- ARCHIVE - Royal Court of Portugal

[Mettermrck]

Part 7 of . . .

Sir Manuel de la Braga
'The Steady'

The yielding foe was
twice as bright as night.
Brave Braga did stay
in the city's wake
to underscore the hideous plot.
- The Epic of Braga, ca. 1480​

He was close. This felt right. Lord Manuel turned to Pedro Nobarae, now his trusted companion, and nodded. For weeks since their clash in the hills south of Marrakesh, the two men had continued their investigation northward, snooping around hidden Berber camps and vulnerable caravans, trying to discover who was behind the recent attacks.

A major break came in the autumn, when they captured a Berber scout alive. Mercenary, and owing no loyalty to his masters, he betrayed the location of this warehouse they were at now. For several hours, they had watched the place, a drab, sprawling structure of unremarkable color and shape. It was no different than any other merchant's warehouse in the city. And the smell was no aid, either. It reeked of recently skinned animals.

From their vantage point from inside a small abandoned structure, they kept watch, neither saying much, both realizing how close they were to their quarry. A desert bird cried overhead, and Pedro sighed, turning to Manuel.

"And if the rumors be true?"

Manuel said nothing for a moment. "Then my duty is clear, Nobarae. I must return home and see what the king wills of me. And my father, of course."

Nobarae nodded. Rumors of Portugal's entry into war against the Italians had spread throughout Morocco and Fez within weeks of the actual event. Neither man knew anything about the true causes or even the extent of the conflict. They just knew it was coming. As a Portuguese lord, a knight, and heir to the Braga fortune, it would not do him for him to continue to chase caravan raiders here in the desert. No, tonight was a last gamble, one chance to catch the culprits before he had to take ship to Lagos.

"Shhhh..." Nobarae hissed. There was movement near the entrance to the warehouse. They could see a faint glow of light behind the doorway curtain. Then, suddenly, the curtain was thrust aside, and several individuals began to emerge. Three, four, no six. They were dressed in ordinary garb, and all were veiled. They spoke in whispers, and collected just in front of the doorway.

It was Manuel's military sense that gave him clues. Each man was tall, and despite the flowing garments, their broad shoulders showed through the fabric. He noticed that each man kept one hand close to their sides - precisely where a weapon would be concealed. And months in the desert had not kept Manuel ignorant. He knew Berber whispers when he heard them. This was it!

Pedro kept his hand on Manuel's arm, as if he expected his lord to suddenly spring out and attack. But Manuel was no fool and as they watched, three more figures emerged, cloaked by the growing darkness. Two were dressed in similar garb to the Berbers, but their weapons were more clearly visible. And those accents...Tuareg? The other individual was a mystery. But when he spoke, Manuel gasped. He was Portuguese! This was the man!

He moved instinctively but Pedro's arm tightened. "Milord, no. There's nine of them, and two of us. There's no way. We should wait, and investigate when they've departed. Maybe there's a clue there."

Manuel nodded, but very reluctantly. He pulled his arm free and watched in frustrated disappointment as the party outside slowly got moving, walking up the street and out of sight - the Portuguese speech taunting him as it got away. Who was that?!?

They waited another fifteen minutes before emerging into the alley. There was nothing to be heard save the normal sounds of the city at night, and Pedro quickly led them across to the doorway of the warehouse. The smell was even worse here. Pedro made a motion towards the curtain, and Manuel nodded.

His companion pulled the curtain aside and rushed inside. Only seconds later, he emerged. Manuel gasped at the horrified look on his face. "What is it?"

Pedro shook his head. Manuel pushed the curtains aside and walked inside the building. The smell hit him powerfully now. Looking around, he saw that the large room was empty, save the usual filth, and occasional bits of straw. There were several candles and torches spread out near the center of the room, which gave it an eerie glow.

Squinting, Manuel saw something hanging from the ceiling, swinging lazily in the slight breeze that was coming in from the curtains. Whatever it was, it was long dead. Daring to walk closer, he could make out more details.

This was the source of the smell. And this was no animal. Manuel gasped. The Berber scout, the one he didn't have the heart to kill. They must've found him, questioned him. And then this...a skinned animal. Staring at the grisly sight with open-mouthed horror, Manuel spotted a parchment attached to what had been the man's stomach.

He moved closer to view it, his nose in agony from the stench. Finally he was able to read the flowing script.

"Mercy is the virtue of the weak, Lord Braga. We shall meet again."

He started in surprise. The language was Portuguese.

 

[Mettermrck]

It was raining in Lisbon, which mirrored her mood perfectly. Adalia was sitting close to one of the windows in her private study, though there was little to see in the almost total darkness. She sighed and turned back to the fire, trying to catch a little warmth. There had been so little of that recently.

Reginald had departed the day before, seeing to the arrangements for the coming war. She was surprised at how quietly he had left, and it worried her. Was he planning moves for the future? Her own informants told her merely that Portuguese ships were moving to Seville soon to link up with Castilian forces.

She sighed again. Castille. Adalia missed Queen Elinor more and more these days. It had so comfortable talking to another woman and with the falling out between her and Reginald, she felt so lonely. Maybe she would feel better if she wrote Elinor again.

"Dearest Queen

I thought I would write on this night as I try to keep warm in the castle. Lisbon is quiet without the King, fortunately, but also tiresome and dull. It lacks the color you brought on your last visit. Oh, I dearly hope you can visit again soon, and perhaps I may stop in for a spell. It might do me good.

The midwives tell me I am almost to term with this child. I am so sure that it's a girl that I've already named her. Perhaps you might think me presumptuous, but I intend to call her Elinor, after you of course. Maybe she'll inherit some of your strength with the name, as I hope I will too.

I was so sorry to hear of the death of the English King. It seems your family has suffered more than even I can contemplate. How do you bear it so? Oh I wish I had your character. You embody the word 'queen' with your very being. How I strive to emulate that example! To be Queen in my own right. I worry so much about the coming months, and how Reginald will react. He didn't take well to my persuading him to go to war. And he's angry about my not telling him about the child.

