“Ah, yes. I learned to play the lute alongside my young master; happy days.”
“And the festivities here? Dare I hope there has not been any overindulgence on someone’s part?”
Regla’s face was inscrutable, “You have reminded me that I must return to the king, it must be time for prayers.”
“Your silence speaks volumes, Regla,” Quijada shook his head. He continued on his way to his room next to the new cloister, climbing the stairs from the arcade to the gallery, leaving most of the winter outside, special moments spent with his family still accompanying him, holding at bay the problems that he would be facing soon enough.
d c
Magdalena had been persuaded to join them in the courtyard of their castle in Villagarcía to watch the young Juan practising his tilting. And he was every inch a proud little knight as he rode his pony with such purpose across the heavily sanded flagstones towards the board, his lance at the ready, striking the target every time and never once losing his balance or becoming unseated.
Magdalena applauded and smiled up into Quijada’s eyes, “Now do you see why I decided he should be called Juan? In all honesty, could you imagine anyone called Jerome being so brave?”
Quijada was immensely proud. He congratulated his squire Galarza on his success with the young Juan.
“My lord, the boy is a quick learner,” he replied, “he always does as he is told and takes it all very seriously; two great advantages for any tutor.”
Back indoors how overjoyed Juan had been when he removed the linen cover wrapping to the gift from his father. It was a sword, his very own sword, and every bit as good as the one he remembered belonging to Prince Carlos. It was a fine Toledo sword with hilt and scabbard exquisitely damascened.
It was not Quijada’s nature to be indulgent, except to his superiors, but the boy was deserving. Juan had worked hard, had changed remarkably from that rascal who had arrived here a few years since; he was now a little gentleman. Quijada and Magdalena had discussed the progress he had made and she had agreed to the gift. Had she not, then there would have been no sword.
And Juan’s behaviour had been exemplary when helping Magdalena with her Christmas works of charity, patiently accompanying her to every home in the village where she gave a silver medio real to each and every one, from youngest to oldest, in every household; listened attentively to her words of comfort to them, no doubt conscious of her earlier instructions: to always follow her example for as long as he lived, to always remember those less fortunate, those who lived in want.
a b
“Yes, I have a perfect little family,” Quijada announced to the oak‑beamed ceiling of the gallery. “I have been blessed. If only I could have them here soon, instead of only dreaming of that day. The work is going too damnably slow!”
He removed his gloves slapping them impatiently one against the other.
In his room a servant had prepared a fire. He took Quijada’s gloves, hat, and cloak then pulled off his boots.
Quijada turned his chair to face the merry flames to toast his cold toes before slipping on his shoes and making his way to the king’s apartments to catch up on events.
The king is quite ill and in very poor humour. It comes as no surprise for recently his gluttony has discovered new frontiers: Christmas, New Year, Epiphany and San Blas presenting the excuses for his excesses. If only he had accepted the priests’ invitations to join them at their table. However, their miserable fare offended him; it was no way to celebrate, certainly not his way!
Doctor Mathys is most concerned, this is the worst attack of gout he has ever witnessed, and he is frustrated beyond all patience at the king’s refusal to heed his warnings.
However, instead of accompanying Quijada, I want us to go directly to the courtyard. If we hurry we should have just about enough time to get there.
II
Four horses appeared suddenly, as if from nowhere, thundering furiously across the cobbles, powdery snow scattering from beneath their hooves. The riders’ cloaks, bearing the arms of the Duque de Oropesa, billowed at their backs.
Reins were pulled taut, the horses stopping to wheel and slither and throw back their heads, nostrils flared and snorting, spume lathering their mouths and necks. They stamped and shuffled, their sweating and bloodstained flanks steaming.
Alonso ran from the stables followed quickly by others. “Now then my beauty. Whoa. Whoa, there,” he grabbed at a halter then patted and comforted the horse’s hot, wet neck, its veins standing proud, glistening. “You still wanting to race? Steady, steady.”
One of the riders leapt down, calling to Alonso over his shoulder as he hurried across to the ramp, his bloodied spurs ringing out an urgency, “You; see to it that my horse is cooled down and dried properly. Get that saddle off quick. See she’s put in a comfortable stable. Attend to any wounds …”
“You bloody‑well do your job, mate, and I’ll do mine,” Alonso hissed under his breath, and he spat, the defiant glob disappearing into the nearest of the small scattered islands of snow. “I’ve had plenty of experience, I have. I’ve been at Mühlberg, mate, and Metz, and looked after ’orses in worse states than this. Don’t you try teaching your grandma how to suck eggs! You know, people like you just think you’re God Almighty; your masters ’ave more civil tongues in their heads. It’s just ’cause you have fancy bleedin’ cloaks.”
He began to unbuckle the harness, furious, so many thoughts racing, tormenting: how he had had to listen to Maria go on and on about these blokes after every damned visit and it was all about nothing, she’d never even spoken to them nor them to her, or so she said; or how she wouldn’t shut up, making him feel a right nobody, and he’d been the one to get her the job – the ungrateful bitch. And another thing, it was for the feller to ditch the woman, not the other way around. Nor was it helping his temper any being told what to do by a would‑be rival. Anyway she’d get her comeuppance, see if she didn’t.
