A Matter of Pride

by Linda Carlino

  Margaret’s refusal to allow her son to marry Leonor’s daughter had infuriated Carlos, and he had no desire to be reminded of the rebuff. “She never learned to have respect; for her husbands and more importantly for me, her father. It is all very well you criticising, but where would she be if it were not for me?”

  “In the first place she would not exist; but having sired the child you felt it incumbent upon you to give the daughter of a respected Netherlands lady a home that befitted her station.”

  “And I recognised her as my child.”

  “Because your aunt gave you no peace until you rid the girl of the stigma of being a bastard. It was a young lady she was going to raise in her home, not some …”

  “Get me some beer, Quijada.”

  Quijada laughed, “I always know when you realise you are about to lose an argument, my lord, you always request beer.”

  The Margaret they are referring to is a love child. She was the result of a short affair Carlos had in Flanders with a lady‑in‑waiting, one of the Van der Gheenst family.

  Maria will not be going to the Netherlands as governor. No, sadly she will soon be joining her sister Leonor in Heavenly repose, God rest their souls. So the task will indeed remain with Margaret, and she will find herself thrust into the boiling cauldron of religious discontent and nationalism under which Carlos and Felipe, as you have just witnessed, are at this very moment stoking the fires and fanning the flames.

  Carlos wiped his mouth, belched loudly and settled back in his chair. “Aye, I am a fortunate man.”

  “Fortunate in possessing the gift of moving from one topic of conversation to another with the ease and grace of a knife sliding over butter?”

  “Quijada, one of these days, so help me I … No, I was thinking of Barbara. By God, such a girl. No idea why she came into my mind.”

  “Perhaps because she is another member of the fairer sex not prepared to be dominated by us when the only justification for our authority is that we are men?”

  “I shall pretend not to have heard that. I was put in mind of that time in Brussels when she came striding into my bedchamber as though the place belonged to her. She was furious because someone had dared to try to keep her out. A few blasts from her and the room emptied, everyone scurrying like curs with their tails between their legs.”

  “Or falling like corn beneath her scythe of invective?”

  “True, she was not one to mince words, would have made a good trooper. She let them know without any shadow of doubt that she was my doctor and nurse and that no one else was to set foot in the room until she said so, or else. And, by God, her remedies were better than any prescribed by those damned quacks.”

  “Which remedies would they be?”

  “What are you insinuating, you old devil! I mean the vinegar and rose water bandages, and then her special oils. And what a difference it makes when they are gently and lovingly smoothed onto the skin by a woman with her body so devastatingly close.” He smiled, “That is the only time I ever had a doctor slide into bed with me.”

  “And you swathed in your bandages, my lord?”

  “Swathed in bandages, but we managed. That kind of medicine works every time, I can tell you.”

  “So my insinuation was justified, as I knew it would be.”

  “But all good things have their end. Not long after that Barbara became pregnant and she had to go.”

  “Naturally, that is the way of things, but we married her off to a good man, although she had hoped for better.”

  “He was on a damned decent salary,” Carlos insisted.

  “Barbara would have liked more, for services rendered shall we say?”

  “Careful, Quijada!”

  “She was most fortunate, you sent her to her mother for a while, with enough money to see her through.”

  “She had to be kept away from the court, had to be kept secret, too delicate a matter at the time. She understood.”

  Quijada shook his head remembering the newly‑wed commissary, “Her husband was put out, poor chap, no sooner married than the beautiful wife was whisked away.”

  Carlos had no interest in how the man had felt. “A purse of gold soon helped him overcome his frustration. Anyway as soon as the child was born he had his wife returned to him.”

  “While I had to take the infant from its mother within hours of its birth.”

  “No other way to deal with the situation. Barbara has been well looked after. Not once have I let her down. I still see to her every wish.”

  “To the point where she now lives in luxury, and is extravagant beyond words. I have difficulty at times keeping up to date with her debts. And let me tell you she likes everything settled promptly, hates to be kept waiting. I am constantly besieged by her letters.”

  Carlos thought of Doña Magdalena’s suspicions of Quijada’s secrecy over Barbara’s letters; it was unfortunate, but it couldn’t be helped. “Barbara is worth every penny, every gift of mine, and you know it.”

  “You are right, my lord, forgive me.”

  “Yes, well, just as important to me is the child and his home. Dear God, but it very nearly turned out to be a disaster. I thank God you found out how bad things were. Just because Massy was sworn to secrecy about the boy’s origins that did not give him license to raise him as a damned peasant. Good God, he was no peasant himself, he had been one of my musicians! A damn mistake that; what a fiasco.”

  “It was no fault of ours, my lord, we had been misinformed. If you recall we understood his wife to have inherited a much larger property than was the case. You know, it was amazing that I should only have discovered Juan’s circumstances because Massy had always thought and ild was mine. He had actually told his wife that I had no intentions of allowing the child’s mother to raise him as a German, and therefore I wanted them to bring him to Spain. So, after Massy’s death she had someone write to me, the putative father of the child, to inform me that she would require additional financial help if she was to continue to look after the boy.”