Please write soon with some advice for this young confused monarch. Some of your counsel might be just what I need.

Adalia, Queen of Portugal"

The messenger had only been gone for an hour when she felt the first sharp pains. Oh no! Here she came. It simply must be a girl.

 

[Mettermrck]

’Enough of learned Greek and Trojan . . . I sing of Illustrious Lusitanians,
whom Mars and Neptune obey.’​

Goncalves studied the captives with a critical eye. There were twelve of them, who certainly looked worse for wear and were fearful of he and his men. Then again, his own men were eyeing these black natives with their own feelings of trepidation. The waves lapped gently on the surf as the tide receded. He studied the beach for a moment, before signaling to one of his captains. ”Take them on board. I think His Excellency would like to see these first hand.”

A barinel, an early caravel with square-rigging​

The trip had been as rough as Goncalves could remember. Setting out from the tiny supply post at the Rio de Ouro inlet, it had taken all the seamanship he could muster to get drive his three ships further south – the two barcas San Fernando and Oporto, and his own ship, the Nentes. This latter was recently constructed, with its longer beam and sturdier hull. The rigging was still squared, but Goncalves was considering adapting the new lateen rigging he’d seen some of the Italian merchants using. Yet his own ship had had a much easier time of it. The Oporto had had to give up the attempt past Cabo Blanco, and it was only these two ships that had made it this far, to another inviting inlet, and perhaps at last, some sign of habitation.

They had arrived at the barren beach in the early evening, and Goncalves was thankful that the rocks did not extend far out into the inlet waters, so his ships could moor with some safety - provided there wasn’t a significant storm. The lands this far south were about as barren as those near Rio de Ouro, though now and again an occasional tree could be seen. Goncalves put ashore with a party of thirty-four men, armed as best they could be with dirks and swords. They spent an hour inspecting the beach when a cry went up from far down the sands. One of his men had spotted tracks – human tracks, and recent ones.

Nervous about what he might find, Goncalves sent out two of his best men who could be relied upon for stealth and speed. Criminals, he reminded himself, yet they were often the best men for the job. As the sun was beginning to set, the scouts returned with fascinating news – men! There was a camp some three miles inland, of about twelve men and a few camels. They were said to resemble Bedouins of some kind, though Goncalves knew better than to trust this description. To his crew, anyone of dark skin and who had camels was a Bedouin. Thinking hard, he knew he had a choice to make. Parley with them, avoid them, or waylay them.

It didn’t take long for him to decide. With his numbers and the nature of his men, he couldn’t trust to an attempt to talk to these natives. No, once they had secured these “Bedouins”, then they could talk. For now, he reasoned, they had to be bold. Besides, dark-skinned and camels? Probably infidels. They moved out at the first hint of darkness.

It had been almost too easy, and his estimation of these natives declined significantly. The fools were drunk, and their lone sentry almost painfully inept. All twelve men were secured and the camp looted before ten minutes had elapsed. There wasn’t much to find in the group. This wasn’t a caravan, merely a camp for the night. They bound them together and brought them to the beach, where Goncalves was now studying them with a critical eye.

Not much to look at, he sniffed, though they did appear to be strong. He wondered if there were more of them. Probably, since they had very little provisions with them and they did not appear to be starving. There might be more settlements close by. All the more reason to depart quickly, and return with more men. As he watched, he began to focus on one of the natives, who appeared to be quieter than the rest. His garb, unlike anything Goncalves had ever seen, was slightly more refined then his companions. A leader?

Not knowing why he did it, he addressed the man in Portuguese. The man squinted, but said nothing. He spoke again, harder, sharper this time. Again nothing. Finally the man lifted his head, spat, and said something in a harsh guttural language. Goncalves wiped away the spit from his cheek as one of his men ran up and delivered a swift kick to the captive’s back. He went down with a whimper.

Goncalves walked away, leaving his men to their work. They were brutal types, he knew, but that could be useful in instilling fear. And besides, he had something to think about. This leader had just spoken Arabic! He knew not a word of this language, but knew those who did. He signaled to one of his captains. ”Take them on board. I think His Excellency would like to see these first hand.” If there were more of these natives, sturdy yet so easy to capture, there might be some value here after all.

 

[Mettermrck]

Rio de Ouro Inlet

He talked more quickly than Goncalves had guessed. Only the hint at the same being done to him as was being done to his companions was enough to unnerve him, and that’s all the opening the explorer needed. A Bedouin translator was brought who knew Portuguese, their own native language of the desert, and Arabic.

The man’s name as Aduha, and Goncalves had guessed right. He was some kind of sub-chief of a Moorish people known as the Azanaghi. Their garb vaguely resembled the flowing robes of most of the infidels they had seen, and this one looked slightly better off. He held himself up with at least some dignity, so he was clearly conscious of his position.

The Azanaghi were a commercial people, if commerce could be said to exist in these open wastes. Goncalves marveled at how any form of civilization, even the low infidel kind, could flourish in such barrenness. He pressed Aduha with mountains of questions. What was further down the coast? Where was Prester John? Where was his kingdom? How far from his village to Timbuktu? Had he ever heard of Mali? Where were the rest of the Azanaghi?

Aduha was surprisingly open in his answers, except when asked about his people. He gladly told him that he didn’t think Prester John lived nearby, though rumors said that a man if lighter skin ruled a great empire some hundreds of miles down the coast. Aduha knew Timbuktu, though the routes he described seemed impossibly long. Goncalves ruled out any caravan routes from Cabo Blanco into Mali.

When pressed about his village, Aduha grew a little frightened, and then his eyes narrowed and began speaking of other peoples, other villages. He mentioned neighboring tribes with whom the Azanaghi occasionally warred with. His interrogators struggled with some of the words. The whoa-loff (Wolof), the men-day (Mende), the foo-lah-nee (Fulani) tribes were all neighbors. Aduha spat as he described them. According to him, they were wastrels, sloths, and not People of the Book. They were pagans, and their skins were even darker than his own tribe.

