The King's Armada

by Doug Walker

CHAPTER NINE

  With the help of his true love, Doria Queveda, Jesus immediately launched plans for an elaborate wedding celebration, the actual ceremony being incidental to a grand scale party with no stop left unpulled.

  García attempted to rein in his enthusiasm. There were many things to be done. The orders promoting Jesus to sergeant had to be written and approved, a bit out of standard policy to elevate a common trooper. But Jesus was anything but a common trooper, plus he had the gift. The time for departing for La Florida was approaching with great speed. Men had to be drilled, orders given, the organization firmed up, weapons issued and inspected.

  Jesus managed to keep his head above water and attend to the work of soldiering despite his excitement. Poncho too was in a state of excitement. Frantic activity was a joy to him. In past lives he had been on the ragged edge of the red-light world. The small canine had been incarnated as a taxi dancer in Chicago’s tenderloin during the early part of the 20th Century. Tragically, he, or she, died young, departing the world as we know it during a poolroom ruckus over the ownership of a feathered bonnet

  Then García was troubled by his obligation to meet with Juanita’s father, Don Tomás Hernando Pizarro, known for his documents establishing his purity of blood — “pureza de sangre” — because not every Spaniard was equal in the 1500s.

  Although each person was a Christian, at that time certain individuals such as “Moriscos” and “Conversos” were not permitted to rise to certain levels. Even though a family may have been Christian for generations, the impurity remained. This was a boon to certain researchers who constructed family trees and provided elaborate documents such as Pizzaro possessed. In truth, Pizzaro dealt in animal hides and had risen from the peasant ranks with questionable ancestry.

  The Moriscos of Andalusia mounted a serious rebellion in 1586 and made the fatal error of asking the Ottoman Empire for help. They were kicked out of the country without ceremony, even the Conversos among them who had become devout Christians. Hundreds of thousands were expelled.

  If Pizzaro was a hide dealer, he was a hide dealer on a magnificent scale. He was the king of hide dealers within a week’s wagon trip from Madrid. Even though the father wanted Juanita wed to a rising military leader, García’s orders for La Florida stood as an obstacle. An obstacle, unless Pizzaro could somehow contrive to have the orders changed.

  By a strange warp in Madrid’s social strata, and despite the ever-present eye of the Inquisition, Doria had become something of a social queen. Of course she knew where the bodies were buried, but there was more to it than that.

  She had been forced into her profession at an early age and, like many of her colleagues, she had been exposed to great wealth and, in rare cases, outstanding intellect.

  As a late teen, a wealthy old widower, in fact a grandee, had made arrangements with her place of employment and installed her in his household. There she had not only acquired a taste for the opulent life, but had also learned to read, thereafter devouring every shred of literature she came across.

  Nothing lasts forever, but the wise person unlatches the hatch when opportunity knocks. The old man died and mentioned Doria in his will for what might seem a pittance to some, but a fortune to this ambitious young lady.

  Sufficient it was for her to create her own establishment, recruit a few fresh young things and, with previous contacts, as well as those made as the grandee’s mistress, the rest is history.

  Doria grew in intellect, charm and established social contacts among both sexes. To know her, to invite her to your functions, became fashionable.

  And always, two objectives were fixed in her mind: To find a suitable husband and to protect her young sister, Frenesi.

  When Jesus sauntered in, the worse for wine and seeking affection, no bells rang, no angel choirs. Short of stature, one bad eye, the strength of a bull, he looked the perfect peasant. Returning sober and cleaned up, engaging her in gifted if earthy conversation, gradually the haze lifted and she could see his heart. Jesus had been taken with her through that first wine-fogged glimpse. The mating chemistry was in full flower.

  Savvy as she was, Doria did not expect to marry well, to marry a duke or even a king’s officer for instance. Her wish was to marry for love, marry for compatibility, to find a soul mate, to find Jesus.

