A Matter of Pride

by Linda Carlino

  “Except ’e was worse, ’e got the women into trouble, if you know what I mean. Here’s a few f’rinstances; remember how he’s often talking about the number of times he was hoppin’ into bed with the French woman in Valladolid when he came to Spain the very first time, when he was but a lad? She was queen somebody or other, his grandfather’s widow. Anyway, seems she had a kid, a girl; and, and, and, this is the best part, when Carlos got married this kid gets brought up by his wife; not as her daughter exactly, but like a proper little princess.”

  “Heard that one; and no one batted an eyelid! Nice for ‘er though ending up living in a royal palace.”

  “And then he had a right old time when he was in Flanders; one woman after another, couldn’t get enough.”

  Samuel’s eyes grew wider, “Is that right?”

  “As God’s me witness! Now I don’t know the exact order but it makes no difference. There was an Italian beauty, but that got covered up pretty nicely, probably ’cause she scarpered off to Italy quick as a wink to get married, and the feller brought the kid up as his own.”

  “So that kid done alright as well. And no one making no fuss nor nothin’ that time neither, amazin’.”

  “You know why? ’Cause both mothers was pretty important. But here’s one that’ll really surprise you. Talk about luck!” José waited as some of the dishes were taken away, eyeing and enjoying the smell of the remaining wreckage of chicken legs and pieces of rabbit strewn in disorder on the salvers.

  José’s information is fairly accurate. The first child, Isabel, born to Queen Germaine, did eventually find herself in the court of the Empress Isabel. Most forbearing and Christian of Isabel to attend to the welfare of her husband’s bastard child.

  The second, a little girl called Tadea, fared almost as well in the home of an Italian count. Her brothers never treated her very kindly, but she survived, unlike her mother, who was poisoned. The Italians have this penchant for poisoning, stabbing or running through with a sword anyone who offends in any way. Yes, Tadea is still alive and well; and in a few years time she will be pestering King Felipe to recognise her as his half‑sister. Naturally he will have none of it. Can you imagine what would happen if he did? He would have everyone writing to him, begging for status and the money that goes with it!

  The doors were closed, Samuel could barely wait, “You were saying, José, about luck?”

  “This other woman he gets into bed with ain’t royal nor nothing like. She’s a lady in waiting to some baroness or other. Strange thing is, it wasn’t a secret; everybody knew. Anyways, this woman has a kid, mind you Carlos is long gone by now, and it’s given to a ordinary family to look after.”

  “Doesn’t sound lucky to me, not after the other two.”

  “The luck is when Carlos hears about this little girl. He insists his aunt, living in a great big palace, takes her in and looks after her. And then, and then, our very own Dowager Queen Maria, when she takes over as governor, also takes over looking after the girl until she gets married – to an Italian prince, no less!”

  “So Maria has had first hand experience of one of the results of Carlos’s you‑know‑what, right there in front of her eyes. But you’re right about the kid; some folk are just damned lucky. I guess if Carlos was the father you always would be.”

  “Not always, Sam. What about the one at that convent in Madrigal?”

  Samuel’s face lit up. “So there’s one in there! You know I said to meself at the time it was a right queer place for us to stop. I mean, all them nuns.”

  “Alonso ’as told me as ’ow the king has a daughter in there, maybes the mother as well. See, she was another of his playthings, one what wasn’t rich, nor noble. So when Carlos knows there’s a kid on the way he brings her back to Spain with him and has her locked away in that convent. Now, there’s luck; bleedin’ bad luck!”

  “I see what you mean; the others get to live like little princesses and this one gets to live like a nun. Talk about picking the marked chickpea out of the hat.” Samuel shook his head and pursed his lips. “Isn’t it bloody amazin’ though, you’ve just mentioned three extra kids belonging to the king and there’s probably more.”

  “Yeah, and how about that one we heard about earlier, the one what drowned in the barrel? That kid might’ve been his an’ all.”