  “God works in a mysterious way, eh? Just as well she broke her silence, even if she had sworn an oath never to reveal that the child was not theirs. But everything has been set to rights.” Tears were finding their way over the king’s cheeks.

  Even Quijada had to swallow hard, “Your son could not have a better home, my lord, nor, I swear, a better mother than my beloved wife, Doña Magdalena. And we have a young soldier in the making.”

  “God has blessed us all then, Quijada. You understand this will continue to be our secret.”

  “My lips are sealed.” Nonetheless Quijada nursed the hope that one day Juan would be publicly recognised as Carlos’s child.

  Quijada’s cherished hope will be granted. This love child of Carlos and Barbara Blomberg, this handsome, intelligent boy Juan will become Spain’s famous and best‑loved military leader, the great tactician and brave hero of the sea battle of Lepanto where he gloriously vanquishes the Turk, saving Christianity once and for all from the dreaded infidel. Yes, he will be known throughout history as the great Don Juan of Austria.

  The right man for the Job?

  II

  This weather is appalling; I do apologise for asking you to come today but there was no option.This must be the hottest September ever. Everyone and everything is suffering under this relentless sun. We have had day after day of it with no respite.

  But please, do let us get into the shade on the terrace. This is where Carlos comes to spend the afternoons following his oh so very substantial lunches.

  His majesty is enjoying better health now than he has in years. Since Regla’s disclosure of the presence of heretics in Valladolid a fire has been rekindled in his belly the like of which he had thought never to know again. Yes, he is a man with a mission; he is on a crusade.

  Of course the long wait for information is beginning to exasperate, but he remains confident that the Grand Inquisitor Valdes and his cohorts – his fellow inquisitors I should have s
aid – are dependable. Oh yes, one can rely on them to sniff out the merest hint of dissent, of radical or reformist thought.

  So, to the reason you are here. We are to hear of the fruits of their labours.

  What else? Ah yes, there has been a good deal of sickness in the area, mostly malaria. It is those infernal mosquitoes wreaking their havoc; and that damnable pond, as I said once before, is of no help, positively encouraging the beasts. His majesty was ill with malaria for two or three days, but it was nothing of any consequence, the man seems so much stronger these days.

  And here he comes.

  The wheels of the king’s chair rattled through the doorway of the grand salon then rumbled over the flagstones of the terrace. The chair boys positioned it close to the balustrade so that Carlos would have an uninterrupted view of the gardens below, including his beloved fish pond and the new sundial Torriano had recently completed for him.

  The cat that had been standing on Carlos’s lap in a high state of alarm, agitated by both the noise and the movement, now allowed itself to curl up and resume its sleep.

  Gaztelu, Quijada, and Regla had a few moments wait as chairs and a table were brought from indoors.

  Carlos yawned and emitted an enormous belch proclaiming his feelings of general wellbeing, “Nothing like a good rest after an excellent meal. That was probably the best roast pork I have ever tasted, and the oysters were exquisite …”

  Regla had no interest whatsoever in the lunchtime menu, eager instead to discuss the news from Valladolid, frustratingly aware he couldn’t do this until after the royal siesta, therefore endless talk of food would only delay matters. However, he noted with satisfaction, Gaztelu and Quijada were too preoccupied with the papers they were arranging on the table to respond or encourage Carlos to offer further details of the various dishes that had so delighted him.

  Within minutes they had settled down to their tasks, the king’s chin had dropped to his chest, and Regla smiled and opened his Psalter.

  At the far end of the terrace Samuel and José leaned their backs against the wall seeking some coolness in the stones, longing to slide down until they sat against it; these were long, hot days.

  “God, but it was never this hot last year, was it, mate?” Samuel ran his hand around the back of his wet neck.

  “Nothing like.”

  “Thank God we didn’t have to push him down to the pond today, and then have to push him all the way back up again.”

  “Tell you what I’d love to do Sam; I’d love to take off all me clothes and jump into that fish pond right this minute.”

  “Me too, my tunic’s fair stuck to me. And there’s the king with that eiderdown tucked round him, that great big cat on his knees, saying as how he’s quite comfy.”

  “Well, Sam, didn't you notice his hands when we was helping him into his chair? Bloody freezing they were.”

  “I did; and his fingers looked ready to burst through their shiny skins; like bloody great purple sausages they are.”

  “That’s as may be, Sam, but we was talkin’ about him and how cold he feels when we touches him.”

  “Aye, and after all them hot baths he keeps on havin’; you would think they would make him warm enough.”

  “The only hot thing about him is his temper, really gets himself goin’ about them Lutheran folks.” He winked at Samuel, “Tell you what; I’d rather listen to that parrot goin’ on about them. Now that was entertainin’. What a laugh! What I wouldn’t give to hear them stories again!”

  “Better’n all that serious stuff what’s goin’ to come from down there, eh?” Samuel glanced down the terrace to the four men so still and silent, “They could be one of them pictures in the grand salon.”

  Insects buzzed, a few birds offered short, lazy songs; occasionally Carlos snored, papers were gently shuffled. For more than an hour time stood still.

  II

  Doctor Mathys hovered in the doorway, not wishing to disturb the king’s rest, the only advice of his that Carlos had decided to follow; to always rest with your feet up after a meal. And there was no doubting that the meal would have been a substantial one. He didn’t have long to wait.