  The wedding night arrived. And it was at night. Ten o’clock, and preparations in the hall and adjacent rooms had been going on since midday. Whole pigs and goats had been roasted. Wines by the cask. Cheeses, breads and sweet cakes.

  Jesus and Doria held hands and traded tentative glances as the first of the guests began to tumble in. A jumbled medley of voices. Would all the invited show up for this union of a whore and an army sergeant? Had they reached above themselves?

  The excited high voices of women and the lower macho tones of the men. One could close the eyes and catch the tempo of the evening. By 10:30 the crowd was milling and the lubricant of wine had smoothed the crowd into a holiday mood. Friends greeting friends, clusters forming, then breaking away and new clusters forming. A swirl of heady activity. The hall was illuminated by hundreds of flickering candles, some multiplied by well placed mirrors, the soft light adding glamour to the plainest of countenances.

  The hall seemed to take on a life of its own. Doria was embraced and kissed on either cheek by each new arrival, strong hand grasps for Jesus, who returned them in kind. Jesus had promised Doria not to over drink before the ceremony. And the ceremony! The two of them would drift off to a nearby chapel at midnight and make the solemn union, then return to the merry makers.

  There was muted color, beauty and flashes of satin and gold in the candlelit hall. Doria and Jesus glowed with good will. Their party, their triumphant moment, was a smashing success. Their flame would soar to the heavens, and then they would embark and be off on a grand adventure.

  Everyone seemed to be in harmony. Older groups had found chairs, the younger, more fashionable crowd sought their own kind, admired the gowns of the ladies, complimented the men, glasses were filled and refilled by a battery of servants. The hungrier revelers broke away from their groups to circle the tables, pondering, debating, what delicacy to go for first and asking themselves whether it might be possible to eat a little of everything.

  There were old men with canes, invalids in rolling chairs and ladies of the night in satin and lace. García placed Poncho on the floor and ordered him to stay close by, an order Poncho had no thought of disobeying.

  Here and there in the crowd, standing out like peacocks, were the brightly displayed uniforms of the officers with their flashing braid, satin, garish ribbons and muted velvet. Caste had given way to egalitarianism. Colonels greeted Jesus as an equal. Clients of Doria introduced her to their wives and daughters.

  Eyes danced and hearts were warm. There was magic in the room. Doria turned to Jesus and nodded, misty eyed, on the brink of tears. “This is what I’ve always wanted. This is like a fairy princess dream come true. I think this is the peak, the mountaintop. And now we can settle into a peaceful happiness and put this behind us.”

  Jesus smiled and put his arm around her shoulder. “Together we will face life and its many challenges. You have made a simple soldier very happy. Now you move from this into my world.”

  “And our world together,” she replied.

  Captain Don Pedro García stood nearby sipping wine and occasionally chatting with a fellow officer. He was glad that the lovely Juanita was not among this festive crowd. Her father would not permit his gentle flower to be thusly soiled by association. García scanned the party for clergy, but found none. It had been said that the Inquisition is everywhere, and he wondered if spies were among the crowd.

  If invitations had been issued, no one was checking. It seemed everyone was welcome, and by the medley of attire and faces, every strata of Spanish life was represented. García drank it all in. Each day, each hour was an education. He would be the only professor in the 21st Century to have such a storehou
se of information on this particular slice of history. And he was picking up bits and pieces of data from all over Europe as well as news drifting in from South America and Asia. But could he ever put it to use?

  Men’s voices could be heard discussing the world situation. The power that was Spain and the weakness and disorganization of the English. Such a mob of rabble would turn and run at the first sight of the well-organized Spanish legions, plus the Army of Flanders commanded by the Duke of Parma. What an array of power Spain could put into the field. A weak sister like the English Queen Elizabeth would fall to her knees and beg for mercy. And Spain had the support of the Vatican and the Pope in its just cause.