The Portuguese looked at each other briefly. As far as they were concerned, Aduha had just described their impressions of his own people, so anything worse was lower than human. Goncalves changed the tact of his questioning. What kinds of crops were grown in the villages? Were there any major caravans through the other tribes? Resources? How strong were the men in the Wolof? The Fulani? The Mende? How many were there? What kinds of armies did they have? Did they fortify their villages?

Aduha, happy to be free from speaking of his own villages, boasted of how weak those tribes were, their lands unprotected. The men were strong but dumb. And the Wolof did have some resources, but did not know how to use it. Aduha claimed that the Fulani had supplies of gold dust that they used for decoration, not knowing the value. Goncalves immediately resolved on a future expedition to visit them. He squinted at Aduha. A clever man, but too clever. The explorer would capture a clever Fulani or Wolof, and then find out where Aduha’s tribes lived. Yes, there was great potential here.

”Keep him here, with plenty of food and drink. Soften him up some more. His fellows you can take to the cargo hold. We’ll be sailing in the morning with all of them. I must take these tidings to His Excellency!”

 

[unmerged(2461)]

- EVENT -

Portuguese Influence Aleppo

​

The revolt of the Aleppo region against their distant Timurid masters gave new hope to the strong Christian element in the territories formerly controlled by Portugal. While they want to separate from their Muslim overlords, they are not strongly in favor of substitution of one owner for another. Encouraged by foreign coin, they now seek to once again reestablish an independent state, not seen since the days of the Crusader state, the Principality of Antioch.

MODIFIERS:
Portugal spends 3 econ; 2 econ and former ownership of Aleppo to trigger, 1 econ to gain +1 to roll.

TABLE:

1. We're better off under the Timurids!
(+1 tech and +1 morale to The Timurid Empire for 1 year/4turns)

2~3. Foreign gold fails to encourage a Christian revolt.
(no effect)

4~5. Deus volt! The Christians rally around an independent state. The Principality of Antioch is reborn!
(Aleppo becomes the sovereign state of Antioch)

6. Help us! Christians rally, demand foreign help and are willing to accept Portuguese rule once more.
(Aleppo becomes controlled and owned by Portugal)

ROLL: 2 + 1 = 3

RESULT:
Portugal spends 3 econ

Foreign gold fails to encourage a Christian revolt.
(no effect)

 

[Mettermrck]

Lagos, Portugal

Prince Enrique shook his head, but said nothing.

”It was unfortunate, of course. The nobles of Antioch lack vision, that’s all. I’m certain with more effort and a new opportunity, things will improve.” Reginald continued along this vein, trying to be optimistic in the face of the failure of his plans in the Holy Land. His investment of massive amounts of Portuguese treasure in an attempt to recover the lost territories in Aleppo was a financial disaster for the kingdom’s Treasury.

Unfortunately, the Prince thought, the only one who didn’t know this was the King. He sighed and kept silent, waiting for Reginald to finish. He liked the King personally, a brave and noble soul, though troubled of late. He would have made a great Knight of Avis, the Prince judged. The two rarely spoke, Reginald being involved with affairs in Lisbon and Enrique obsessed with exploration and trade to the south. Yet Goncalves return from Rio de Ouro had contained such exciting news, that Enrique thought he might invite the King to see for himself.

He turned to see that the King had stopped talking and was glancing back towards the construction site of his new Cathedral. Another investment, designed to please a Pope who could do nothing more than confirm meaningless Eastern titles. It was the price Reginald had paid to keep his titles as Prince of Jerusalem and Steward of the Holy Sepulchre.

The Prince shook his head again. Reginald was not Portuguese enough. He was too obsessed with his lost kingdom. And now this half-hearted war with Genoa, though the King claimed it was not his idea. There was some commotion from the docks, and the Prince saw that the boat they had been waiting for had now arrived.

Antao Goncalves stepped boldly forward and bowed with a flourish to his King, and to the Prince. Behind him, his men were escorting what appeared to be...they squinted. About nine men, unlike any they had seen before. Big men, dark, and imposing, though tightly bound. They looked dispirited and nervous as they glanced tentatively at their surroundings. Yet they look proud enough. Warriors, Enrique judged.

Goncalves cleared his throat. ”Your Majesty, Your Excellency, may I present the first fruits of our southern voyages. These nine men are Africans from down past the Rio de Ouro inlet. We found them not more than ten leagues from there. They store easily. We packed them in nicely in our holds and only a couple were lost along the way.”

The King and Prince nodded and approached the strange group of men. They inspected them for a moment and then turned back to the explorer.

”As you can see, they are very fit, and adaptable to warmer climates. The infidels thrive on the import of slaves, and if this is a ready source of supply?”

Enrique easily made the connection. The East was hungry for new slaves, and if Goncalves had somehow tapped into an undiscovered supply - they would profit extremely well. ”What of Prester John? I thought he was supposed to in the area you were sailing through?”

”Nothing yet, Your Excellency. From what these captives tell me, he’s probably closer to this Gam-bee-uh river, about another one hundred leagues to the south.”

The Prince looked disappointed and turned to the King. ”Impressed, Your Majesty?” But as he saw, Reginald was starting at the Cathedral again. ”I’m of a mind for a pilgrimage, Prince Enrique. Perhaps when this Genoa business is concluded, I’ll take up the Sultan’s offer and go back to the Holy Land. Go back....”

Enrique sighed. He knew the king meant to say home. He was not Portuguese enough.

 

[unmerged(7347)]

A letter arrives from Egypt.

"May your people find your ruling to there satisfaction, King of Portugal,

Trade and especially the slave trade is always interesting from Egypts point a view. What would a society be without slaves!? Your proposal is there fore to the Sultans satisfaction. As for now we get most of our labour slaves from Nubia and territories further south, your speciments seems to have much in common with these slaves and hold both the same health as strenght as they do. There can be no harm in expanding the area which slaves are purchased from. How ever, how will your merchants be able to compete with the slave traders who brings slaves to Egypt from the south? Isnt your route much longer? Will that not mean higher transportation costs? Well these questions are for your merchants to solve, Egypt will gratefully accept any slaves brought to Alexandria.