  Carlos yawned and rubbed at his eyes. “God, but I have a terrible thirst; beer, quickly!”

  Quijada brought a goblet and held it to the king’s lips, Carlos’s almost useless hands resting on his as if to help guide the vessel.

  “Blasted useless fingers, Quijada, what are we to do with them?”

  Doctor Mathys now approached them, “Quite simply, my lord, you should heed my instructions instead of ignoring them.”

  “Ah! So you are back, then, and how is my friend Oropesa?”

  “And so he should. He is recovering well because I sent you to him. Malaria is the only bloody thing you are any good at!”

  Quijada shook his head and tut‑tutted.

  Doctor Mathys ignored yet another of the king’s insults. “I have a letter from the Duque de Oropesa.”

  “Yes, good, give it to Gaztelu, he can read it later. First I want to hear the good news from Valladolid. Get me some more beer for this thirst.”

  Regla clutched his Psalter to his breast. “You are so right, your majesty, I do indeed have good news for you. News to gladden your heart, your very soul. Canon Ponce has been detained by the Inquisition in Seville.”

  “Ponce? Ponce? But damn it man, I chose him as canon. What the devil has he been up to?”

  “Reading and espousing the works of Luther and Calvin!” Regla’s face contorted in pained anguish at the full horror of it all.

  Quijada, ever the sceptic, asked, “The books were in his possession?”

  “No; he had given them to a family friend to hide. You see the deviousness of the enemy, my lord!”

  Quijada would not be deterred, “And the friend surrendered the books?”

  “No; the friend did not!” Regla’s smile was pure triumph. “It was her son who delivered them in person to the Inquisitor, denouncing his mother for her heresy!”

  Quijada threw up his arms in despair, looking at Gaztelu and receiving his full support. He turned to Carlos, “Sire, did I not warn you that there would be those waiting for such an opportunity to further their own cause. I have no doubt the son in question was too impatient to wait for his inheritance.”

  “Silence, Quijada!” Carlos snapped back. “I will have none of it! Ponce, a man I trusted, has betrayed the Faith; that is enough for me! He must go to the stake; an example must be made. Any other news?”

  “In Valladolid an even greater catch has been landed, all arrested at a meeting called by their leader, Cazalla.” His words came slowly, deliberately, as he savoured every one; he revelled in the joy of reporting the downfall of someone he had never liked and had recently grown to hate.

  “Give me strength! Another of my personal choices, returning my trust with treachery! At great cost to my health I have spent my life fighting God’s enemies; the infidel and the Lutherans. Finally I come here to Spain to retire in a country where God’s word was sacred; and what do I find? I find that the bastards have followed me here!”

  Quijada made another effort, “This all sounds so much worse than it is; a gross exaggeration of the facts. Regla is talking about a mere handful of reformers, nothing more. Moderation is called for, some time given to considering …”

  “Be quiet! I was too lenient with Luther, should have had him burnt; that was where I went wrong. But I will show the way now, by God I will. Spain will lead the world by example.” He shuffled restlessly in his chair, his words degenerated to a garbled babble, his face purple with fury, “The heretics shall burn and the news will spread throughout Europe. Yes, this is more like it; nipping the damned worm in the bud before any further damage can be done!” Now he could compensate for his weakness in the past, his lack of resolve. God would be avenged. “Gaztelu, you will write to the regent and to King Felipe informing them of our good news. Valdes is proving himself an excellent and rigorous Inquis
itor. Finally got the right man!”

  A frantic chorus of birdsong shattered the uneasy silence. Birds wheelled d darted in frenetic flights across the garden before disappearing into the trees where, for the first time in weeks, branches began to stir and leaves trembled. A cool breeze made its way along the terrace brushing past the chair boys.

  “There’s that bleedin’ draft again José. Now don’t you go sayin’ as ’ow you never noticed.”

  “Course I bleedin’ noticed you daft beggar. There’s a storm brewing. Just look up that hill. All the same the breeze is nice and welcome.” He leaned forward freeing his neck from his sweaty tunic, enjoying the tingling chill across his skin.

  Threatening black clouds eerily tinged with orange tumbled over the crest of the hills quickly enveloping the once blue skies. The breeze became a whirlwind. Petals and leaves scurried along the terrace, innocent vanquished victims fleeing the enemy, finding a moment’s refuge beside a chair leg or pillar before racing off again in a frenzy.

  Daylight was gone, the afternoon now as black as midnight. A jagged fork of lightning ripped down through the darkness plunging into the oak woods, followed by a resounding clap of thunder. Huge dark spots of coin–sized rain splattered onto the balustrade, splashing onto the terrace.

  Samuel and José were behind the royal chair immediately, pushing Carlos indoors, as concerned for their own lives as much as that of the king.

  “Jesus wept!” Samuel flinched and ducked to avoid a series of deafening thunder claps determined to bombard the very palace itself. With a yowl of fear the cat was gone, presumably to find sanctuary in the king’s bed.

  Carlos bellowed, “Good God, I am freezing; more blankets, more blankets and a hot bath.”