  The party reached a higher elevation as the crowd increased. Doria, as the hostess and friend of all, was the flower of attention, her face bright with pleasure as she greeted each new guest and found others who had been hidden by the crowd. This was her night, and she would make the most of it. Jesus stood by her side, beaming, shaking hands, or embracing acquaintances.

  García was moved by the grace and charm of Doria and realized why Jesus had chosen her and why she had picked the cheerful trooper, now elevated to sergeant. He wore his new insignia with great pride and vowed never to betray his captain and fall from grace.

  Across the room, Doña María Botella stood among a group of wealthy friends chatting about the mating and also about Sergeant Jesus’ captain, although little seemed to be known about Don Pedro.

  Doña María’s family had grown so wealthy in the wine industry that the founder of the fortune had been called Botella first in jest but then on a whim had adopted the name for his family. And what did this stately, handsome heir to the fortune want?

  She did not want a perfidious man romancing the family fortune. She had deftly avoided such overtures, but now approaching 25, her mind was in tumult. She did not want a man to manage her life, but she didn’t want one who would be unable to lead. A strong man, a courageous man, a man she could look up to, yet not worship. Confusion.

  Then, across that large, dimly lit room, candles and oil lamps flickering, stood Captain Pedro García. Her first thought was, “What a common name.”

  When her friends filled her in on the good captain, another thought entered her mind, “What an uncommon man, to kill Alonso Albertina in self defense.”

  Add that to García’s handsome face, his military bearing, the understated uniform of leather and rough brown cloth. Toss in a dab of mystery over his sudden appearance in Madrid (from the north, wasn’t it?) and she needed only to know if he could talk and do certain other things. Could this be the one?

  Like a shark through a tranquil lagoon, María worked her way through the crowd, a goblet of wine in her hand and a mellow glint in her eye. He was standing alone and had just poured Poncho a saucer of wine when she approached him.

  “You have no friends?” she asked.

  García smiled at the beautiful woman with a strong grace about her, well turned out. “Perhaps I am not a social creature.” He looked her up and down. A grand female Pooh Bah, a woman of height with almost a shocking sensuality, sturdy and well proportioned, proud and arrogant, yet stunning. She was wrapped in the sleekest of evening dresses that left little to the imagination. The very gown spoke of raw sex.

  “I have heard of you, Captain Don Pedro. I hope you don’t mind my approaching you in this manner?” She attempted a shy, downward look, but it came out smoldering. Yet there was some discretion that disguised the naked sexual prod. “Do you enjoy the party?”

  “I enjoy watching the passing parade. The texture of the party, the ambiance of the room, the art of a hundred blended faces in the dim light. We hide from the garish light of day.”

  Doña María’s smile broadened. “I think you are making fun of me with your texture and ambiance. Surely you are an officer of the King, not an art critic.”

  “Perhaps I am both. However, I am your servant, yet you have me at a disadvantage, not knowing the name of perhaps the loveliest lady at this grand ball.”

  “You have a pretty way of speaking, Captain. Do you mind if I simply call you Don Pedro?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I am Doña María Botella.”

  “I have heard the name, Doña María, your fame precedes you. But your beauty, that is another matter. It tarries here.” Although entering into the spirit of the evening, García was apprehensive about involving himself with another high profile friend. No matter how flawless he imagined his masquerade, there could be a day of reckoning. Poncho, half drunk and sprawled on a table, took it all in. He too was awed by Doña María’s beauty and sensuality.

  “Your dog seems a little the worse for wine.” She had noticed the saucer.

  He complains of the vintage,” García smiled. “His tastes are beyond my means.”

  “It is difficult to talk in this hubbub of texture and ambiance. Come, we will walk together and you can describe the moonlight.” She took his hand, scooped up Poncho, and led him through the crowd, out the front door and around the block to her carriage.

  “Is this an abduction?” he asked.

  “You are too bold, Captain. I am but a woman.”

