A Matter of Pride

by Linda Carlino

  Immediate regret at what she had just said consumed her. If only she could take back the words. Why Ithe laid her soul bare? What had possessed her to divulge her innermost thoughts? Carlos was neither her husband nor her confessor. He was, however, the king and must be told even if he was the one with the most influence over the child’s real father. What must he think of her, what would he do now?

  “I can assure you that Quijada is not the father of the child; you must have every faith and trust in him and everything he is doing.”

  “That is what my confessor said. He advised me to set aside all unworthy and unseemly notions, declaring that God would determine the right time for my husband to disclose the child’s identity.”

  “Exactly. And that spiritual advice will be enough?”

  “Oh yes, my lord; and I have begged my husband’s forgiveness for my weakness. I think now on all the good that God has granted me. The boy fills the void I once had in my breast. My days are filled with a joy I would not otherwise have known. I am a most fortunate lady; at last I am a mother. My lord, I am the happiest of women.”

  She hoped she had vindicated herself by being completely frank, would still be seen as the only possible mother for Juan. But she was plagued by doubts, and waited for the king’s verdict. If Juan were to be taken away from them it wouldn’t only be the pain of separation it would mean shame and ignominy for her husband. She, who was always so confident, so self‑assured, had shown herself as a weak and miserable failure. This day, meant to be so wonderful, had gone entirely wrong. She wanted to weep. She waited.

  Carlos reached for her hands, clasping them into his, “The lad is fortunate to have found such a mother, while you and Quijada have the blessing of a son that God could not give you in another manner.”

  Doña Magdalena sighed her relief. She should have remained quiet but instead went on, “But I must admit to something else which may disappoint the father; we have failed in not ensuring that the boy will enter the priesthood. It is a life of soldiering that awaits Juan.”

  Carlos drew her hands closer to his chest, chuckling, “So I have heard, but looking at the lad I cannot believe for one moment his true father would or could have any reservations whatsoever about the way you are raising the boy. And let me tell you there is a lot to be said for soldiering, and if he grows up to be anything near as good as Quijada, he will be one of the best. Now I think I should meet this young Don Juan.”

  Magdalena rose, curtsied and moved aside.

  Quijada clasped Juan by the shoulders giving him some last minute encouragement for what could prove an ordeal, reminding him that he would have to concentrate as he had never concentrated before in order to understand the king. He smiled down at him; this little knight of his was still after all just a little boy, and he wished he could have found some excuse not to bring him, to avoid putting him through this. It was some consolation that Carlos would prefer to listen rather than speak, only too keenly aware of his lispings and slurrings. With a final pat to Juan’s shoulders and a whisper that he would be close by should he need assistance Quijada nudged him forward then went to his wife’s side to watch him, their son, approach Carlos.

  Juan made three deep bows, sweeping his bonnet wide to the side then down to the floor and up across his chest. He then knelt before Carlos who had inspected every inch of him as he approached. He had scrutinised the dark blue velvet jerkin and padded breeches, the dark blue bonnet with its solitary silver brooch, the fine show of linen at his neck and wrists and he silently congratulated Magdalena. He had noted the proud bearing in Juan’s stride, recognising Quijada’s influence, and now with the young man at his feet his thoughts centred on the handsome face with the honest blue eyes, the high forehead, the blond hair curling about his temples.

  “Stand up, let me look at you. Come closer. Good God, what the devil is that, there on your cheek?”

  Doña Magdalena’s hand searched for Quijada’s. Everyone’s gaze centred on Juan.

  Juan stood shamefaced, his fingers moving quickly to hide the wound. He didn’t wish to cause trouble for his parents, but he also knew that he had no option but to tell. Hesitantly he began, “Your majesty, I got myself involved in some trouble in the village.” He swallowed hard then dashed headlong into his explanation wanting to get it over and done with as quickly as possible. “I hate to say it, but the truth is I climbed over a wall into someone’s orchard where I helped myself to an orange, the owner saw me and I fled under a hail of stones. One of them hit me,” his fingers returned to his cheek, to the scar. The stream of words finished, he hung his head.

