. “She is taking them in order to apologise for former errors committed, to try to soften her daughter’s hardened heart.”
“Sister,” pleaded Leonor raising her handkerchief to her mouth, “do not be so unkind.”
“I am not being unkind. I only try to get you to face reality. Ha! You speak of us as old crows, Carlos? I can tell you that our niece Maria caused quite a few of our feathers to be ruffled when she decided never to set foot in this country until her marriage demands were met. And you, my poor sister, you tragically still hope that a few baubles will set everything to rights.”
“You are being too cruel to me today. I only hope to convince my child that I am not the cause of her hurt. Her pain is a heavy burden on my heart. This gift may offer her a little compensation perhaps.”
Carlos raised his hand to quieten her. “This whole problem has arisen quite simply because your daughter has dared to presume she has some say in any arrangements for her future. Why are the women in my family all alike? Why are none of them able to see anything beyond their own pathetic little heart with its whims and fancies? Why do they continue to be governed by their emotions instead of being ruled by duty and yielding to the greater cause? God, but you test my patience!” He glowered at Leonor. “In the first place your child was in no different a situation than we three, left in Flanders when our parents came to Spain. Did it do us any harm? Has it damaged her, for God’s sake? Good Lord, imagine it; she has been brought up in the wealthiest of royal families and in the care of our sister Catalina, one of the sweetest, dearest, most sensitive ladies on this earth. If your daughter feels she must continue to dwell on where she spent her childhood I would say she should consider herself damned lucky and leave it at that!”
A Matter of Pride Page 21