What would be vey profitable though is if portoguese merchants would be able to increase the supply of white slaves in Egypt. As for now our greatest supplier is the Golden Horde but I am sure of that also portoguese merchants could find ways to ship this valuable commodity to Alexandria.

Eagerly awaiting your reply

Muhammed Abdul-Jalil, Vizier of Egypt, Head of Diwan l Ystifa"

 

[Mettermrck]

"Will it always be so noisy, Mother?"

Adalia smiled indulgently at her son, who sniffed the air as if finding something displeasing to his palate. He was surveying the crib with frank curiosity, mentioning the cries of his newborn sister more as a question of learning rather than annoyance. His arms were folded behind his back as he calmly endured the tirades of a baby extremely upset at being delivered from her comfortable womb.

"All such infants, even royal ones, tend towards shouting when they are born." Her smile hinted to Alfonso that even he was so undisciplined. He nodded curtly to his mother, though he clasped her hands in his and squeezed.

Alfonso was six years old now, still very young, yet his tutors marveled at his capacity for learning. He was fascinated with all things martial, and despite the recent tensions between King and Queen, the young Prince was frequently at his father's side on inspections of newly-launched naval vessels, drilling of some of the royal battalions, and designing of more impressive fortifications. Naturally, it was the fascination of a child of six rather than the keen eye of a soldier, but there was no denying Alfonso's tendency to try and act, and often succeeding, before thinking about it.

The baby Elinor was a new fascination for him, a new marvel to be inspected and assessed. He touched the silky fabric of one of her blankets and held it in his hand for a moment, as if testing its comfort.

Such an odd child Adalia murmured to herself, as she sat back down. Jan, one of her insistent midwives, clucked disapprovingly at her and arranged some of the pillows to better relax her. All was quiet in Lisbon these days, she thought. Her husband was fussing in Lagos, tending to this Crete business, which was for the best. They needed distance. Lord Manuel would be returning from Africa next month, and she was keenly interested in his findings. And the latest court gossip, that the Duke of Viseu's eldest son was going to joust, filled the halls. Well, not gossip, she knew. Her own nephew. She sighed. What was it about jousting that drew men to their silly games.

"Are all infants so chubby, mother?"

 

[Mettermrck]

Part 8 of . . .

Sir Manuel de la Braga
'The Steady'

Home is the vision
that greats the fleeting lord,
who comes with the tempest
and tidings of distant shores.
- The Epic of Braga, ca. 1480​

Lagos

Arise, Lord Manuel. And how is my Lord High Warden? Well, I trust? Come come, don't demure. I had these delicacies prepared especially for your arrival." Reginald was standing in the study of the Lagos palace he was staying in. A small fire was crackling merrily and the smell of freshly prepared food was in the air. He felt tired from recent cares yet mustered a pleased smile as Manuel was shown into the room by one of the servants.

Manuel was more than impressed by Reginald's generosity and bowed respectfully. He had grown over the past months, both in stature and in maturity. The young idealistic knight was a bit tempered now, and had seen and done things that would make many a good knight tremble. His faced was weathered and tan, yet he was in excellent health and seem delighted with his recent adventures.

He sat down down at one of the chairs Reginald was pointing to. The King joined him and for a moment, they shared the cheese and wine that had been provided, though neither of them were particularly savoring it. It was more of a custom, and both had much they wanted to discuss.

Reginald leaned forward after a few moments. "Now then, Manuel. I've read your reports with great interest these past months and I can certainly say you've not disappointed. You were the picture of discretion, did not overstate your authority, and frankly embarked on fits of daring that make even me envious!" He laughed a little to show that there was no disfavor.

Manuel was reassured, but felt wary for some reason. This was not the same King he had left - kindly, calm, dignified, proud. This man was suffering under a great weight. Something had happened to cut across his stature and he was trying his utmost to pretend the cut wasn't there. Yet custom kept the young lord from inquiring. It was royal business.

"Now then, Manuel. I've read this last report of yours, about the warehouse and the unfortunate business."Their eyes met and weighed each other, Reginald respecting Manuel even more for handling such a grisly business with dispatch. "This business with the writing and the man is most disturbing. Whoever it is...he's at the heart of it. He's stirring up trouble in Morocco simply to pad his profits. And worse, he's one of my lords. Now I have my suspicions----"

Manuel leaned forward and nodded. "And I, Your Majesty. The Du---" Reginald held up his hand. "Once you utter that name, I'm honor bound to act. And without proof, we would only look foolish. I know of whom you speak and I am almost certain you are correct. In fact, he arrived back in the kingdom only a couple weeks ago. Yet we cannot move against him with just these suspicions."

Reginald leaned back, sighing. He was so tired. More than anything, he wanted to return to Lisbon and see his newborn daughter, Elinor. And Adalia....he closed his eyes, trying to put her out of his mind. Things were going completely wrong, he mused. He ran his hand through hair, which was starting to grow out again. Then he spotted Manuel sitting there, and smiled ruefully.

"Right. You'll need to stay here in Portugal for now, as long as he is here. There are a couple good points to keep in mind. One, is that we know and he doesn't know we know." Reginald grinned at the odd statement. "And second, you no longer need to hide your title, and I am glad for it. You've served me and the Queen well, Lord Manuel. And you should be honored for it."

Manuel stood and kneeled to his king, feeling some of the weight leave him. He had felt a failure for not finding the exact identity of the raider lord in Morocco, but he thought he knew who it was, and so did Reginald, which was a start.

Reginald cocked his head, as if remembering something, leaning back in his chair and smiling. "Prince Enrique will need to see you soon. Make sure you see him before you leave Lagos. I've written ahead to the Queen. She will be seeing to your arrangements in the capital. Until next we meet, Lord Manuel. Good fortune. You are truly a better knight then you think." He stood and inclined his head.