  “And to look at him you wouldn’t think it possible, would yer? Can you just picture him with some lady and saying stuff like, ‘I lu your sarkling eyes, your rose ud outh and ru i lis’, and them just looking at him all puzzled, saying back at him, ‘You what? What the heck you talking about?’”

  José couldn’t resist joining in, “No, the way I sees it he would be straight under their nightshifts and heading direct for the honey pot with his honey stick, and spluttering, ‘No ’ooling around, let’s ’uck.’”

  A snort thundered down Samuel’s nostrils, which he valiantly strove to disguise with a fit of feigned sneezing and coughing, his fist earnestly thumping at his chest.

  We will ignore those last few remarks and turn our thoughts to the convent for a moment, where Carlos briefly halted on his journey here to Yuste.

  José is right, Madrigal does guard one of the king’s secrets. When he was staying with the Conde de Nassau a certain beauty amongst the ladies caught his eye. A child was the result of the liaison, a girl. Because the lady was of relatively lowly birth he decided that no one should know of the affair, so mother and child were brought secretly to Spain and placed in the convent, a home for illegitimate babies with noble connections, under the watchful eye of the Mother Superior, herself a bastard daughter of King Ferdinand. Carlos never replied to any of the letters the Mother Superior wrote telling how, with the passing of every day, the little girl began to look more and more like her beautiful mother; how she was learning to walk on her own, her little reins trailing behind; how all the nuns loved her and her endearing ways; how she herself found her such a comfort in her waning years.

  No, he never replied. Mother and daughter were ignored and forgotten; they had simply ceased to exist. Now both are dead and gone. The little girl passed away when only three years old.

  Why do you suppose Carlos decided to visit the convent after so many years?

  “What a dreadful cough, young man, and it came on so suddenly! You must take more care,” Quijada gave Samuel a stony glare as he closed the door behind himself and Gaztelu.

  “Yes sir,” Sam mumbled, feeling sick at the thought of what Quijada might have heard had he arrived a moment earlier; how narrowly he had escaped losing his job. He must remember to take much more care in future. He dared not look at anything save a crack in one of the floor tiles and he focussed on it, studying it with every ounce of concentration he could muster, following its every direction, to prevent his thoughts straying back to Carlos in his role of lover.

  José simply stood as he had throughout, a picture of sublime innocence.

  II

  Carlos wiped his face and hands on his napkin, turning towards his major‑domo and his secretary, “You have eaten? Good. Time for us all to return to the small salon. Lavatory first. Lads, here.”

  Male went ahead to prepare everything, Carlos followed in his noisy chariot, while Quijada and Gaztelu sauntered behind slowly making their way to the end of the corridor to wait.

  “That fellow Bourbon. Been bothering me since this morning,” shouted Carlos from the other side of the lavatory door. “That affair was a messy business.”

  “Indeed it was, at the very least,” Quijada agreed.

  “And I was damned fortunate to get out of it, would you say?” The reappearing Carlos growled over the grinding din of the chair wheels. “Or, alternatively, I was a supreme master, shaping events to suit my cause.”

  He looked at Quijada seeking a hint of flattery.

  “Decidedly the former, without doubt, you most certainly were lucky, my lord”

  “Bourbon was unpopular.”

  “Turncoats tend to be, added to
which he created additional ill feeling.”

  “Did he, by God?” his gnarled fingers traced along the deep furrows on his brow. “There must have been some misunderstanding somewhere.”

  “And you pretend not to remember?”

  “Tell me instead of being so damned self‑righteous. We are not here to play guessing games,” Carlos spluttered petulantly, “It will all come back to me. I just require a little reminding.”

  Bourbon had royal blood but was exiled from France, and had come to Carlos for support. Carlos feltthis might be his opportunity to gain control of France. He and Bourbon would capture the French throne, Bourbon would marry Leonor, and voila! Well it gradually became obvious to Carlos that it was far more sensible for him to give his sister to the man who already wore the crown and sat on the throne of France rather than to the pretender Bourbon.

