“That was my vision at least,” King John exclaimed as he twirled around with his arms held out wide. “Yet here I am ten years later still stuck in this converted Moorish fortress that is falling apart around me.”
“This is a grand royal facility that commands the utmost respect from your people, Your Majesty,” Captain Corde offered in encouragement.
“Respect?” the king angrily repeated. “The prominent feature to my seat of power is a five hundred-year-old fortress I can cower within if the outer walls of my citadel are taken and the inner palace cannot be defended. Even my grand courtyard attests to my cowardice with this hideous curtain wall cutting across the middle to reach the outermost guard tower, where I can make my escape from the fortress, if needed.
“This cramped, ancient complex of cowardly design is not fit for a king. With God as my witness, before I die, I will build a new palace to rival any in Europe. The question before me now is how to do it? Do I conquer these rustics in this new territory of yours, or will I accomplish my goal with peaceful trade around the Cape of Good Hope?”
Before anyone dared offer an answer, the king turned around and leveled an expecting stare at Juan, “You were also there in the new territories. What do you think of the prospects for wealth and profit out west?”
“Honestly, Your Majesty, I don’t see much profit potential in the new lands,” Juan answered, much to the chagrin of his captain. “The inhabitants have nothing of value to trade with us.”
“They wore gold jewelry,” Captain Corde interrupted out of desperation to maintain the value of his discovery.
“A few tribal leaders wore gold,” Juan amended. “If the locals were conquered, they could undoubtedly be put to use as slave labor in mines to produce gold and silver. That would require a massive expenditure on soldiers and arms to subjugate the locals.”
“The boy is right, Your Majesty,” one of the advisors agreed. “Leaving the moral debate of slavery aside, the upfront and ongoing cost would be great, possibly even too high to turn an acceptable profit.”
“The tribes feared and revered us as gods. They would gladly mine the gold for little more than to please their gods,” Captain Corde insisted. “There would be little to no expense involved, I assure you.”
Once again, the king looked to Juan for a second opinion. “What are your thoughts on such assurances?”
“I think the luster of our divinity would quickly lose its shine as their exploitation became apparent. They may be rustics, but they are not dimwitted,” Juan answered. “They will eventually rebel.”
“And we would crush any such rebellion with gunpowder and armor,” Captain Corde declared.
“And the locals would outnumber our forces a thousand to one and overrun us,” Juan fired back. “They may only have bows and arrows, but enough arrows in the air will find gaps our soldier’s armor.
“My Lord,” Juan went on. “If you truly do have a confirmed trade route around the tip of Africa, you have an unparalleled opportunity to command a monopoly on the spice trade between Europe and Asia.”
Again, the king raised his hand to put an end to all debate. “I can either provide soldiers for the new lands, or ships to guard and enforce our exclusive trade route around the tip of Africa. I lack the resources to do both.”
“When the English, French, and Spanish fleets learn of the passage around Africa, there will not be enough ships or cannons in the whole of Portugal to stop them from using the passage as well,” Captain Corde challenged. “Naval warfare with three prominent European powers will be far more costly than fighting natives in loin cloths.”
The captain’s last argument seemed to make up the king’s mind as he lifted his chin and straightened his posture to ask the captain a direct question. “Who else knows about your discovery?”
“Just the boy and me,” Captain Corde answered with a sneer directed at Juan. “As planned, we executed the crew while still at sea so word of our discovery could not spread once we reached port.”
“Good,” the king replied before moving his eyes from the captain to the nearest royal guard. A flick of his head along with the sliding of his eyes back toward the captain gave the order. Before Juan’s mind could interpret what he saw, the guard had already drawn his blade and stabbed the captain through the heart.
As Captain Corde’s body fell away, the bloodied blade was redirected to point at Juan’s chest. He closed his eyes and expected to feel a sharp pain precede the lights going out in his world, but the deadly blow never came. One by one, Juan opened his eyes and eventually tuned into his hearing to find the king addressing his advisors, “We will focus all our efforts on dominating the trade route around the Cape of Good Hope.”
“What about the English, French, or Spanish,” an advisor asked. “The late captain made a valid point. If they choose to take over the route, we’ll be powerless to stop them.”
“That is why we will make sure they are distracted by another opportunity that is far too tempting to pass over,” the king answered with a cunning glow about him. “Even I, a descendant of the great trader and explorer Henry the Navigator, find the idea of owning these new lands irresistible. If that is the case for me, then my other European contemporaries, who prize land a thousandfold more than I, will stop at nothing to conquer the new territories.
“They will want the new lands, and we will let them have it,” the king went on. “They will expend all their treasure fighting over these distant lands as conquerors, while we live the ever-enriching lives of humble traders.”
“If that is your wish, we shall spread word of this discovery far and wide to anyone who will listen,” an advisor concluded.
The king shook his head and released a soft chuckle at the simple suggestion, “No. If they hear the news from us, they will not trust the source nor value the information. However, if they make the discovery on their own, then they will take ownership of a valued secret and expend everything they have to protect it.”