He decided that only horses could be relied on. “We’ll soon have you all comfy, like. Steady there, you be patient with Alonso now, he knows what’s best.” He took a blanket from his young helper. He patted the horse again, clicked his tongue and picked up the reins, “Let’s go for a nice walk then, shall we? Then a nice rub down. Your friend’s here to look after you.”
“Hey, I say,” Manuel came alongside him leading a second horse, “somethin’ deadly serious must be up for this lot to be riding post.”
“I bet they’ve come from that place where they took the two old ladies, wherever it was.”
“I can’t remember neither. What you reckon then, good news or bad news Alonso?”
“Don’t know, but listen to this,” he dragged himself free of his ill humour, “if we plays our cards right, we can get a couple of free days out of this. I mean, someone has to take these horses back. Bet yer!”
“Great. Fingers crossed then.”
The riders cannot possibly be the bearers of good tidings. We should follow them.
The four men stepped indoors to be met by Quijada, the servant girl Maria, and a wall of heat.
Maria rising from her curtsey was overwhelmed, her gaze one of complete wonderment: thigh boots, then breeches, jerkins (with those oh so glorious coats of arms high on the left breast) were revealed as cloaks were hurriedly discarded. The un‑gloved hands were strong, manly, and without the scars and sores carried by all the men she knew. Finally, when riding hats were removed and scarves unwound, she marvelled that she should have the fortune to be in such close proximity to not one, not two, not three, but four handsome faces, here, together, at the same time. She closed her eyes; and the image was sealed and set forever.
“Sir, we bring a letter for his majesty from the Dowager Queen Maria. We were commanded to deliver it post‑haste and to return with his majesty’s instructions.”
“Give it here, my man, I shall attend to it,” Quijada took the folded paper. “Maria, have somebody see to their clothes, while you take
these gentlemen to your mistress. Tell her that nothing but the best is acceptable for them.”
When she didn’t move he spoke more sharply than he intended, but he was already seething over what he had just been told about the king’s infirmities, and now this more than likely unwelcome news had arrived to make matters even worse. “Maria, did you hear my orders?”
“Oh, yes sir. I beg your pardon, sir. This way, if you please,” and she led the way her mind a tumult of blissful thoughts of a betrothal with one, any one, of them. No more for her the vulgar romping in the hay with a lowly stable lad. She had already improved her looks, her posture; there was every chance.
Her idle dreams will bring her no harm. For a while she can indulge herself and in days to come she will have the memories to cherish. So often I have seen folk either enfold themselves in dreams to escape from their unhappiness or rely so heavily on fanciful illusions that they are led by them headlong into despair. However, Maria will survive.
III
In the large salon Gaztelu, spectacles precariously perched on the tip of his nose, was writing, he and his pen industriously working on yet another document. Neat, perfectly formed letters followed one after the other in groups of varying length and all arranged in the straightest of lines, organised like soldiers on parade.
“Gaztelu, good to see you again; I hope I am not interrupting, but this has just arrived, and must be attended to immediately,” Quijada crossed the room tearing at the seal, already convinced of the contents. “Dear God, what next?”
“Ah, good friend, welcome back. As usual you have been sorely missed,” Gaztelu lay down his pen and pushed his spectacles back onto the bridge of his nose. “Something to add to our present woes?” He quickly scanned the letter, “But this is a sorry business. I knew all along no good would come of it. This illness sounds serious; not at all what he needs to hear right now.”
“I tell you Gaztelu, I am furious. Every time I go away from this infernal place the king is allowed to do what he pleases; and then, of course, he suffers the consequences. And now this. We are going to have to sound as positive as we can about the news. Shall we go? If only it could have happened at some other time. And I do so hate seeing him looking such an ancient wreck of a man. It is disheartening to see him so determined to destroy himself. How bad is it this time?” Quijada ushered his friend before him, out of the room and down the corridor towards the king’s bedchamber.
“Bad, my friend, very bad. You will be shocked.”
The festivities of the Twelve Days of Christmas followed by the feast of San Blas had indeed taken their toll on Carlos. He sat uncomfortably on a newly designed chair, its seat drilled with holes in several places so that a sponge soaked with boiled potions could drain into a bowl underneath. It was thought that the medication would be more effective if applied directly to his piles. The king nonetheless still had to suffer the indignity of having his nightshift raised up around his waist. Once again his arms and legs were enveloped in layers of bandages reeking of vinegar.
He looked up as the two men entered, his face drawn and heavily lined with pain, his eyes tired and red. He started to raise an arm in greeting but then grunted something at the chaireloped s. He was lifted, carried to his rumbling little chariot and trundled to his lavatory.
“Quickly before his majesty returns,” Doctor Mathys almost ran to Quijada’s side. “Thank God you are here. You left your family well, I hope. Please, do speak severely to the king. Yes, I beg you to admonish him. This is no way for him to behave; he is killing himself by continually ignoring my warnings. This is now his second attack this winter. If only he had sat at the priests’ table, as the prior requested, all this pain and misery would have been avoided.”
“The king refused?”
