A Matter of Pride Read online

  A Matter of Pride

  Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor

  king, soldier, lover

  power

  passion

  regrets

  Linda Carlino

  1557

  February

  Welcome to Yuste

  I

  A couple of sturdy stable lads, probably in their early forties, emerged from a gaggle of giggling village girls gathered on the far side of the gateway to the courtyard leaving them blushing, hands to their mouths unable to hide their embarrassment, their delight.an>o:p>

  “What do you think, then? What’s our chances?”

  “I tell you, Alonso, we might just be lucky,” Manuel the slightly taller lad clapped his friend on the shoulder.

  “I hope so. It was a right washout in Jarandilla. Weeks of absolutely nowt.”

  “You’re right, there was nothing doing there at all; a sour‑faced lot they were. But now, well, this lot aren’t half bad.”

  “Trouble is they stink.”

  “So would you if you had to live in the same room as your animals during the winter, you daft fool. We’re the lucky ones, see, sleeping in sweet hay. They get to sleep on straw next to the cow shyte and them rank goats. Least that’s what my nose tells me.”

  “Should be alright then so long as we stop outdoors, eh, Manuel?”

  “My thinking exactly.”

  They tugged their coarse linen smocks down over their brown, ill‑cut, but sturdy breeches, tightened their belts, readjusted their woollen coats, and pulled their caps over finger‑combed hair. Finally they spat on the toes of their leather buskins and wiped them down the backs of their legs.

  “How are we? Both presentable? Good, let’s go,” and Alonso led the way past the huge wooden gates, which had been thrown wide open in welcome, and across the cobbles to join other lads standing at the ready.

  “Hell’s fire, did you feel that, Alonso? Like somebody left a door open and an icy blast blew in.”

  “Nah, not me, mate. You sickenin’ for somethin’? You’ll soon warm up when you get yourself between a pair of soft thighs.”

  You must forgive our hot‑blooded lads. It would appear thy have so few pleasures. I hope our presence has not cooled their ardour.

  Welcome to Yuste, to this splendid monastery of San Jerónimo. There could not be a more peaceful setting.

  So, you are here to discover all you can about Carlos, the man who until recently wore the crowns of the Holy Roman Empire and Spain. As you so rightly said everybody seems to have heard of the emperor and king, but what do they actually know of the man himself?

  I will do everything I can to help you. I will be your guide taking you, as an unseen observer, into the king’s presence, seeing into the hearts and minds of all those we meet. I hope, too, to be a source of useful information.

  You agree never to ask questions nor seek other avenues of enquiry, always accepting my judgement and discretion? Good! Then we can begin what I promise will be a most interesting experience.

  But first, a word or two about Yuste. The Jerónimos order has been here for over a century and these days it is a wealthy community, owning vast acres of good land in the valley and with orchards, olive groves and woodlands aplenty on the surrounding hills.

  Not so long ago they built that beautiful second cloister on the left, and with these charming little apartments for the king, his little palace, so cunningly added to the right, the monastery has become a veritable jewel nestling in an emerald sea of evergreen oaks and chestnuts. And on our far left there is yet another equally necessary extension, the stables; you can just see into the yard through the archway.

  Why Carlos should have chosen to retire here no one can really be sure but it certainly was not to become a monk that is for certain, much to the dismay of the prior. And when you consider the magnificent palaces Carlos has been accustomed to over the years, and the spectacular palace he built in Granada, this hardly seems an appropriate home either in size or location. It is nothing more than two floors, both identical, each having four rooms and a central corridor.

  Its very remoteness may have been its attraction. And, come to think of it, now that Carlos has abdicated, this remoteness may well be a blessing to others; it will prevent his interfering in the affairs of state.

  While we are still waiting, and it is not too cold a February day to be standing about, I will give you a little background information about this man, Emperor Carlos V. He is almost fifty‑seven and has been a widower for seventeen years. He is a man prematurely old, plagued by illness, weighed down by defeat, who has come to spend the remainder of his days here in this quiet hilly corner of southwest Spain.

  He was born in Flanders and by the time he was seventeen he was king of Spain and its vast dominions, had inherited Flanders and the Low Countries and the title of archduke of Austria. Shortly after becoming king of Spain he was elected to, or bought as some would say, myself included, the Crown of the Holy Roman Empire.

  But listen. Yes. The bells. The bells are announcing his arrival. He is here. He has come to his place of peace and retirement at last. Did you ever hear such a merry ringing? Reaching out to the furthest parts of the valley, calling to everyone, Rejoice, for your emperor and king is here amongst you! Forgive me; the excitement of the moment caused me to lose my composure.

  Now see, the chapel doors are opening and here come the friars in their habits, the white robes and brown scapulas of the Jerónimos. Let us move aside, over there towards the stables. Yes, this is an excellent vantage point; we can see and hear everything from here.