  Doña Magdalena and Quijada held their breaths. Were all Magdalena’s dreams and aspirations of winning the king’s approval still to be dashed because of their boy’s regrettable lapse? They had known when he first came to them that, along with the other village children, fruit stealing had been one of his sports, that and the catapults to kill small birds. He had been told that such behaviour was unacceptable, and he had never repeated the crimes all the time he was in Villagarcía; yet the other day in Cuacos, it had happened again.

  The whole room was listening, had heard every word.

  Gaztelu, who knew beyond question that the voice always revealed the true soul, nodded his unwavering approval of the boy despite this disclosure.

  The other gentlemen struggled to remain serious remembering their own errant ways when young.

  Madame Male folded her arms tight across her flat chest, not doubting for a moment this child’s good character; she was an excellent judge and had never been wrong. She muttered, “The good behaviour she is still there beneath what is only a little wandering away from that good. Boys they are like this and require only a clip of the ear.”

  However, it all depended on Carlos, whatever his opinion they would all naturally concur.

  Carlos looked at Juan sternly, “And what did you do then?”

  “Sire, I went to the man’s house to apologise. Then I returned home knowing I had to tell my mother. She was mightily angry with me, but not as angry as my father, Don Luis. Sire, believe me, I have promised them both I will never ever do such a thing again, and I really do mean it.”

  “Come here,” Carlos whispered and Juan drew closer to the mouth with the saliva gathering in the corners. “Boys will be boys. I expect your father did the self‑same thing when he was a lad. I certainly did, even if they were my own apples that I climbed over walls to steal. However,” he raised his voice for everyone to hear, “this is not good enough, we never want to hear of such behaviour again, you understand?” He turned to Quijada. “We all know it would be a sorry sort of lad who never got into such a scrape, and I know what kind of rascal he was when he came to you. He tells me he has promised it will never happen again so we shall say no more.” He smiled at Magdalena, “No more worries of that sort for you, my lady. I can see he is a good lad at heart.”

  As expected, everyone was in total agreement and the matter was closed. More importantly Magdalena’s silent prayers had been answered.

  span> Carlos shuffled about in his chair. “Where is Regla, I want him.”

  Regla emerged from the small group of gossiping priests and Carlos sent him off on an urgent errand.

  “Zuñiga, over here quickly; would you believe it, he prefers learning to read using your books. Now then boy, since you read this gentleman’s books in preference to your primer, perhaps you would like to tell him what it is that makes you like them so much.”

  Juan looked at the author of his favourite tales, the retired cavalry man who still had traces of military about him despite his being, well, so old. “Sir, I never in my wildest dreams expected to meet the writer who stirs me so.” Grinning from ear to ear he turned to his parents, “Father, you never mentioned I would actually see …this is unbelievable!”

  “While I never expected to find so young a reader of my works,” Zuñiga drew up his slightly stooping shoulders. “Tell me more.”

  “Oh, sir,
the accounts are so vivid, so real. I get impatient to turn the pages to see what happens next even when I already know. There is so much information that I am able … Sir, I have made my own battle ground for the lifting of the siege at Pavia.”

  Carlos was overjoyed and called out, “Well I never! I want everyone to listen to this. Carry on lad.”

  For a moment Juan couldn’t go on, he was embarrassed, but then remembered his beloved game; no, it was more than any game. “My armies are small blocks of wood, and I have marked out a piece of old linen to show the city, the park, the rivers and the roads. I start with the undercover breaching of the wall and night march into the park, drum sticks clicking to guide and encourage the men, and continue from there following your text word for word.”

  Zuñiga was more than intrigued, “And how do you keep track of your commanders?”

  “Sir, my mother’s sewing basket was the answer. I found all the colours I needed to make tiny banners: red for Lannoy, gold and white for Avalos, white for Bourbon, Vasto blue and gold, black for Alarcón …” he went on, his excitement never allowing for any hesitation. He was a man amongstw toy amongst boys.

