A Matter of Pride

by Linda Carlino

  It is such a tragedy that Leonor did not accept the invitation to go to live in Portugal. Oh yes, her daughter brought the offer from Queen Catalina. I am sure she could have found some happiness there, and she would be near her beloved daughter. That long‑cherished dream is now completely beyond her grasp.

  Carlos is taking the news very badly. Leonor was always his favourite. He always called her ‘my best sister’. She has certainly always been the most amenable to his every whim.

  When they were children she was a little mother to him. She took him by the hand as he learned to walk, and she was always there to pick him up when he stumbled. They played their childhood games together. In fact she was always there when he needed her, all her life.

  Now we should follow Quijada and Gaztelu to the large salon, where we will find? Ah yes, Male.

  “You have heard the news Male?”

  “Sadly, yes. But, Quijada, these have just arrived.”

  He looked at the seals concerned that one might be from Maria. “Ah, they are all from Valladolid. I expect the regent is sending her thoughts and best wishes, she must surely have heard.” He put the larger package on the table and tore open the seal on the letter. “Great God in His mercy, Calais has fallen. At all costs the king must not hear of this, not yet awhile. He is in no state to cope with more bad news.”

  Gaztelu shrugged his shoulde “I am not in the least surprised at this. It was a disaster just waiting to happen. King Felipe was concerned about Calais, but the stupid English had no intention of heeding his warnings. So there you are.”

  “It was ridiculous to believe that they would accept Spanish advice or learn from wisdom gained from our vast political and military experience. No, their vision is too clouded by suspicion.”

  “Exactly so, Quijada. Felipe warned Mary well over a year ago that the garrison at Calais was left grossly undermanned throughout the winter, and he told her of the rumours of shady deals apparently going on with the French. The problem is Carlos will see this as only the beginning of something far more serious, perhaps a French invasion of the Netherlands.”

  “I think it would be best if the old campaigner Zuñiga came to explain everything to Carlos. What do you say?” Quijada asked of the others. “Then, yes, I shall send for him. He will choose the right words to describe a very sorry situation. He can tell it as an entirely English defeat, which it is, with Felipe as the lone, but ignored, voice of reason, which he is. Provided he portrays Felipe as the astute commander, a man of vision and foresight, it should soften the blow and lessen the king’s fears of attacks against the Netherlands. Yes, it would be best to delay the news until I have informed Zuñiga.”

  He opened more letters. “As I thought Gaztelu; I shall go through these state papers on my own.”

  “If you would be so kind; an excellent idea, for I must write the letter for the king and then prepare for my journey.”

  “God speed you on your way.”

  Male shook his head, “It never rains but it pours, is the common saying I believe. First the king’s sister, and now this debacle in Calais; hopefully bad fortune will stop at these two; I would hate to think of there being a third.”

  “Just so, Male. Now if you will put these state papers in order while I write a brief note to Zuñiga.”

  What was I saying to you about dreams and illusions? It never pays to set much store by them.

  I am sure Quijada is right about inviting Zuñiga. Have no fear; we will be here when he talks to Carlos. I will let you know the moment I hear of his arrival.

  It is time, now, for a quick visit to the servants’ quarters.

  IV

  José had just arrived at the kitchen door when Samuel emerged grinning from ear to ear, “I say, José, our Maria’s puttin’ on some airs and graces these days. You should’ve seen ’er just now.”

  “So, did I miss somethin’ good then?”

  “Nah, not really, it was just the way she was struttin’ about like she owned the bleedin’ place.”

  “She makes you laugh she does, the way she carries on these days.”

  “Bless ’er, she must think one of them rider chaps is going to fall for her and whisk ’er off on his charger to a place where she’ll live happily ever after.”

  “With servants doin’ the work while she sits about, doin’ nowt.”

  “And her dressed in somebody’s hand‑me‑downs.”

  They laughed at the images they had created.

  “Never mind, we’ll leave her be with her silly ideas, except when we gets the chance to make fun of her. Anyway, let’s get back, we might be missing something. Heck, there’s one of them drafts again, right down me back.” Samuel looked down the corridor.

  My fault again. But it is no more than a slight inconvenience. Some feel it more than others.

  This, then, is the kitchen, and here is our Maria.

  “I can just picture it, there’s a farm not far from here exactly like that.” Maria was standing between the huge open hearth with its cheery fire, the flames licking the blackened pots of bubbling soups and stews, and the end of a long trestle table.

  The riders sat tearing off chunks of bread to accompany the steaming salt‑cod soup they were hungrily spooning up into their mouths.

  “So, what’s your name, young miss?” said one blowing on a large spoonful of hot greasy soup with its chunk of fish.

  “Maria, sir.”

  “A pretty name for a pretty lass,” commented the one who had been talking of his home. He pushed his bowl to one side and leaned forward, elbows on the table. “And are you from a farm, too, Maria?”

  “Um, yes; but not as grand as yours,” she couldn’t, wouldn’t say more. He had spoken of a gentleman’s farm, where labourers did most of the work, a farm with a high wall set all around it, a farm with all kinds of buildings for animals and implements. It actually belonged freehold to his family! And it would be his one day! In the meantime it was an honour for the family to have him in the service of Oropesa.