Flushed with pride, Manuel turned and left the room, surprised at the roads fortune sometimes takes.

 

[Mettermrck]

Lagos, Prince Enrique's Palace

Prince Enrique, poring over the reams of paperwork he was receiving. Goncalves was bringing the slaves to one of Enrique's estates. Captain Tristao was sending the latest charts of Cabo Blanco to be inspected. The King had center over the latest construction reports from the monstrous cathedral that was still rising over the harbor. And now he had a meeting with Lord Manuel de la Braga, the King's Lord High Warden, and very much his favorite.

His servant opened the oak door, and the young noble was sent in. Manuel couldn't help but let his eyes roam over the small chamber the Prince used, full of charts, maps and hundreds of scrolls. This was the center of Portugal's exploration and Manuel was excited to see it all, even in such confined quarters. Somehow the Prince...belonged here, he decided. He was a man of action, not of opulence. Gulls cried nearby, screaming the song of the seashore, and the shouts of porters and seamen could be heard even in this window. The Prince liked to keep the sea close.

He bowed to the Prince, smiling respectfully. The Prince nodded, and pushed away some of the papers in front of him, sighing. "Lord Manuel....Manuel....ah yes, the King wanted me to pass on some arrangements that he and I had discussed. He has great confidence in your abilities and wants to enhance some of the duties of your office."

Pushing papers aside, he searched his cluttered table for something, getting frustrated by the moment until at least he sighed in relief, bringing forth a small yet elegant golden sceptre. It was small, unlike the larger versions used by kings for office. It was smooth in the center, with two spheres on each end, containing a single emerald on one, and a ruby on the other. Manuel was surprised to see such a fine work of art here in the midst of all this.

Enrique nodded as if remembering something. "Quite right. Now then. The King...and I, incidentally, were most impressed by your escapade in Africa. You are a man of action, which is good for a knight. Yet you are also a lord, so we need to know if you are a man of words. Lord Manuel, you are to be returning to Lisbon to consult with the Queen. After that, the king is planning something special for you. A trip, young lord. A trip. So you'd best brush up on your protocol. Destination? Not yet known. Yet the King and Queen need your best efforts on this. It will be of a diplomatic and mercantile nature, so study both."

Almost as an afterthought, Enrique pushed over the sceptre and set it down on the table in front of Manuel with a loud clunk. "There. Your new badge of office. His Majesty doesn't want a foreign court treating you like some ordinary ambassador. No, this badge will show that you speak for the King, with full plenipotentiary powers, so mind that you're on your guard when you parley at court. Any questions?"

Manuel was a little nonplussed at the whole arrangement. Prince Enrique was essentially making him one of the most powerful figures in Portugal, and doing so in a fashion that reeked of...boredom? Manuel looked at the sceptre for a moment. What was this? He was a lowly knight, a brand new lord. As far as he knew, he had done some investigating in Morocco, and had gotten into a swordfight or two. Nothing that merited this.

Enrique clearly read his thoughts, for he sighed and set down a scroll he had been itching to read. "Look, Lord Manuel. You confirmed my suspicions on someone in Africa. That person is highly placed, and is aware of your recent trip to Morocco. We cannot leave you vulnerable. So a certain...elevation...is required. And don't cut yourself short. Yours was not the only report we received. Seven Berbers slain in a single engagement? You're made of more mettle than you think, and the King knows this. He thinks your mettle is in your mind as well as your sword arm. Time for you to show him, lad," Enrique added, dropping the honorific to show that he, too, was impressed with Manuel's accomplishments thus far.

The Prince looked at the sceptre and then at Manuel. "So? Are you going to take this off my hands? I certainly don't want it. It's heavy in your pocket." He grinned slightly, a rare gesture for the Prince and one that made Manuel brighten. Slowly, he reached for the sceptre and took it. The cool metal gave him goose bumps as he picked it up. I am the voice of the King, he practiced saying to himself. Oh there was no way he was up to this! But, he would not disobey the King or the Prince.

Prince Enrique nodded, satisfied. "Well, you may go then." Manuel turned to leave, and had approached the door, when the Prince called to him. "Oh, one more thing. I convinced the King to let you drop that pompous title. High Warden makes you sound like a gameskeeper. And simple Lord is something every knight likes to think of himself as. So, we went with my own creation. Lord High Chancellor. How does that suit you?"

Manuel said nothing, elated yet confused. Prince Enrique was not telling him everything. No King, no matter how much regard he shows for a knight, would simply elevate him to a role of high diplomat and councilor without motive. There was something being unsaid here, but Manuel knew he would not find it out here. It was off to Lisbon, and the Queen.

 

[unmerged(9167)]

Don Aquapueblo entered the court. He went to the court. There he reintroduced himself,

I am Don Aquapueblo, ambassador to this realm from Aragon once more if I am still welcomed here. Aragon desires to reestablish the friendship between Aragon and Portgual. Now that the problem between Castille and Aragon is over, on way to close allies, and the reconstruction is over, we are prepared to restore the relationship between our nations. You are invited to send an ambassador to Zaragoza.

Then he bowed.

 

[Mettermrck]

Queen Adalia assembled the Privy Council to greet the Aragonese ambassador, who had been away for a few months. News of Aragon's favorable agreement with Castille had lightened the mood of the court, and the ambassador's reception was friendly enough.

"Milord Aquapueblo, we are pleased at your return to Lisbon. You were never unwelcome. Your old quarters in the Old Residence have been put at your disposal should you choose to remain her for an extend period of time."

"Portugal is pleased to see that Aragon has come to terms with Castille at last. Queen Elinor has Iberia's best interests at heart and it is important that we stand behind her in forming a strong united front to protect our common interests. We wonder now that Aragon has signed the treaty with Castille...where do your plans take you now? Do you interests lie more to the East now?"

On her left, Duke Pedro, newly arrived from Africa, frowned at her words. Best interests? What was going on here when a Portuguese Queen spoke of deferring to a Castillian. He caught Duke Alfonso's eye and vowed to speak later about this.