“Who was that Italian sailor we laughed out of my palace a few years back?” the king asked with an abrupt change of topic. “Didn’t he propose that I sponsor his westward voyage of discovery?”
“Christopher . . . something I believe was his name,” an advisor offered. “His calculations were hopelessly flawed though. No one in their right mind would sponsor his idea.”
King John nodded his head in agreement. “Yes, that is the challenge. Somehow we must get one of these other nations to believe and support the ideas of men like that Christopher fellow.”
“We shall convene in the council chamber tomorrow to discuss your ideas on the matter,” the king said with a dismissive wave of his hand that disbursed his advisors to their duties.
While a pair of royal guards labored to drag away Captain Corde’s body, the king turned to face Juan. He held a stern look for a set of heartbeats, but then placed an approving hand on Juan’s shoulder.
“You have done well for yourself these last few years. “I’ll be honest with you,” the king went on. “When your mother brought you to me three years ago, I sent you on that voyage to either make a man out of you or eliminate an inconvenient obligation from my life. Now here you are, a man with a set of stones and a cunning mind that rivals even your father. I’m proud of you, Boy.”
That acknowledgement nearly brought a tear to Juan’s eye. Boy had been Juan’s derogatory moniker his entire life. Now that word carried with it the highest praise. The king had acknowledged Juan as his son. It was private and meaningless to the rest of the world, but it was everything to him.
Juan told himself a million times since learning the identity of his father that he did not care what the man thought of him. He never once believed it though. The whimsical boy in him still clung to the fantasy that if he did well and made his father proud, then the king would formally recognize Juan as his heir if he still did not have a legitimate son.
Aboard the tiny boat in the middle of an ocean, it was just a childish
dream. Standing here now, with the king’s approving hand placed on his shoulder, the dream felt within reach. God once again rewarded Juan’s actions; murdering the crew was his will.
Juan bowed his head slightly in recognition of his father’s words and asked, “How may I be of further service to the crown?”
King John smiled at both Juan’s enthusiasm to serve and prudence not to verbally press for further acknowledgement from him. “I need a trusted ally in the Spanish court. I have an acquaintance in the Spanish Army, Knight Commander Pedro Núñez de Guzmán. He currently leads the Spanish forces against the Moors in Spain’s quest to rid their borders of the heathens once and for all.
“The knight commander recently lost his squire in battle and is in need of another. You will go and perform that duty for him. You are to distinguish yourself in service and battle. In doing so, you will have the opportunity to learn the ways of war and how to lead men. If you do your job well, you’ll be assured a place in the Spanish court when the fighting is through. Then we can see about turning the Spanish crown’s attention to the new lands.”
“If I fail?” Juan asked with a playful grin to inform the king that he had no intention of letting him down.
“Then an inconvenient obligation will have been eliminated from my life,” the king responded without a trace of levity.
Chapter 7: Moors No More
“IT’S JUST LIKE any other weapon of war, you point it at the other man and hope he dies first,” Juan said to the knight commander as the elder attempted to aim his first musket down the practice range. His deft touch with a crossbow was legendary among the Order of Calatrava, which he commanded. This gave Juan an expectation that the man would take to the new weapon with ease, but that was not the case.
Knight Commander Núñez de Guzmán insisted on holding the long-barreled weapon like the much shorter crossbow. He kept one hand on the trigger while his other hand was just a few inches farther down the stock struggling mightily to provide support and aim for the unfamiliar weapon. The predictable result was the five-foot-long barrel wobbling about as if a nervous child were aiming the weapon instead of a proud veteran of countless battles.
The commander’s frustration grew more apparent with every passing second. Seeing his aim dancing up, down, and side to side caused his face to turn bright red in stark contrast to the pure white beard he kept neatly trimmed. Finally, a blast rang out that produced a white cloud of sulfur-smelling smoke that lingered for a few seconds. The haze soon cleared and a torrent of obscenities followed when the commander saw that he had hit a raven perched in a tree thirty feet to the left of his target.
“Blast this infernal piece of witchcraft,” Núñez de Guzmán barked as he tossed the musket aside and snatched his crossbow from Juan’s hands. In short order, the old man notched a bolt, levered back the firing arm, took aim, and struck the target dead center. “I trust my own hands to kill another man, not some pile of magic black powder,”
“Gunpowder is the future of warfare, I’m afraid,” Juan said before bending down to retrieve the discarded musket.
The knight commander put a stop to that by mashing the heel of his boot down on the weapon he loathed. “Leave it where it lays, Squire. Soldiers of the Calatrava have served with papal authority for over four hundred years carrying sword and shield in hand. We will not sully our reputation by using this talentless weapon of the masses.”
“You may dislike the new weapons, Your Grace, but you cannot deny their effectiveness in our struggle to rid the Iberian Peninsula of the Moors,” Juan commented on the way back to his feet. “The first eight years of this war were dominated by men of your mind-set. You charged forward with other brave men in open field engagements, only to be stopped at the foot of their city walls.”
“I led the order to many victories for the queen at the start of the holy purge of her lands,” the knight commander pointed out.