  Madame Male, returning from the dairy bearing an enormous cheese, rescued her from having to reveal or lie about her humble family and their hovel where everyone, including the animals, shared the one room; saved her from having to disclose or deny anything about her former life from which she had been so fortunate to escape.

  “Maria, see to it that the gentlemen they are having enough of the food and the drink. You are not here for to make the gossip.”

  The men pulled faces behind Madame Male’s back and Maria almost laughed, “Yes ma’am. What can I get you, sirs?”

  “More soup, please, and some of that cheese.”

  “Water for me.”

  Maria attended to their every wish. She impressed herself with her much‑practised new style of walking with shorter steps, her way of keeping a discreet distance from the men’s bodies as she placed food and drink before them. Her dress was neat and tidy, even if old, and her freshly laundered apron positively gleamed its whiteness; its status! Yes, she felt justly proud and stood tall.

  She had just finished serving them when one of them announced, “I tell you what, Maria; I think I shall come to Cuacos for the noche de San Juan. I would like you to be my partner.”

  Madame Male’s eyebrows shot up and disappeared under the brim of her cap, “Young lady persons should not be doing this dancing late on a summer night. It makes to sinning and babies left upon the steps of church. This is my belief.”

  Knowing smiles, winks and nudges passed amongst the men.

  “Miguel at your service, ma’am, I can assure you there is no harm in it whatsoever. I will have the lady home before midnight. You have my word of honour,” said Miguel this time winking at Maria, both of them knowing full well that the fun didn’t begin until midnight.

  This was too good to be true. Maria was overjoyed, could barely contain herself, “Oh, thank you sir.”

  Her heart raced at the prospect. She would be going on the arm of this handsome man with su
ch beautiful unscarred hands; a man who might, one day, just like his friend sat across from him, inherit a farm! Everyone in Cuacos would be gawping, unable to believe their eyes that she, the Maria they’d grown up with, had got herself a proper farmer, a man of property. Oh, she would show them, right enough, that she was going places.

  And Alonso, yes, Alonso; she must tell Alonso; and ld be jealous, or angry, or pretend he didn’t care. Perhaps, after all, she wouldn’t tell him, perhaps it would be best to say nothing, at least for a little while. She would savour her precious secret until she was good and ready to make the most of it.

  But, dear Lord, what was she going to wear? That was going to be a bit of a worry over the next few months.

  February

  Pride or Prejudices

  I

  Zuñiga wafted a sheaf of papers before running his hand over his balding head, “How did his majesty react to this Calais business?”

  Male, sitting some distance away, set down his quill, “Badly, very badly, indeed.” He adjusted his broad red sash of the Companion of the Bedchamber then leaned back, resting his elbows on the chair arms. He studied the knuckles of his interlocked fingers. “Do you know, since the beginning of the year everything has gone from bad to worse. The king has had the worst attack of gout I have ever witnessed, then the infection in his mouth started, the haemorrhoids became inflamed and swollen, then the arthritis in his neck and the joints in his arms and legs flared up, the ulcers on his legs are weeping, then there’s his migraines, his vomiting …”

  “Good God, man; are you going to recite the whole of a doctors’ manual? You’ll excuse me the details of the pills, potions, and ointments I hope.”

  “Forgive me. Added to all this he was tormented for weeks by doubts about the outcome of Leonor’s reunion with her daughter.” He sighed, “As most of us feared it was a complete disaster; the daughter never had any intention of leaving Portugal and Leonor could not bear to leave Spain. Next came the news thatonor was ill, seriously ill, and you know how deep his feelings run for her. And now we have this Calais blow.”

  “Fortunately this blow can only be to his pride, nothing more.” Zuñiga moved towards the fire stretching his hands to its welcoming warmth. “We have nothing to fear from the French. They are merely flexing their muscles after their humiliating defeats in France and Italy.” He turned to face Male, taking the opportunity to raise his short gown enough to warm his comfortably wide and round backside in front of the flames. “The king would not be so affected if his son were not married to the English queen. What is Calais to us after all?”

  “Aye, you are probably right, but I cannot stop thinking how different it would all have been, in many ways, if Felipe had married his Portuguese cousin. Leonor would not now be estranged from her daughter and this French disaster, which I am sure Spain will be blamed for, might not have come to pass, not yet awhile at least.”

  “If only we could rewrite history, eh? But, no good can be gained in crying over what is past and done, Male. Let us see if I can persuade Carlos to take a more dispassionate, more objective, view of the events.”

  “Amen to that. If you will bear with me for one moment while I finish this, we shall go to the king.”

  Carlos had cherished such grand designs. He wanted England for his son, hoping to see even more power in the hands of the Hapsburgs. Felipe, sadly, was only too eager to fall in with his father’s plans. Carlos’s desires unfortunately blinded him to the unthinkable; failure.

  Let us go on ahead of the others. The king is still not well enough to leave his bedchamber, a very sorry state of affairs. At least he has Quijada for company to help him through these black days.

