A Matter of Pride

by Linda Carlino

  Quijada and Gaztelu had hurriedly gathered their papers and followed the king indoors. The terrace had turned cold and wet, and Regla, last to leave, looked up to the heavens earnestly crossing himself.

  The grand salon was too dark and candles had to be lit. Blankets were brought and arranged over the king’s shoulders and knees.

  A howl from Carlos wrested everyone’s attention from the storm. “Mathys get me something for my head. God I have never had pain like this.” He held his hands first to his forehead then to his temples howled like a tormented beast.

  Samuel and José at their usual place by the door were more concerned about the life‑threatening events outdoors, not convinced they were out of harm’s way.

  “Sam, just look at that rain, you can’t see through it.”

  “You look at it; I’d rather not thanks.”

  The room was suddenly illuminated by an intense light, followed by yet more brilliant flashes; thunder hurtled and bounced its way through the garden and Yuste seemed to be drowning under a torrential downpour.

  “Shit, I’m scared, José!”

  “You’ve every right to be Sam; I’ve never known God be as angry as this. Trust me somethin’ pretty bad is about to happen.”

  September

  Departures

  I

  I am afraid the king is ill; gravely ill. You will remember the day it started, two weeks ago, when he came out here on the terrace to sit in the benign shade following a very fine lunch.

  It had been a day apparently no different from the rest until after the excitement of the Inquisition news, and then, of course, there was the thunderstorm, and suddenly he was complaining of the intense cold and unbearable headaches. Later that evening he became uncomfortably hot; and then the vomiting started. The heat of his body aggravated the sores on his arms and legs. They itched and burned so much so that he insisted on the windows in his bedchamber being left open throughout the night.

  How often have I mentioned those infernal mosquitoes? Of course I could be wrong; it might possibly be a recurrence of his old malarial fevers. Whatever the cause he could find no comfort.

  As the days and sleepless nights have passed so his chronic migraines have grown increasingly violent.

  The old Spanish remedy was decided upon; daily bloodletting. The poor man, fourteen ounces in one day! That is a lot of blood for a fit man to lose never mind someone as weak as Carlos.

  He is aware that this illness is different from the others and he insists on having a small portrait of his wife at his bedside and, more ominously, a sketch for La Gloria. You will remember it is the painting over the altar.

  Several days ago letters were hurriedly despatched to Valladolid. Doctor Mathys wanted the regent’s doctor to come to assist, realising by this time his own limitations. His meagre repertoire of purges and bleedings, the recommendation that the patient wear various rings and bracelets of gold with coloured stones or bones and even some with gall stones with their supposed healing qualities was quite exhausted and, unfortunately, found totally ineffective.

  What else has happened? Quijada has written requesting that Gaztelu be made notary for the king, for there have been times when Carlos has been unable to speak, in fact there have been periods when all his faculties have completely failed him.

  Quijada has moved back into his rooms here to be on hand for any situation which might arise, and Oropesa and Zuñiga are constant visitors.

  The king has been in a profound sleep, lasting more than twenty‑four hours, making everyone fear that the end had come. However he awoke this morning much to their relief. But you must prepare yourself. His majesty is dying, that is beyond doubt, and Death will not be kept waiting much longer.

  Ah, I hear riders.

  Alonso and Manuel, whose hearing had become remarkably acute over the last few days, constantly on the alert, waiting, ran from the stables.

  “This’ll be them two from Jarandilla again. They must be making one heck of a deep furrow between here and there with all the comings and goings.”

  Two mules picked their way slowly and daintily over the cobbles as if fearful of dislodging the smallest of stones and shattering the silence. They brought their riders, Oropesa and Zuñiga, to the receiving hands of the stable lads. As the two gentlemen made their studied progress from saddle to ground there was a sudden thundering of hooves. Everyone stopped and turned shocked and annoyed at the noisy, untimely intrusion.

  It was a messenger bearing the coat of arms of the regent. He slung himself from his sweating horse almost before it had halted, bellowing, “Where do I go, lads?”

  “Straight up that ramp, sir. There, see, someone’s at the door,” Manuel pointed, standing well clear of stamping hooves and thrashing flanks.

  The stranger raced towards the porch, drawing off his gloves, wiping around his streaming eyes, rubbing away caked on dust.

  We shall join the messenger. He is on his way to the large salon to meet Quijada and Gaztelu; as you can see our two visitors will take a little longer to get there.

  “Sirs, I have messages from the regent,” he said breathlessly, unbuckling his pouch and handing over three letters bearing Princess Juana’s seal.

  “We thank you. I suggest you find some refreshment quickly, for we need you to return to Valladolid as soon as possible.” Quijada beckoned to Maria, “Show the gentleman where to go.”

  He opened the first letter, “What have we here? Ah, Gaztelu, we along with Regla have been appointed executors.” He laughed a short, harsh laugh. “Not that the regent has left us very much to do, having taken everything out of our hands.”

  Gaztelu took the paper, read it and placed it in a folder already bulging with the myriad of directives that had been received from Princess Juana.