  In the carriage, she told him she would like to have a look at his quarters and that of the dog whom she cuddled near her breast. García made no objection. He and Poncho were riding in a private carriage in Madrid in the middle of the night in 1587 with one of the richest and most desirable women in all of Spain, possibly all of Europe.

  As always, there was an attendant in the officer’s quarters, and García asked for wine. He lit candles and an oil lamp for maximum light, and Doña María wandered about the place, finally commenting, “What a mess. I thought a person of your stature would have a servant.”

  “I do. Jesus, the bridegroom. He is temporarily occupied with other matters but will soon return.” García poured each of them a terra cotta vessel of wine. Poncho crawled under the bed and drifted off in a wine-fogged stupor.

  Doña María sipped hers and made a face. “This stuff is worse than at the party. Perhaps it is fit for a dog.”

  García took a drink and smiled. “Army rations. There is no bad wine.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.” She drained her cup and began to remove her clothing.

  García watched in amazement. “This is so sudden.”

  She gave him a look. “You didn’t expect to find a 25-year-old virgin in Madrid in 1587, did you?”

  “I am at your service,” García said, and then began to unbutton his tunic. When he moved to blow out the candle, Doña María objected.

  “Hold on. I like to see who I’m screwing. You provincials.”

  Morning came on schedule, and García order two camp breakfasts. Doña María decked herself out in a blanket held together with a leather belt.

  “You know, I’m shopping for a husband,” she said over a steaming cup of chocolate.

  García nodded. “I had a good night. I think we had a good night. Am I a candidate?”

  She shrugged. “You’re in the running, but your credentials. You don’t have any.”

  García changed the topic. “Soon I will leave for the wild coast of La Florida. Gone for how long? Maybe forever. Not good domestic material.”

  Doña María gave him a long look. “You could be domesticated. And I could get your posting changed in a Paris minute if I were so inclined. What would you say to that?”

  “I would say it is my duty and my destiny to serve my King and church.”

  That provoked a cat-like smile. “Even for a provincial your words smack of the counterfeit. Surely a lonely death on a barren coast isn’t all that appealing?”

  “I am a soldier. Look at these crude surroundings. You tasted the wine. Marry a soldier, marry his lifestyle.”

  “When I marry I will be true to my husband and I will see to it that he remains the same. I am of a large frame and my youth will flee fast enough. I will become sturdier. My waist might go somewhere else and I wi
ll bear children. For that I need a good man.”

  “Every woman needs a good man. The reverse is also true.” García broke off another hunk of crusty bread, dipped it in chocolate and tossed it to Poncho who had roused himself and was listening intently. He had taken an instant liking to this woman, the enjoyment of being cuddled to her breast, even in his drunken state, had not escaped him.

  “I intend to make inquiries into your history.”

  “Why do such a thing? And for that matter, why tell me?”

  “I am an honest woman, and a man of mystery is always intriguing. Your duels with Alonso, incidentally an old friend of mine, brought you fame. That odd dog,” she cast a hand toward Poncho, “has added to your mystique. And I have grown fond of that small beast even in these few hours. You will allow me to take him?”

  “You cannot separate a man and his dog,” García replied.

  “Nor would I. But this is not a man’s dog. This animal is more suited for a woman’s lap. A man’s dog is a great growling beast that barks at small noises and attacks intruders. A man’s dog waits near the table for great bones to be cast on the floor. A man’s dog is a large furry thing full of fleas. Then there is a fact that this animal shows tendencies of alcoholism.”

  “But Poncho is my dog and a great comfort to me. He has insights, and somehow we communicate.”

  “But you a provincial, and the rustic life does not square with such a creature.”

  “You forget, possibly I am a provincial, but a coastal provincial. Ships come and go with exotic cargo. I have seen and heard a few things in my lifetime. I am also a few years your senior. Perhaps you would be better equipped to dominate a younger man.”

  “I will dominate whomever I please. And before I leave I think we should have another roll in the hay. You fascinate me, Don Pedro, and I will learn your secrets.”