  A cavalcade of about fifty horses ribboned its way up the wooded hill, curling itself around the final bends of the stony track, passing the local folk gathered to catch a glimpse of a person they had been told was their king. As it entered the courtyard its dignified shape fell into a tangle of shuffling indecision. After faltering and circling, a small group of riders guided the two-horse litter towards the entrance to the chapel. The prior, with all the solemnity and dignity he had practised for weeks, adjusted his brown hooded cloak and approached the litter, a cleverly adapted wooden chest, which sheltered his most illustrious guest.

  A gruff whisper from behind Alonso and Manuel urged them into action. “Right lads; set to it. Manuel, Alonso steady that horse at the back there. Get the halters.”

  “We’re going. We’re going! He doesn’t have to tell us everything; think we didn’t know our jobs! God knows we’ve been doin’ it for years. Tries your patience, it does. Anyway, which of them lasses are you going for, Alonso?”

  “By now I don’t care. You know what them sailors was always sayin’; any port in a storm. Whoa there, me old beauty. I got you.” He stroked the weary animal, calming it with a voice he reserved exclusively for his horses.

  “Quija’a, Quija’a!” Growls of petulance, unintelligible splutterings, found their way out from deep within the darkness of the litter’s protective wood and leather hood.

  Quijada brought his horse close.

  Ah, yes, when the king is speaking it demands all your concentration. Let me explain; his speech has never been very good, you will soon see why; the protruding jaw, the fact that he cannot close his mouth. He is also tongue‑tied. Unfortunately matters are worse these days since losing most of his teeth. So he is almost impossible to understand without a lot of effort on the listener’s part.

  Quijada leaned down from his horse to speak to the monk. “His majesty needs a few moments to himself, good prior,” he explained as Alonso and Manuel turned the horses to take the litter up the steep cobbled ramp that had been purposely designed to bring the infirm emperor directly to the first floor of his new home.

  Quijada dismounted, handing the
reins to waiting lads, then strode up the slope to the porch. Lean and still remarkably agile, it is only the pewter grey of his hair and short beard that remind those about him o his three score years.

  Alonso and Manuel steadied the horses. Two attendants in their livery of dark green tunics and breeches hurriedly set about removing the litter’s heavy wooden cover and hood.

  “God da’ it, watch the leg, you ’iserable cur.” This and other curses filled the air as Carlos was lifted from his cocoon of velvet-covered eiderdowns and fur-lined rugs. Undaunted, the two strong young men continued the process of transferring their master from the litter to his chair and swiftly wheeling him indoors, away from the icy winter air and into a room with furnace-like heat blasting forth from hearths and braziers.

  Briefly, while we have a moment, Carlos’s whole life has been one of continuous struggle: protecting all his inheritances, fighting the Turk, protecting his beloved Catholicism from the threat of the ever growing Protestantism, and trying to keep Germany united. And if this were not enough, there have been the perennial wars with France.

  So here we are, almost forty years on and little, if anything, has been resolved. Indeed everything remains the same except that he has decided to abdicate. And, I might add, Spain is bankrupt. Spanish blood and Spanish treasure have both been squandered on ventures in which, in my opinion, there was never anything to be gained and in which so much has been lost. I repeat; Spain is bankrupt – in debt to the tune of seven million gold ducados.

  Now, on that happy note, shall we follow the others?

  II

  As the little entourage entered the salon they were welcomed by a small and plump man bent with age and years of endless letter writing. This was Gaztelu, the king’s secretary, sent on ahead to ensure all was in readiness. He shuffled to Quijada’s side carefully keeping his back to the king, peering to right and left before deftly drawing a letter from the wide sleeves of his secretary’s black gown, whispering, “This one is addressed to you; it was in with the others. There was no time to give it to you before I left; my apologies.”

  Gaztelu’s permanently squinting eyes, the result of decades of laborious penmanship for royal letters and documents, looked up into Quijada’s seeking some explanation. He knew already that there would be none, there never was.

  “Thank you. Do not concern yourself, my friend.” Quijada glanced at the writing, recognising the firm hand of Barbara. He slipped it inside his jerkin; it could wait until later.

  Carlos smiled up at him from his chair where he sat looking most unemperor-like; stooped and worn, his face long and crumpled with tired rheumy blue eyes and grizzled white hair and beard; an old man, almost as broad as he was tall, muffled from head to toe in quilted black velvets and dark brown furs.

  He hunched his awkward bulk forward, his body a witness to years of gross overindulgence in food and drink.

  “You may join me in a toast.”

  “Apart from the fact that your doctor has strongly advised against your drinking, you now invite us, or I should say, command us to join you in this wilful ignoring of the doctor’s warnings,” Quijada lectured.

  I must tell you about Quijada. He had the misfortune to be the youngest son of an honourable family, receiving nothing more than the family name. He entered the army and distinguished himself throughout his military career, eventually becoming aide‑de‑camp to Carlos.