  Quijada scanned the second letter. “You can put this somewhere, too. Anywhere, so long as it is out of my sight. This is a copy of a letter from Felipe agreeing wholeheartedly with his father’s treatment of heretics. If only the whole wretched business could have been avoided; have you noticed how Regla is becoming bloated with self‑righteousness? Dear, oh dear, oh dear, where will it all lead?”

  Quijada dropped the offending missive onto the table, inspecting his hands to ensure nothing foul remained. “This last one,” he tore the paper free from its seal, “Dear God in Heaven! Well, his majesty will most certainly not be told of this.”

  Gaztelu reached for it then positioned his spectacles on the tip of his nose. “This is too dreadful to contemplate.”

  It was a report of a bloody massacre, telling how the Governor of Oran and all his men had been hacked to pieces by the Turk. “What in the world made Juana send this? She surely never intended that her father should know? Strange lady, she does make some odd decisions at times.”

  He looked up as Oropesa and Zuñiga entered, set his spectacles down and refolded the despatch.

  “Any change?” They asked, hoping against hope that this time they might hear something encouraging, something optimistic.

  “The king has awoken from his slumbers,” Quijada replied, quickly adding lest they took heart, “I have written to the regent’s secretary explaining the situation. Here, please read it.”

  Zuñiga held Quijada’s letter close squinting at the fine but feint writing,

  “The doctors told me that the king’s illness was worse and that every hour his pulse was growing weaker. I still cannot believe that he could be so near his end. It breaks my heart . I suppose the doctors know best. I have served my master for nearly forty years, and am now about to lose him forever. May it please God to take him if he must go; but it cannot be tonight. God be with him and with us all.”

  Zuñiga returned the letter then clasped his shoulder, “Amen to that, Quijada. This must be more difficult for you than for the rest of us, my friend.”

  “It is certainly the heaviest burden I have known in many a year. But you must go to his majesty. I shall join you shortly.”

  Quij
ada folded the letter, sealed it then called for Samuel and José, “This letter is for the messenger. I want you to go to the stables, tell the lads you need a fresh horse for the messenger, a horse litter, and two mules for yourselves. You will travel with the messenger as far as Jarandilla where you will be joined by guards to protect you on your journey to Valladolid.”

  The chair boys shot surprised glances at each other.

  “Once you have given your instructions to Pepe go for your belongings, lads.” He patted them on their shoulders, struggling to maintain his dignity, struggling not to weep. “So, the time has come. Your work here is finished; there is only this last duty. When you have collected everything come back here for this revolting bird. You are to put it in the litter and ride alongside it to Valladolid to ensure its safe journey to the regent.” His voice hardened, “Her orders are that everything, absolutely everything, belonging to the king is to be transferred into her ownership!”

  His anger helped him overcome his desperate sadness. In fact he felt more than anger towards Princess Juana; she had even turned down her own doctor’s simple request for one, just one, of the king’s countless mules. As if one less would make such a difference to her stables! “If she wants everything she can have everything; it is most unfortunate that the damned cat has gone missing or it could go too! However, it is still of comfort to know that the parrot is going to a good home. And if it should say anything offensive, which we can rest assured it will, why then she can cook the blasted thing!”

  Samuel and José glanced at each other again taken aback by Quijada’s outburst, but then quickly turning their thoughts to that wonderful day on the terrace when the king and the bird had entertained them. Now, unbelievably, here was a glorious opportunity for more excitement, and days of it too.

  “And if you have nothing better to do on your way there I am certain you would have no objections to lifting the cover of the cage and having a little chat yourselves. And who would blame you?” Quijada gave them a weak smile and patted their shoulders again. “hen, lads. Take care on your journey, keep your purses safe and try not to spend all of your money. I thank you for your services to his majesty; your work here has been greatly appreciated. After Valladolid return immediately to Jarandilla; work hard for Oropesa your new master and do take care about your whisperings. God bless you both.”

  José cleared his throat, “Sir I know it’s not me place but may we say thanks, sir, for puttin’ in a good word for us, sir? We does realise how important it was, sir, you getting us this new job. And, well; thanks and, well, we’ll miss you, you’ve been like a …”

  Samuel broke in, “It’s been like family it has.”

  Quijada nodded, “Yes, quite, now off you go.” He turned and made his way to the bedchamber.

  Nor should we delay any longer. Best to follow Quijada and stay as close as we can to him. There is no easy way to prepare you for what you will find in the royal bedchamber; Death, you understand, knows no etiquette, pays court to no man, defers to none.

  II

  The bed chamber was dark and oppressive, the black wall hangings and black velvet bed curtains looking thicker and heavier than ever. What little air there was to breathe was foul and disgusting. Crowded into the tiny space were thirty priests chanting from the Psalms. The doctors, friends and companions and his confessor were all there too. The combination of body odours, candle wax, the king’s vomit and diarrhoea filled every part of the room weighing heavy, overwhelming.

  Carlos opened his eyes sensing his friend Quijada had arrived and managed a weak smile of greeting. He stirred, beckoning him to his side, asking to be raised. Quijada and Gaztelu lifted him gently while Male placed several pillows at his back.