 

[Mettermrck]

Lisbon Castle

Lord Manuel's carriage arrived inside Lisbon Castle, its imposing edifice making him nervous as he stepped out of the door and on to the stone-carved road the circled around the inner courtyard. The two door guards snapped to attention and Manuel flinched, not used to such ceremony. The main doors open, the Senor Alvarez, the Royal Steward emerged. Manuel could not help but feel a small pang of satisfaction. When last he had come to the castle, he was a young knight, sent to be confirmed as heir to his father's estates. The Steward then had looked down upon him, made him wait, and eyed him with disdain.

Now the circumstances were different, he thought, despite the nervousness he felt in his heart. The Steward was eyeing him critically now, a look of calculation in his eyes, wondering who this person was and why he had been lifted so high so quickly. "Your Excellency. Welcome home. The Queen awaits you in her lounge."

Manuel coughed furiously, his hand coming to his mouth to hide his embarassment. He flushed, not believing the matter of factness he was being greeted with. Nervously, he nodded and followed as the Alvarez turned and walked inside. Manuel eyed the sky critically, as if expecting a divine answer, before stepping inside.

The palace was less intimidating than it was the last time he was here. Comforting tapestries and decoration made him relax a little. You are a part of this now and not an outsider. But why could he not make himself believe that fully? They walked down the main corridor to its end at the far end of the castle before turning in the western areas, where the Queen's quarters lay.

Coming to an ornate cherry door, the Steward rapped his hand on the door twice, before it was opened by a guard on the inside. "Your Majesty. The Lord High Chancellor comes." For a fleeting second, Manuel turned to see whom the Steward referred to before flushing and realizing it was he. Now he was nervous, his heart pounding. The King was much easier...man to man...knight to knight. This was the Queen, the exemplar of chivalry. With timid steps, he entered the room.

The Queen's Lounge was plush, decorated with long comfortable couches and several brilliantly carved oak tables. A fireplace crackled in the background, reminding Manuel of the King's study in Lagos. He thought of the King's discomfiture when they last spoke, and then put it out of his mind. Queen Adalia was standing next to one of the tables, her hand resting on some parchment, covering it. She smiled warmly and beckoned for Manuel to approach. Nervously, he did so, and then hastily dove to his knees. "Your Majesty. I am at your service."

Adalia laughed at the heartfelt greeting and waved him to a couch, while she sat opposite him. His nervousness made her feel at ease, and she could not remember the last time she had made a man feel uncomfortable in her presence. Reginald, she thought, a frown coming over her. She discarded the thought and nodded to Manuel.

"I am pleased at your rapid journey from Lagos. No doubt your position has been explained to you?"
Manuel nodded, nervously, and wondered why she did not ask about the king. None of your business, Manuel.

"Now. Do not be in fear of abilities, Lord Manuel. I am quite sure you are up to the task and are more than deserving of what you have received thus far. Allow me to explain a little of why we require your services." She turned to the papers that were on the table next to her and picked them up, show them to Manuel, indicating how many there were.

"Seven, milord. Seven. Seven treaties that Portugal has signed with Navarre, Aragon, and Castille in the past four years." Manuel looked at her without expression. "Only one is still in effect. The Minoan Confederation, thank Queen Elinor for that." She sighed and set the papers down.

"Iberian diplomacy is a mess. Until last year I despaired of ever finding an ally for our kingdom. Kings would die or ministers would be replaced and getting a sense of our neighboring kingdoms was impossible. Which is where you come in." Now she relaxed a little and smiled calmly, trying to reassure the nervous young lord in front of her. It succeeded a little.

"Tomorrow you are taking ship for Navarre and the court of King Carlos Tristamara. Our envoy has recently begun negotiations over discussions of trade and other political arrangements. You are to go and make sure this agreement is concluded, and in a manner advantageous to us. Make sure you research our past trading links, and see what both kingdoms have to offer the other. Make a lasting treaty, Lord Manuel." She paused, letting her words sink in.

Manuel paled a little at the momentous task. Forge treaties overnight? He knew where Navarre was...he thought. But its trade? Royal family? He despaired at ever pulling this off. The Queen sensed his discomfort but continued. "Once that is completed, you are to stop in Toledo to visit with Queen Elinor. Give her my regards and see if you can arrange a royal visit for her to come to Lisbon, or me to Toledo, whichever you judge best. Finally, go to Valencia. Talk to the Aragonese. Make sure they're keeping to their treaty with Castille. I want to make sure Portugal has an understanding with all three kingdoms. Any questions?"

Manuel sat there, nonplussed. Questions? Certainly. Tell me the entire diplomatic history of Iberia. What's the proper royal protocol at all three courts? Who are the ambassadors we've sent to each court? What commodities are produced? Why are you plucking a knight out of nowhere to be an ambassador? Oh, only a few questions, Your Majesty. But he held his tongue. Something about the way he was being offered this position made him not speak up. They wanted him on the way quickly. Were they getting him out of the way? Sending him towards something? He shrugged, smiled, and and shook his head. "No questions, Your Majesty. I will justify your confidence in me."

Impressed by his quick acceptance of the role, Adalia smiled gratefully. We should be very sorry for putting this upon you, she thought to herself. She rose and offered her hand, which Manuel gladly knelt to kiss. Bowing to her, he left the room, wondering just what it was he was supposed to do next.

 

[unmerged(9167)]

Don Aquapubleo was also puzzled by the deep admiration toward the Castillian queen, almost as if she is master rather than a equal. He also wonders where the King is. He had heard a rumor of their difficulties but doesn't know if it is true. As he looks at the Queen, he suddenly wondered if the rumors are true.

He kept all that inside him, keeping himself composed. He answered,

Our plan is to expand the trade thus strengthen Aragon and hopefully taking it beyond the level of pre-Rhodesian disaster of which Aragon has recovered from. Yes, we do look at East however, we don't have any real plan at present. Mostly just working with our ally, Venice. Regarding Iberia, we sought to further the unity if Iberia as was King Constantine's suggestion of combing Castillian and Aragonese Cortes to increase the unity and friendship. Hopefully, it will pave the way to one day united Iberia instead of divided nation.