  Shall we follow them into the small salon?

  “Where shall we start, my lord?” Quijada resumed once they were all seated.

  “Wherever you think best, it is your blasted story,” grumbled Carlos.

  “In that case I propose we begin with the capture of King Francis. Not long afterwards Bourbon arrived on the scene, his sword still dripping with the blood of Frenchmen, the blood of his own countrymen I might add, demanding to see the king. He was told that Francis was your prisoner and was well on his way to Spain. Bourbon was furious. Now can you remember what happened next?”

  “Of course I can; I sent a ship for Bourbon,” he was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

  “Yes; you actually sent a ship for him! You had the renegade Frenchman rushed to Spain to be at your side, even sending a special ship.”

  Carlos growled, “It was important to keep on friendly terms with Bourbon. A strong tie with a French collaborator was vital.”

  “You say collaborator, there are many who say traitor. When you welcomed him at the gates of Toledo with such a show of affection, it offended some of the noblest and most influential gentlemen in our land.”

  “Dammit! That man Villena,” Carlos fussed at tucking his quilt about his knees remembering only too vividly the message the old marqés had sent him. “That pompous old bugger. What did he know or understand about the larger issues at stake? Not a thing. Far too many people are too narrow minded, cannot see beyond the immediate.”

  Gaztelu felt badly let down; here was more gossip he had somehow missed. He mustn’t allow the moment to escape without discovering more. “What was that all about, then?”

  “When his majesty commanded Villena to accept Bourbon as his guest he sent the messenger back with a blunt reply,” Quijada replied then addressed Carlos. “He said that while he was in no position to refuse you anything, he wanted to assure you that the moment this unwanted guest had left he would burn his palace to the ground; he would rid his home of the pollution of a traitor. He, Villena, was a man of honour and would not have that honour defiled!”

  Gaztelu’s hands reached to adjust his spectacles that weren’t there, “Ah, well, goodness me, so that was the reason. I did hear about the palace burning down. Do you know I had always thought that the fire had been a dreadful accident.”

  “He should consider himself damned lucky he went unpunished for such insolence.”

  “Everyone was furious that you had befriended Bourbon, and worse, that you should have offered your sister in marriage to someone so unworthy; a traitor.”

  “I had given him my word. I would remind you that I am also a man of honour. It was a part of our bargain.” Carlos squirmed at the hollowness of his words. “And I insist I had to keep Bourbon on our side. It was necessary if I wanted a foothold in France.”

  “And yet remarkably that all changed quickly enough, the moment Francis offered himself as husband.” Quijada shook his head tut‑tutting. “You were left wondering how, as a man of honour, as you put it, you could possibly renege on your promise to your friend Bourbon.”

  “Damned good piece of luck! No, more like divine intervention,” Carlos was now smiling; his relief was almost tangible, remembering how fortune had helped extricate him from a most embarrassing situation. “Yes, God always provides.”

  Quijada spoke sharply, “My lord, I protest. But, of course, you are right; you were able to offer Bourbon the Dukedom of Milan.”

  “Yes, with the proviso he gave up all claim to my sister’s hand, that was the all important stipulation. He nearly snatched my hand off when he came to receive the documents. See, Quijada, I remember some things quite well! You have to admit it was a clever move, a very clever move of mine.”

  “Which brings us to the coup de grace; the sacking of Rome.”

  Carlos shifted about in his chair, most unhappy to be reminded of the sordid episode about to unfold. “There can never be any doubt about my innocence when it comes to that affair. It is impossible to implicate me in any way.”