  Carlos joined in, “What about your numbers, and which are horse and which foot?”

  “Sire, I learned those by heart: Lannoy, two hundred lances, one

  hundred foot; Bourbon, three hundred lances; Pescara six hundred foot; then Quesada with his arquebuses …”

  Zuñiga shouted his joy, “What a student!”

  Carlos slapped his thighs, “It is as if we were there, by Jove. I tell you Zuñiga he will be as good as you at telling the story. Well I never! But here comes the big test. Do you know Pescara’s speech to his starving, unpaid men?”

  “Sire, I recite it to my men every time we give battle to the French.”

  They all laughed at his youthful enthusiasm, wishing they had been invited just once to join him on his linen battleground, lying stretched out on their fronts, chins cupped in hands awaiting the call to mobilise their ‘men’.

  Zuñiga silenced them then bowed to Juan, “Sir, we are your soldiers awaiting your rallying call.”

  Magdalena smiled at the one—time urchin who had grown into the self‑assured eleven‑year‑old at ease in the company of these illustrious men, speaking knowledgably, yet with deference. She felt her heart might burst with love and pride.

  For Juan this was nothing short of a miracle; before him stood a real army of men instead of the linen sheet with its wooden blocks of make‑believe troops. He placed his feet slightly apart and put his hands on his hips. His blond head was held high, his eyes were afire, “Of all the earth, only that which is beneath your feet can you consider your friend, all else is against us …” and so he continued, not one word omitted from the famous speech, “… there is no bread for tomorrow, except in the French camp over there. Some of us saw what they had wh we went there to spy … such an abundance: bread, wine, meat, fish … In effect, my brothers if we wish to eat tomorrow, then that is where we must go … Is that the way it appears to you? Tell me for I must know your will.”

  “Bravo, bravo,” applauded Carlos. This was immediately taken up by everyone, accompanied by several hurrahs. Juan blushed scarlet and his cheeks burned.

  Carlos beckoned to Male. “We must show him the original battle plan. Let him see how it compares with his linen sheet. Set it out in the other room ready for the lad. In the meantime he should see the tapestries. Quijada, I wonder how much Juan knows of that battle.” He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes relishing again the young lad’s performance.

  Father and son walked over to the magnificent wall hangings made at the Dowager Queen Maria’s request by the very best of artisans in Brussels.

  Quijada put his arm around Juan’s shoulders. “You did remarkably well, Juan. You certainly impressed your troops. Now, these tapestries commemorate the battle of Tunis. You remember our

  talking about it? There you see the fleet under the command of the High Admiral Doria. This part here shows our troops attacking the city, over there the Turk are fleeing into the desert, and those are the thousands of Christian slaves set free by his majesty.”

  “Sir, how splendid to have beaten them so soundly. How I hope to follow in your footsteps one day to fight off the warring hordes of heathen Turk.” Juan pointed at a soldier lying wounded but still clinging to his sword, his horse fallen at his side, “Could that be you? And, over here, this dying man, is that your brother?”

  Quijada smiled down at him, “I doubt that the artist ever considered any particular individuals when designing his work; but it is nevertheless an interesting thought, to be immortalised in such a way.”

  Juan looked a while longer then turned to find the king’s eyes were upon him, “Your majesty I wish more than ever to be grown up so I can join the Spanish army.”

  “And what do you think of my portrait over there?” Carlos beamed with anticipated pride at the boy’s reaction to the Titian painting.

  Juan looked across the room at the enormous painting on the far wall, “Sire, I am sure I recognise it from the story my father told me. This must be the painting to celebrate Mühlberg. May I take a closer look?” “Of course. Chair lads, over here. Take me to Mühlberg.” Carlos chuckled, “My steed has changed to one with four wheels, but my heart is as young as that fellow’s on the charger.”

  Samuel and José pushed the rattling chair across the tiles.

  “So, my young man, what do you see?” Carlos waited impatiently for Juan’s verdict on this painting of him in his prime.