Thank you, Queen for your warm welcome. I take up on your offer of taking up my old quarter once more.

He then look at Duke Pedro and saw his look at Duke Alfonso. Don Aquapueblo tried to catch Duke Alfonso's eyes. He nodded to himself, he will speak with somebody and find out what is going on, how just few months created huge changes in a nation. Yes, it is so different nation from when he departed Portgual.

 

[Mettermrck]

Duke Alfonso was not surprised at the knock on the door. He sighed, and set down the book he was reading. "Enter." The door opened with a groan, and the stolid figure of Duke Pedro of Coimbra entered, the expression on his face precisely what Alfonso had anticipated. It was going to be a difficult night.

Pedro did not wait for permission to sit. He bore down on Alfonso with imposing steps and sat down opposite him. "Let us dispense with the pleasantries and the formal speech, shall we, dear Alfonso? I'm wondering if perhaps you could tell me why our Queen bends to the will of a Castillian monarch? Why is our mockery of a King living in Lagos, and what in the world is going on with this kingdom?" He had said this mildly, belying the intensity of how he felt.

Alfonso sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Portugal is not itself these days, I fear." Pedro scoffed. "That! is the obvious thing to say. But I will not be satisfied with that. A blind man could see the mess in this land. The mess you are letting happen! Now drop the pretense, and tell me what is going on!"

Eyes narrowed, Alfonso smiled wryly and thought for a moment. "The storybook has ended, Pedro. King and Queen are not the young birds they once were. One still yearns for a lost homeland and deals with secret guilt over the death of his parents. The other is new to responsibility, and easily manipulated by those more experienced."

Pedro shook his hand, disbelieving. "So our monarchs fall out of love, and Portugal suddenly grows seven heads? Have you been to Lagos? There's a bloated disgusting stone sculpture being built there...a cathedral! So tall it'll likely fall over into the sea. Can you tell me about that, Alfonso?"

"The King returned from the joust at Sparta with a problem of conscience. My sources..."

Pedro laughed. "Your spies, you mean!" Alfonso merely shrugged. "They know nothing about what ails the king's mind, aside from what we already know. He stopped in Rome, and suddenly ivory is pouring into the Vatican, and a giant cathedral is being constructed in Lagos, dedicated to the Pope."

Pedro leaned back, smirking at the news. This was impossible...in three months? A queen beholden to Castille? And the king to the Pope? What on earth was possessing this land! "I at least heard of that mockery of the boat race. All the ships sank before they even reached Morocco. We have a dunce as king, I tell you, Alfonso. A dunce. And frankly I made a mistake to see to some...ahem, business....in Africa. I'm needed here, to right the keel of this kingdom."

Alfonso glanced at him warningly. "I would watch your tongue in these environs, Pedro. The Queen rules Lisbon now, and she has voices everywhere. And now there's a Chancellor that is..."

Pedro stood, slamming his fist on the table. "Who appointed that bumpkin as Lord High Chancellor!?? And what in God's name was he doing in Morocco? We have a jackanape for a chancellor, the lapdog of poor crying Reginald and his Castillian slave-wife. I tell you, Alfonso, this kingdom's gone mad...mad!" He paced arouund the room, struggling to keep his emotions under control.

It began to rain outside, which only dampened the mood of both men. Alfonso turned to a nearby decanter and poured them both a drink, which Pedro ignored. Grunting, Alfonso took a sip and tried to relax. "Only the quiet survives these days, Pedro. The Council is weak now. The young Cardinal is a gullible youth who's pulled on Papal strings now. Erudias is Reginald's creature...he's been in Lagos for weeks now. No, it's the three Dukes now. And with your recent absence, I couldn't move a mountain let alone Duke Fernando and the Queen he worships! So don't come to me with your problems. You...weren't...here!" His shouts had surprised even himself.

Pedro smiled wanly at him. "It's good to know you have some backbone after all, Alfonso." He held up his hand to silence the protests he knew would come. "You're going to need it. We have some work to do. I take it you missed the Aragonese ambassador's look in court today? He's like me. Marvelling at the mad Portuguese rulership these days. We'll start with him. Send him a message to come to these chambers at the earliest convenience. And for goodness sake, keep quiet about all this."

 

[Mettermrck]

Queen's Wing, Lisbon Palace

It was thundering outside now, and the candles struggled to provide enough light for her to read. By all rights, she should be in bed but fatigue eluded her, and she was up late, reading correspondence from several of her closest ministers. Pedro and Alfonso....sigh. They were enough to wear any queen out, but not enough to sleep.

Adalia felt surrounded in the palace, protected only by Duke Fernando and those who loved her out of a since of loyalty. They just couldn't see the future she had in mind for Portugal as a partner with Castille and it scared her opponents. And she was alone now, so very alone, her husband gone in body and in spirit. The only she found these days was in her young son Alfonso, who was rapidly becoming a smart young heir, very conscious of his future role. He would be a good king. And young Elinor, quiet and demure even in infancy.

She turned to sit down in the chair when a bolt of lightning cracked nearby, briefly illuminating the room. She was not alone! Adalia shrieked in fright.

Reginald......

He was standing there, next to the open door into her study, simply staring at her, not saying a word. Wordlessly, the two eyed one another in the dim light, husband and wife, king and queen. Finally Reginald spoke.

"Adalia. I...I've come to tell you something. I...I'm going on a trip....a journey...to the East."

Adalia frowned. "I don't understand?"

He shook his head. "Shh...don't speak. This is difficult enough as it is. We've done a poor job at this, haven't we? No, please don't answer." Reginald held up his hand to calm her. "Let me just say what I want to say."

Reginald turned and paced towards the fireplace, warming his hands for a moment. His face was lit by the shimmering light, and it touched Adalia at how distressed he appeared. "I never believed it of us, that we would drift apart like this. Most of the responsibility is mine, I realize. My heart still beats for the East, and that is difficult to bear when one is in Portugal. I thought perhaps my journey to Sparta could cleanse some of that, but I was wrong. It only made it worse. I was tempted by the glories of knighthood and was mocked by the closeness of home...I mean, Jerusalem."