“You and your men fought many valiant battles, but it was over the same territory,” Juan observed. “Battle lines only moved when Her Majesty saw fit to acquire cannons for her army. We started this war with three cannons and now employ a hundred and eighty. Sieges that would last for years in the past now endure for a few weeks.”
The commander nodded his head slightly in agreement but then shook his head and clung to his antiquated ideology with renewed vigor, “Without us protecting those cannons, they would belong to the Moors.”
“You and I know that to be true, but in the eyes of Queen Isabella, gunpowder and artillery siege operations won this war. Other factors like your knights were only secondary. By not adopting the new weapons, you risk having the order fall by the wayside as the tools of war moves on without you,” Juan concluded.
“We’ll see about that,” Núñez de Guzmán growled before turning to head back to his order’s encampment. “Tomorrow will be the defining moment of this war, and the queen is here in person to witness its conclusion. We will find glory on the morrow!”
Juan had learned enough about the knight commander’s temper over these many months serving as his squire to leave him to his simmering rage. His blood was up and there would be no talking him down. This made the commander an extremely brave and motivating warrior for men to follow, but it also left him prone to reckless behavior.
That fact made Juan nervous and sleep did not come easily to him that night until he reminded himself that God had a plan for him. The Almighty proved that fact to him beyond all doubt already. So long as Juan gave good and obedient service to his God’s will, he knew with every fiber of his being that no harm would come to him.
**********
The next morning started with a bang—literally. A hundred cannons let loose their terrible roar upon the city walls of Granada. From that moment on, they only paused long enough to let the barrels cool before resuming the bombardment. The last Moorish stronghold withstood the punishing blows for two hours before chunks of stone and mortar began to crumble.
Like all the other sieges before, it started with one cannonball scoring a deep gash in the twelve-foot thick walls that sent hairline fissures all across the face of the barricade. The practiced gunners then focused their fire on the fractured location and tore into the wall until daylight shone through from the other side.
Every successive cannonball strike widened the gap even further. This would continue until the city leaders saw the futility of their defensive effort and offered surrender. In this case they would have to turn over the heathen King Boadbil cowering behind their walls to face exile or execution.
Contrary to Núñez de Guzmán’s prediction the prior evening, this battle would be yet another victory for the siege guns. The prescribed outcome was a mathematical certainty at this point. Juan knew it for a fact right up until the moment the knight commander drew his sword, thrust it forward and cried out in a barbaric voice he borrowed from the devil and all his demons, “Charge!”
As ordered, two thousand of the finest knights the Castilian Army had to offer rushed toward the fractured city walls of Granada, even as the bombardment raged on. The knights crossed the three-hundred-yard distance to the walls with crossbows in hand and swords ready to be drawn.
Juan’s instinct for self-preservation pulled at him to stay put, but the crush of bodies pushing behind him and his duties as squire to Núñez de Guzmán prodded him forward into the fray. He ran along with the other squires behind their knights. It was the greatest thrill of his life to be a part of this charge. The heroic vibe all around him was infectious and empowered them all with a sense of invincibility. Nothing could stop this tidal wave of steel and skilled noblemen wielding the alloy.
The thrill diminished a bit once the charge came in range of the city archers. It vanished all together when exploding cannon balls and geysers of mud and dirt drenched them in the vile realities of war. Some squires fell to arrows, cannonballs dismembered many knights, yet the charge rolled on.
Every one of them understood the situation. T
here was no hiding from the cannons and arrows. God either selected them to die in the charge or survive. Nothing they did or did not do on the way to the wall could alter that fate.
Juan saw fear on many faces and envied their courage. It was the height of bravery to be terrified by something and still summon the will to do it. Even amid all the chaos and death around him, Juan did not feel the least bit afraid. He was serving the Almighty by sending these Moors to meet their false god. In this service, he could do no wrong and no harm would come to him.
The charge reached the massive pile of rubble that once was the proud walls of Granada. Half the knights discharged their crossbows, targeting the exposed defenders. They then set about scaling the unstable pile of debris while their compatriots continued using their crossbows to provide covering fire. All the while, random cannon blasts continued pummeling the walls to rain heavy boulders down on the attackers. A third of the knights did not survive ascending the fallen wall, yet the charge rolled on.
Juan’s heart overflowed with pride the moment he saw his knight commander crest the mound of rubble. The man stopped at the peak, thrust his sword into the air, and turned around to face the men he lead and bellowed in that same demonic tone struck earlier, “Glory to the Order of Calatrava! This is our day! Do not stop until you have the heathen king in irons!”
“Huzzah,” the armored warriors howled on their way past their leader into the city, where they met head-on a hoard of awaiting pikemen. The long-handled axes cut down the first few knights, but the skilled swordsmen made short work of the defenders. They moved on and rushed the inner keep before the heavy oak doors could close.
Juan followed his knight commander into the keep with a hundred other knights as they searched for the Moors’ sovereign king. At every turn and doorway they met resistance. Núñez de Guzmán assigned ten men to deal with each remnant of resistance they came across as the main body moved on with the search. By the time they reached the throne room, there were only two knights and Juan left to support their commander.
Origins: Discovery Page 6