“No, but within minutes he left abruptly to go to his own dining table where, according to him, he could enjoy some decent food and drink. Promise me you will say something.”
The room filled with groans of exertion issuing from the lavatory followed by howls of pain as haemorrhoids were left torn and bleeding.
“You see, something must be done,” the doctor pleaded.
“Quite so, quite so, but not today, I cannot discuss the follies of his indulgence when I am to tell him of the grave illness of his sister Leonor.”
“God have mercy.”
Carlos was returned to the room and laid gently on his bed. The curtains were drawn around as the apothecary cleaned his wounds and applied a soothing ointment of celandine before wrapping the area in a large napkin. A fresh nightshift was slipped over his head then he was sat up to lean amongst his generous pillows, ready to meet his friends.
“Th – th – schl – th …”
“What the devil?” Quijada demanded of the doctor.
“His majesty’s mouth is horribly inflamed, his tongue is very swollen, his gums are bleeding …”
“Dear Lord, what a mess. If only I could have been here to prevent at least some of this. However, doctor, it means you are now at last able to control his majesty’s diet so we should soon see some signs of improvement. We will discuss all this later.” He clapped his hands, “You may all leave us now. Regla, please stay.”p>
Carlos looked questioningly at him but Quijada waited until the others were gone.
“Sire, you have done yourself great mischief. Hopefully this attack has been severe enough to have taught you the folly of your ways.” He hesitated, “Would that I could wait until you were in better health to receive this news; however this letter has arrived from your sister Maria.”
Quijada paused again, uncertain how to begin. “Now, although it may sound serious Gaztelu and I are of a mind that it sounds so because of Queen Maria’s sadness at the outcome of events.”
Carlos grunted his impatience to hear the news then made as if to grasp the piece of paper, but Quijada moved it out of reach.
“Allow me to read you the relevant parts. They will suffice.
The meeting with Leonor’s daughter was a complete failure, save for the longed‑for embrace. Despite all Leonor’s pleas, promises, and of course the jewels, my niece announced her decision to return immediately to Portugal. We should have realised that a rich Portuguese princess would never wish to surrender her wealth and position to become a spinster companion to her ageing mother. Leonor has been left distraught. She hoped that if she were to go on pilgrimage to Guadalupe, she would find support from Our Lady. However we had not travelled far when she became ill.”
Carlos cried out his panic, his eyes searched Quijada’s face seeking reassurance that the illness would definitely be of a temporary nature remembering Leonor’s last words threatening never to forgive him, never to speak to him again should her daughter not come to live with her. He was wretchedly uncomfortable with the idea of that particular finger of guilt pointing in his direction.
“My lord, it is as I said. So many heady expectations followed by such a dashing of all those hopes. I know I am no doctor, but I am convinced that highly charged emotions are the cause of Queen Leonor’s illness. To continue with the letter,
Her fever started a few days ago, but sadly her cheery spirit and fortitude that have helped her bear so much over the years have deserted her. She has also had an asthma attach.
My lord this next part is important and we should focus on this.
Brother, if you could send her some words of encouragement I am sure they would be enough to rally her strength during these difficult days.
Indeed, my lord, encouragement on your part, patience on theirs; and in a day or so when the fevers have run their course …?”
Carlos wept, he sobbed. He pointed at his confessor then put his hands together as if in prayer.
Regla bowed, “I shall order the priests to say prayers for Queen Leonor’s speedy recovery. The prayers will be said hourly, both day and night,” and he strode off to attend to his mission.
Gaztelu bent towards the king, “Your majesty, I propose that I w
rite a letter to your sister Leonor, telling her of your love and prayers. Perhaps an invitation for your two sisters to stay here while Leonor recuperates? I can say that their rooms are already being prepared.” He paused for a moment. “Perhaps it would mean even more to her if I were to deliver the letter myself as your most special representative. It would emphasise your love for her, give her more heart? It would be an honour for me to serve you both in this way.”
Carlos looked up at him, his bandaged arms slowly, painfully, reaching out towards him, tears of gratitude welling up and streaming down his face.
“My lord you can rest assured that we, your servants and friends, will do everything in our power to help. I cannot ride post, but I will go as swift as God allows.”
Quijada put his hand on his shoulder, “You are most charitable, dear friend. I will ensure that Oropesa’s men do everything to make your journey trouble free. Lads, here, you have errands to run. Be quick for I want you back immediately. You, Samuel, find the riders and tell them they will not be needed for some time. Tell them they must rest. You may also inform them they will not be riding post, but instead will be escorting his majesty’s secretary. José, go to the stables and tell them to have the five best horses to be ready for saddling up.”
Samuel and José ran down the corridor, José proudly congratulating himself, “What’d I tell you, Sam? I knew there wasn’t a cat in Hell’s chance of that princess coming to live with ’er mother. Was I right, or was I right, eh?” He punched l on the shoulder.
“Yeh, but what a bleedin’ shame that it’s making the poor old lady all sick, like. Makes you kind of sorry for her, doesn’t it? I hope as how she gets better, she’s ’ad some rum deals. Sorry Father,” he apologised, almost colliding with Regla who was rushing back to comfort Carlos.
A Matter of Pride Page 24