Adalia felt a rush of emotion inside her, but managed to stifle it. "You've never truly been home here, have you? None of this...your mind still resides in the Holy Land?"

Reginald sighed in response and turned to regard her for a moment. "My father ordered me away before the end. I could not fight for him or my mother. Friends have told me I did what was best in going to Rhodes...I kept the line alive. The Witaus still live. Yet I can't help feel my failure. I should've been there, Adalia! And it gnaws at me every night, picturing what the end must've been like. What did it look like when infidel boots defiled the inner sanctum of the Sepulchre. Did my father fight to the end? Was he trying to protect my mother? I don't know these things."

Instinctively, she walked closer to him, her heart beginning to weaken at his words. So this was what was ailing him. He had never lost his identity as a lost Prince. "So was this why you have been avoiding me? You thought I would not understand?"

"You cannot understand! You will never understand. Until I face this fear in me, we will always be like this, and maybe worse. That I cannot bear, Adalia."

Adalia raised an eyebrow. "What are you saying, Reginald? Surely you're not leading another------" Reginald waved an arm to silence her. "No, no. Fighting will accomplish nothing. No, I aim to reach Jerusalem this time....as a pilgrim."

The Queen didn't know what to say. Part of her wanted to protest, to warn him of the dangers, yet deep down it felt so perfectly natural. He would never be whole again unless he confronted the troubles within. Silently, she nodded. And for the first time, Reginald smiled at her.

"You're more than I deserve, Adalia. I want you to know that. And if I am ever to make that up to you...to be the husband and king Portugal and you truly deserve...then I must do this. I just wanted you to know that before I left."

Adalia wanted to hold him, to show she did indeed understand, yet the tensions of the past months kept her still. No, not yet. Things weren't that much resolved between them. Perhaps in time. "When?"

Reginald didn't say anything for a moment. "At dawn. A ship leaves from Lisbon. Andrew and I will be on it." He sighed, the emotion leaving him, and began to speak in a matter of fact tone. "You will be alone here with only the Dukes. Cardinal Montais is still in Rome and will be for some time. Manuel is a good man. Use him. I have no doubt you will need him when the time comes. I...I had best be going. Farewell, Adalia. May my return mean...happier times for us."

He turned to go, anxious to be away from the awkward scene. "Reginald?", the Queen called. Reginald turned for one last look at her. "Yes?" And now Adalia smiled warmly at him for the first time in a long time. "Fortune go with you...dear husband." Reginald grinned in return, and for a brief moment it was if the years had fallen away. Then his frown returned and he was gone.

The thunder continued to fall, and Adalia stood there for a very long time, wondering.

 

[unmerged(9167)]

Don Aquapueblo walked with the messenger to the chambers of Duke Alfonso, in the northeast wing of the palace where he is expected. He wonders what hell is going on in Portugal, that in such short time, it has changed alot. While he was walking, he acted as if it is normal, that he has the right to be where he is.

He then entered the chamber. He looked at people in the room. He spoke,

Good day, I am expected by Don Alfonso. I am Don Aquapubleo, Aragonese ambassador.

He wonders if this Alfonso have answer for this new madness.

 

[Mettermrck]

Duke Alfonso's Chambers, Lisbon Castle

The Aragonese ambassador is shown into the study where Dukes Alfonso and Pedro sit, contemplating the situation at court. Alfonso nodded to the envoy, Don Aquapueblo, having seen him before. Pedro merely stared suspiciously at him.

Alfonso cleared his throat. "Come, sit, sit. I trust everything is comfortable? Are you need of any refreshment? Something to drink perhaps?"

Pedro scowled at him. "This is no social call, Alfonso. Enough with the pleasantries. If he wants a drink, the decanter is right there," Pedro pointed to a small table near the ambassador.

Glancing only briefly at Pedro, Alfonso looked back at the ambassador and smiled. "You've no doubt why you are here, do you? After all, you were there at the beginning." He turned to Pedro. "The ambassador was here on the first day Queen Elinor had arrived in Lisbon. The Queen circumvented our man here, to put it politely, and got to Queen Adalia first. Since then, the two Queens have been bound together."

Pedro scowled again. "The Queen of Portugal, catering to the Castillian..." He stopped at the last word, glancing hastily at Aquapueblo. "Enough of this bantering. What are we going to do about it? Aragon's already caved to Castille. Adalia is Elinor's servant now, and her lapdog Manuel is already in Pamplona, talking to the King of Navarre. It's a new hegemony, with Toledo at the center of it." He sighed and leaned back in his chair, shaking his head in tired disbelief.

Alfonso regarded him for a moment before turning back to the ambassador. "What can you tell us, Don Aquapueblo? Your kingdom recently ceded rich lands to Castille. Is your monarch bound to Elinor as ours is? I'm wondering what our options are."

 

[Herr Doctor]

A letter from Friesland arrives:

”Honorable King of Portugal,

New Trade Union of the North Sea is very interesting in opening of new trade route between our cities and your lands. We wish to sign an agreement with great Kingdom of Portugal and to make trade of wool from North and of spices from your lands more easy. We hope that Your Majesty will accept our offers and we will send a delegate to start negotiations…

Union Council”

 

[Mettermrck]

A letter of reply is sent from Portugal to Friesland:

"Greetings to Your Honor, Stadtholder Hendrik van Leijsenach, and the Council of Cities. Friesland's letter is of great interest to important circles in the Kingdom of Portugal.

Their Majesties, King Reginald of Witau and Queen Adalia Duarte, are contemplating the establishment of a beneficial and organized trade route from our ports in the south to the northern environs of Europe, where we may tap into the commerce of the north and provide access to the lucrative goods of the south and east.

If Friesland is interested in being a part of this, we would gladly accept a delegate in Lisbon at your earliest convenience to negotiate."