  “Absolutely no doubt whatsoever; it was Bourbon who was to blame, it was he, defying orders, who chose to take Rome. He wanted to add Rome to the so recently received gift of Milan. That would compensate most adequately the position of power and privilege he had lost in France. But it was not to be, Rome turned out to be his nemesis. Had he not been leading his men from the front he would not have been fatally wounded. Unfortunately his men, left leaderless, went on to …”

  “Never mind the rest of the story, no need to go further.” Carlos leaned towards Quijada, hushing him; he would not be reminded of the brutality and bestiality of it all. “If he had followed orders I would have been saved a lot of embarrassment. God, it caused me no end of trouble.”

  “But that is the whole point, my lord. All along you had encouraged Bourbon to consider himself beyond orders. You had formed an unwise alliance with him.”

  “But in the event everything worked out for the best; I was once told that I should not expect God to be at my side forever performing miracles on my behalf. Well, believe me, He has been most of the time, and He certainly was then. At least He understands that everything I do is for the Catholic Faith and the Empire. He knows my conscience is clear. So I was nicely rid of Bourbon. I got through a very difficult period without ever altering my course. I never allowed myself to be influenced by those with doubts or with minds too small to encompass the greater good. I shouldered the criticisms without buckling or bending.”

  “You mean you had the power to ignore anything not to your liking. And you were lucky, circumstances played into your hands.”

  Carlos chided, “Not true, not true.”

  “I never speak less than the truth, my lord.”

  Carlos sighed, “Well then, you must agree, in all honesty, that the whole business was resolved perfectly. And by me! There is nothing I cannot deal with!”

  His eyes closed, his chin dropped to his chest, his mouth fell open and the snores of a man at peace with himself and the world tumbled forth.

  1558

  January

  Dreams and Illusions

  I

  Greetings; and a Happy New Year to you, no doubt this year will bring the same share of joys and sorrows as have other years.

  Ah, here is Quijada returned from Villagarcía, no doubt still cocooned in the warmth of happy memories of Christmas at home with his family.

  Christmas time, a time for celebrating the birth of Christ, a time for special religious devotion; Magdalena would insist on that, being robust in her duties as a good Catholic. I am not implying that Quijada’s faith is not as strong as Magdalena’s, but he often loses patience with men of the cloth (his lack of tolerance being the fruit of many years of experience of the priesthood). It is easy to understand why he has been loath to steer the young Juan towards the church, as was the father’s intention, and taken delight instead in his developing skills with the sword and the lance.

  Quijada dismounted, slapped his horse’s hindquarters, calling to Alonso, “Happy new year to you! See that my saddle bags are taken to my room.”

  He strode across the co
urtyard. There were flurries of snow in the ice‑cold air. He looked briefly to the heavy grey skies wondering if this was the beginning of a bleak winter or, hopefully, nothing more than an isolated storm. He prayed for the latter, Yuste being already dreary enough without the inconvenience of deep snow, drifts, ice covered wells, frozen springs, struggling food caravans fighting their way through blizzards; and worse, further delays to the building of the family home in Cuacos. Memories of his Christmas in Villagarcía stole back to cheer him.

  Regla, the confessor, stepped out from the main door, one hand holding his hood tight at his chin, the other securing his cloak close about him. “Quijada!” he blinked at him through snow flakes determined to close his eyes, “How good it is to see you.”

  “Good to see you too. But why outdoors in this weather?”

  “I needed the fresh air and an opportunity to stretch my legs; far too much sitting, you know,” he answered walking down the ramp his cloak and habit tugging and flapping.

  A sudden blast of cold air with swirling snow sent Quijada’s gloved hand to the broad brim of his hat. “Better to walk in the arcade, it will offer some protection. I hope this comes to nothing.”

  “Probably not, we have had one or two days like this. And how were the festivities at home? I have almost forgotten the ones of my childhood; vague recollections nothing more.”

  “They were wonderful, Regla, all quite wonderful; the crackling logs in the hearth; a table groaning with sweet and savoury delights for the family and all the servants. Then later, the table cleared, everyone together making merry music.” He laughed, “You know I lack talent when it comes to music, both with an instrument and my voice, so I was often relegated to playing the tambour.”