  “Better … tell them go … private …”

  Quijada motioned to the others to move away from the bed.

  In a barely audible whisper of only partly completed words Carlos sought reassurance from his major‑domo regarding his wishes for the future placements of his staff.

  Quijada put his master’s heart and mind at rest assuring him that everything had been dealt with: some were to return to the Netherlands; others would pass into the service of Carlos’s friends, or the regent; or, like himself some would retire to the privacy of their own homes.

  Images took him by surprise, the familiar sights and sounds of Villagarcía, the comfort of his own special chair, his bed; but these would be bought at such a heavy price.

  Finally he was able to tell Carlos that even the lowliest of the servants had been found positions.

  Carlos nodded his thanks then tugged at his friend’s collar. “About my son Juan; you have the letter? Felipe to recognise him as my son, accepts him as his half‑brother; but not a prince. Felipe to grant him title, His Excellency Don Juan of Austria. You and Doña Magdalena to be the boy’s parents until he is of age.”

  Quijada was overcome with emotion to hear once again what would soon be made public; the recognition of Juan as the king’s love child.

  “The letter is safe.”

  “Got to look after the boy’s mother, too; purse in the box for Barbara. Her pension. A few hundred ducados a year. I give her permission to come to Spain. She would be treated well.”

  “Everything will be done according to your wishes, my lord.” He hoped against hope that Barbara would not show the least inclination to come to Spain. He would much rather she remained where she was, in Germany, while he paid her bills when required; knowing full well she would never be able to restrict herself to this pension, generous though it was. But he didn’t want to hear of these bequests; they spoke too brutally of the finality of it all.

  “Bring my mother’s mortal remains from Tordesillas. They should be interred here.”

  Quijada made no reply; his guilt pained him. Carlos could well be suffering qualms of conscience and all because of him. Why had he been so persistent in probing? Why had he not stuck to his philosophy of committing past events to the past? He waited, praying that Carlos would not repeat his request.

  “Bury me here. Bring my Isabel, to be laid at my side.”

  Quijada gently shook his head, “When I said everything would be done according to your wishes, that was not included. Sire, your beautiful Empress? This place is simply not good enough for her. Granada is far more suitable and, remember, that was where you spent the happiest days together.”

  Carlos nodded, “You are right. You always are,” he smiled at his friend. “Felipe will arrange. But these monks here will get a bloody shock if he decides not to let them keep my bones here!” He tried to laugh but could only cough; his throat was too tight and constricted. “Picture of Isabel,” he held out his hand for the miniature. “I was the richest man on earth. … You talk … not possible … tell me about my Isabel.”

  “Your beautiful Portuguese cousin Isabel, who came to Spain to become your wife. Unbelievably you kept her waiting in Seville for five whole days! She was a princess worth a fortune, a lady who was an invaluable treasure herself, outshining all her magnificent jewels. Had you only known what kind of bride awaited you, you would never have wasted those days negotiating a treaty with King Francis.”

  “She was God’s greatest gift to me.”

  “And you presented yourself to her looking more like a courier than a king, dust and sweat from head to toe. But you soon dashed off to bathe and change; a flurry of embarrassment as I recall. Within hours this precious being became your wife. How fortunate you were; not only was she beautiful, she was intelligent, witty and exceedingly wise. And she had such a wealth of love for you and your children.”

  “I never expected to love my wife, just not done, yet I loved her as I never loved before. I never betrayed her.”

  “No, my lord, you never betrayed your wife. She was everything to you: your wife, the mother of your children, ruler of your country in your absence, your friend, and the love of your life.”

  They both wept for a truly remarkable lady so prematurely and cru
elly taken from this world.

  You have seen the portrait of Isabel; undeniably beautiful with her fair hair and those almond eyes. She was sensitive and tender but also strong and firm. With the frequent absences of Carlos she had to be both mother and father to her little family. Three sons were born to Isabel and Carlos, but only Felipe survived infancy. You have heard of course of the daughters, especially the Regent, Princess Juana. Three children from seven pregnancies. And then she died; within hours of an aborted still‑born, the impatient midwife hurriedly tearing the babe from the mother’s womb, wrenching away any hope of Isabel’s recovery.

  “A lady.”

  “So she was, my lord.”

  “Never allowed anyone to see how she suffered in childbirth, always covered her face with a handkerchief. Dear God how I loved her; no one like her in the world; royal through and through.” He paused, exhausted.

  And she loved him as dearly. Every time he left for one of his military campaigns she would say that his swift return would bring happiness to this land, but above all, to her. And during those absences, amounting to about half of their thirteen years of marriage, she proved herself an excellent regent. The Spanish people loved her, respected her, and they rejoiced because she provided them with their first Spanish heir.

  “The chapel in Madrid … San Isidro … saved her life.”

  his la Quijada smudged at the tears on his cheeks, “Indeed. I remember how it seemed inevitable that both Isabel and the young Felipe would die of malaria, but she had heard of the saint’s miracles, especially the one about how he had saved his own two children from drowning in a well. She sent servants to fetch water from the very well; she and Felipe drank some and were immediately cured.”