  He was recently recalled to service leaving his luxurious days of retirement and his lovely wife Magdalena, who is quite beautiful and many years his junior, to arrange Carlos’s journey here; no easy task I can tell you. The poor fellow first had to ride post for four days to get to the port to meet him; no mean feat at his age. He has ridden countless miles at the side of the king’s litter, and walked almost as many guiding it over rough narrow mountain tracks, through wind, rain, and withering sun, forever vigilant for his master’s safety and wellbeing. An still he cannot return home, for now he is retained as the king’s major‑domo.

  You may at first be shocked at Quijada’s familiarity with the king, but as a brother-in-arms, close friend and companion of nearly forty years, he has been allowed to be absolutely frank about everything; and, you will find, he usually is.

  Carlos wrapped his two swollen hands around his goblet, “One of the finer things of life, my friends, iced beer,” he gulped down the golden liquid. “So, we have made it at last; my thanks to you Quijada. The journey would have been impossible without you; everything from start to finish; comfortable lodgings, getting help from here, there and everywhere. And what about getting us over that mountain pass? At one point I thought we would never make it. I admit it was my own fault, Quijada, no need to look so cross. I mistakenly thought it would be quicker. The blasted litter was useless too and the chair. Damn it, Gaztelu, I ended up being carried on some evil-smelling backs.” He tugged at his secretary’s sleeve, “There I was, strapped into somebody’s old farmhouse chair, tied to some fellow’s back, being humped and bumped with no idea where in hell I was going. Last pass I ever go over, except for the one into Heaven, eh?” Carlos laughed.

  Gaztelu smiled and nodded, he had heard it all before; so many times.

  Carlos tilted his head back and poured the rest of his drink into his mouth, much of it spilling down the beard adorning his large Hapsburg chin.

  “Quijada; that was a damn good job you did at Jarandilla. More beer,” he demanded, wiping the dribbles from his beard with his quilted sleeve.

  “My lord, may I remind you that it is most unwise for you to drink …” Quijada began.

  “Of course you may, but I shall reply that in the first place I have had a trying day which has given me a great thirst.”

  “What an exaggeration! You have only travelled six miles, and you all the while in your bed of downy cushions!”

  “That is beside the point. In the second place, I feel it right and proper to toast our safe arrival at our new home. In the third place, I am the king therefore I decide what, when, and wherefore. So no more arguments! More beer, I said.”

  It was no sooner poured than downed. “Now, having satisfied that need the second of my priorities will be dealt with. Lads, where are you? Take me to the lavatory. Quijada you may inform the good prior that I am almost ready to attend his service of welcome.”

  It was pleasing to hear Carlos give due recognition of Quijada’s worth. What a wretched time he had at Jarandilla. It is only a small village and to have had over a hundred people descend on it, well you can imagine the pandemonium that caused. He had to find accommodation for everyone, often against fierce opposition from the locals. The poor man spent most of his time ploughing to and fro through ankle‑deep mud, dealing with the quarrelsome retainers and villagers; an endless nightmare. Then would you believe it, the king sent him chasing off to his home in Villagarcía to dismantle a stove to have it brought here, where it now resides in the royal lavatory to provide extra warmth. One must have one’s creature comforts.

  You are already finding it easier to understand Carlos? Good; it will make everything so much easier for us.

  But let us go into the chapel and wait there. I hope you will not find it too chilly after this heat.

  III

  The chapel sparkled with a hundred flickering candles. Carlos was brought in and seated beneath a canopy bearing his coat of arms. He gazed up at the painting over the altar at the top of a steep flight of fourteen steps; La Gloria which had been specially commissioned. There he was alongside his beloved wife Isabel, both in their white shrouds, and just to their right was their son Felipe. All three were in the company of angels in the Heavens reaching up in prayer and adoration to the Holy Trinity. It was perfect, quite perfect.

  Listen to the choir. That is the very Te Deum composed and sung for one of his forebears in Flanders many, many years ago. Which reminds me, I wonder how the new choristers are settling in; not everyone was happy about this ‘invasion’ of outsiders. But it had to be, Carlos is determi
ned to have the best voices around him.

  But this is everything it should be. Such peace and tranquillity; the king should be content here.

  When the service had ended the friars would not suffer Carlos to leave before each and every one had been introduced to him and they were determined that they would not be denied this favour by any of his retinue. Carlos, still in obvious good humour, allowed them all to kiss his hand.

  Quijada scowled his impatience, “I pray to Heaven that his majesty may tolerate these friars as well in the future as he seems to now. For my part I find them importunate,” he shook his head, “but then ignorant people often are.”

  “You were never one to suffer fools gladly,” smiled Gaztelu patting the major‑domo’s arm in a gesture of sentiments mutually shared. “I also know that you do not hold these monks in very high esteem.”

  “You are right. You know as well as I that these men of God did not want the king to live here. It was not him they wanted, it was his money! They did everything in their power to delay progress on the building, desperately hoping there would be a change of mind, and that instead of royal apartments there would be new and more comfortable accommodation for themselves.”

  “I do remember some controversy. Well, well. But we have got him here despite all the setbacks. And the last of the retiring servants have now gone?”