  II

  Carlos nodded at the letter in Quijada’s hands, “So how is Barbara doing?” He sat uncomfortably hunched in a well‑cushioned chair a small book of hours, looking ridiculously small, smothered by his swollen misshapen fingers.

  Ah, you remember the tale of the little boy drowning in the barrel and Quijada saying that the chaperone would not retire but would certainly remain with Barbara to comfort her? Well, in fact, Carlos thought that that was not enough, that more should be done for Barbara; leaving all the details, naturally, to Quijada.

  “Barbara is quite well, my lord,” Quijada answered scanning Barbara’s letter.

  Regla looked up from his Psalter to listen.

  “And her new home; is it to her liking?”

  “It is indeed, sire, and she is seemingly overwhelmed with gratitude that you should be so sensitive. She says the move has helped her overcome her distress caused by the loss of her son; to have remained in the same house would have been a constant intolerable reminder.”

  Regla’s eyes returned to the page of his Psalter but without seeing a single word, unable to concentrate, curious as to why the king had more concern for the suffering of this Barbara person than for his ailing sister who might well be in mortal danger; and more than a little perplexed by the omission of her name from every prayer or confession of Carlos.

  “Is it a goodly size?” Carlos asked.

  Regla raised his head and Carlos turned from him as if to deprive the priest of his innermost thoughts.

  “Larger than the last; and she has a steward, housekeeper, chaplain, two pages, six ladies and four other servants.”

  “Good, good. Is that the same as before?”

  “No, her household has been increased as you suggested.”

  “Ah, yes, of course. She deserves it.” He opened his book awkwardly turning over the calendar pages and giving only fleeting glances at the pastoral scenes, the red letter days; his mind wandering, his thoughts drifting … “Aye …”

  Barbara deserved every ducado he could afford and more, if only for that one evening, that extra special evening. He closed his eyes remembering that whisper.

  d c

  “I came when you called,” Barbara’s whisper floated towards him through the intimate darkness. A solitary flickering candle with its swaying pool of light guided her to his bed. Carlos was lying, as he had been lying for hours, feeling sorry for himself, complaining bitterly about aches and pains that refused to go away.

  The bedcovers were raised and she slipped her naked body between the sheets, leaned over to kiss him, and lay down beside him, an arm resting across his chest. Her lips, as they brushed his cheeks and mouth, and the silk‑like skin of her arm had begun their magic. His hand caressed and traced its way from her shoulder down to her hand and her beautiful slender fingers.

  “What will you sing for me tonight, my darling nightingale?”

  “I thought that you should have two songs. The first is How much more must I suffer.”

  Carlos laughed away his discomfort, “Good Lord, a song about arthritis and migraines; musical medicine indeed!”

  “Silly, don’t tease; you know full well it speaks of the pain a mistress would suffer if she were not allowed to be with her lover when she loves him so much. It tells of my pain if I could no longer see you.”

  “There can be no danger of that happening, dear heart. Sing for me.”

  And she began; it wthe voice of an angel filling his heart with love, compassion, yearning, fondness, and tenderness that was almost unbearable.

  “How much more pain can there be

  When you refuse even my sighs,

  Though you forever deny me

  You will remain my one desire …”

  The song was ended. There was no time for a second one. He reached for her, finding her young breasts, her belly, seeking further, lower, between her thighs. She raised his nightshift, whispering, “My Carlos is stirred by my song of love.”

  He heaved himself onto her. She helped him, holding him gently. They moved as one, slowly, carefully. With a howl of passion he flooded into her.

  “My dearest and sweetest Barbara; that was the best song you ever brought to my bed.”

  a b

  Carlos sighed into his beard, “That was the best song
… Aye, dear me.” He rubbed his eyes and looked about him blinking away his reverie.

  Quijada asked, “You spoke, my lord; something about ‘Aye dear me’?”

  “Only remembering some wonderful moments, and God knows I need any I can lay my hands on these days. It was too bad that Barbara’s visits had to be kept secret.”

  Regla, who had finally got back to his reading, looked up again, by now more intrigued than ever as to why he had never heard of this woman before in any of the king’s confessions.

  Quijada shrugged. “It was your decision not to allow anyone to know of your lady musician.”

  “What else was to be done? Good God, she was a nobody. One should never stray beyond rank and position, you know, and she lacked both. No, it was never done before so far as I know; unacceptable, quite unacceptable. So her presence had to be kept quiet, even if she was nothing more than my musician. A certain distance has to be maintained; think of the gossip. Can you imagine the sport that could be made of her family?”

  “There was no shame to her father being a belt maker.”

  “If that was what her father truly was. We never did know, did we? Do you remember how every time she and her mother came to court they were in borrowed clothes? Not one decent dress between them! If they borrowed clothes they probably borrowed identities as well. And neither of them had money until I opened my purse.”

  “And, by God, it has been open ever since,” the words had been there, ready, on the tip of Quijada’s tongue, “as if you were pouring its contents into the river and watching it flow away and out to sea.”