  “Sire, I see you on your black stallion ready to lead your troops into battle, your lance pointing the way. You have crossed the Elbe under cover of fog. The grey mists have lifted and you are face to face with a startled enemy. The Elector of Saxony and his army will soon flee your gallant men. Their losses will be many whereas yours will number no more than fifty. Sire, if only I could have been there; I would have moved Heaven and earth to follow such a fearless commander.”

  Carlos had never felt so well in months. “Aye, you know my battles well enough. Did you all hear what this young man said; moving Heaven and earth to be under my command?”

  José whispered to Samuel once back at their place by the door, “Moving Heaven and earth, and knowing all about his battles! I tell you what; I bet Carlos is not goin’ to allow any talk of Metz. He didn’t do such a good job commandin’ there, did he? Mind you, in this Mühlberg picture he does look a pretty fierce soldier.”

  “Yeah, but Alonso said Metz was completely different, said he was hopeless there. Kept his men hanging around for months in the middle of winter, half of them dying of sickness and starvation; Alonso said they lost thousands and thousands.”

  “He also said it was cos the king had no flaming idea what was going on outside his tent; too busy having tantrums and playing with clocks.”

  Quijada, hearing the name Metz threw a severe, reproving glance in their direction then walked briskly towards them.

  “Did I hear you mention Metz?” He was angry but he kept his voice low to avoid attracting anyone’s attention.

  “God, he heard.” Samuel choked.

  José, rarely at a loss for words, gambled on the ploy that Quijada had obviously misheard. “No sir, we were talking about a dress, Maria’s dress for the noche de San Juan, about how she’d fretted about not getting any of them bright ribbons, the king’s colours what were going to be thrown away, to pretty it up like, and how it didn’t make no difference anyway ’cause the rider from Jarandilla never showed up to take her. We’d been teasin’ her something rotten and now we feels badly.”

  “I am sure I heard you mention Alonso and Metz.”

  “No, sir, we was just saying as how Alonso told us that the rider feller had left Jarandilla; gone home ’cause his father had got sick and died.” José looked as wide‑eyed with innocence as he possibly could.

  Quijada shook his head, swallowing his wrath, deciding to ignore th
e lad’s lies. Those dreadful tales of the Metz disaster were certainly tales best forgotten. “This is not the first time I have caught you gossiping. Fortunately for you I will do nothing more than remind you to hold your tongues, I do not intend to spoil the day for anyone.”

  Carlos called out, radiating delight, “I have never had such a day. Doctor Mathys this young man has given me medicine far better than any of yours. I think I shall be going riding with this young man before too long. But perhaps that is enough for today, best not to overdo things. I am tired.”

  Regla came to his side, “You asked for this, your majesty.”

  “Ah, just so. Come here, young man. I know that you have learned to read and write well using Zuñiga’s books, but that is not good enough. I insist you pay more attention to your Latin. To help you here is a new primer for you.”

  The book had a worn, green velvet cover trimmed with delicate gold embroidery. It was fastened with thinning yellow satin ribbons. Juan set it down on a table to untie the bows then fold back the faded and crushed velvet.

  “That Book of Hours is over fifty years old. It once belonged to my mother, Queen Juana. Her likeness is in the Hours of the Virgin; yes, it shows her kneeling next to her patron saint, San Juan. A devout lady, my mother, very devout,” he shot a guilty glance in Quijada’s direction who nodded his understanding. “You must promise me you will be more determined in your studies, and that you will treasure this book.”

  “Your majesty, how can I thank you enough? This is too great an honour.” Juan knelt before him, “I solemnly swear that I shall apply myself more and I shall keep this book safely by my bedside next to my other special gift; my partly burnt crucifix, my Christ of the Battles. Sire, the Turk had thrown it onto a fire but my father, Don Luis Quijada, rescued it.”

  Tears welled in the king’s eyes, “I remember it well. Quijada, we have a Christian soldier here in our midst. By God, yes! Make sure you bring Juan to see me again very soon.”