Santa Maria da Feira is a quiet, calm town in the north of Portugal. Very important to the Reconquista and the creation of the Condado Portucale, a remnant of those times is the castle which stands on a small grassy hill overlooking the lands. From there one can look at the fields, but more importantly, supervise the movement which goes around town at every weekend, when the market stalls open earlier and the quiet of the place is pierced by belching, announcing prices loudly, the smell of Porto wine and the occasional girlish squeal upon a meeting with the less desirable tenants of the marketplace, sailors from Africa, Italy, Brazil and the many colonies of the Spanish Empire. The Empire holds sway over the town indirectly, having managed to quell a rebellion there relatively recently, and leaving a garrison of many behind, who only add to the chaotic streetscape of Sundays - after Mass, of course.
The castle, in contrast, is a palatial space. Sobriety rules the décor. Silence can be found in the archways and cloister or the relatively humble chapel. Servants seem to acknowledge this and pass by on their daily chores gracefully, leaving the cackling and gossiping to the pantry, stables or the hillside. The ancient stone walls look as if they speak of years of intrigue, war councils and whatever stories that might tickle the Romantic in us when looking at the Middle Ages. It was probably a place where decisions were made that would change destiny... but has it lived up to it in recent times?
We find the castle in peace on that day in the year of 1893, even though it is a Sunday afternoon, and the town is aflame in their weekly celebrations. The crowd is indistinct at first, but there is someone in that rush of noise and wine that seems to command respect, maybe because of his mount, a strong Thoroughbred, leading its rider and a following companion through the narrow streets until they reach the castle gates, opened in advance. The servants are confused; the man who rides the leading horse is well-known to them, however his vestments are now considerably different than in any other time of his visit. The ceremonial aspect of it seems to be much more present, and the complex coat of arms in the horse and cape bears some resemblance, but not many of them can quite recognize what is it. His companion, a visibly lower class young man, looks like he is trying too hard to keep up the pomp and circumstance of the master.
“Is my uncle in the hall? Is my cousin there already?”
“Yes, my Lord Cristóbal. They await you.”
Cristóbal takes a left turn and reaches the cloister, as memories come back. It was in that cloister that he grew up. He spent more time in Santa Maria da Feira than in Pontevedra or Santiago de Compostela, and played joyfully in that same cloister for many years. The children of lord and servant alike loved the castle. It made them dream of days of yore, of knights and princesses, and inspired their childish theaters.
One day, when their years were more mature, Cristóbal and his cousin Alberto, who had been his first friend, had a discussion. The age of teenage passions was here, and coincidence found them gaining affections for the same girl, a young chambermaid called Sonia. The Soutomaior family was traditional, and hired swordsmen to train their boys in fencing, even in the year of 1857 and further on. It was during a practice that Alberto hit the wooden sword on Cristóbal with more strength than usual, and it proved to be the excuse for the boys to argue and even begin to brawl because of their love interest. Sonia sat on the side, having caught on to their feelings and feeling strangely excited at the situation. The other children shouted them on. Cristóbal now remembered all of this happening in that same cloister, but one thing was present in his memory. When the cousins just stood around and argued with each other, Cristóbal had mentioned the fact Alberto and his uncle weren’t living in Spain anymore. He wondered loudly if they had ran away. He immediately regretted the words, for he loved his uncle, and Alberto now tackled him and both cousins rolled on the ground just before the castle governess broke up the confusion and split the young men. These were all childish things, of course, and any grudges the cousins might have had were long gone, especially after Sonia married a Portuguese Army sargeant some years later. Her family still lived on the town.
“Good to see you, Cristóbal. There is much to talk about.”
The doors to the hall opened as Cristóbal was a few steps from them. The tall figure of Alberto stood there, slim and still imposing, in stylish but simpler clothes, in the latest British fashion. Cristóbal, who was leading the young servant, now also followed his cousin into the decorated hall, complete with carvings of the Soutomaior coat of arms in the window parapets. The long hall ended in a cozy study-like place, with a desk, a fireplace and some chairs. On the largest of them, Cristóbal saw his uncle sitting. Don Artai Amaro de Soutomaior e Andrade, political man of the time of Carlos V and one of the greats of the musical world in the Iberian peninsula, is now an octogenarian, looking smaller and slightly curved in the chair.
Cristóbal approaches him, kneels and kisses his hand.
“Blessings, Don Artai.”
“Do not be so formal with my name. God bless you.”
Alberto takes the desk chair, and Cristóbal and the young servant accommodate themselves on the other ones.
“Cristóbal, before you say what I expect you to say… how is uncle Brandán?”
“Well. He walks around the property and does light gardening. I have replaced him in practically every official matter. I think his heart couldn’t take much, not the way Spain has been doing recently.”
“I wish I could do gardening still. I envy Brandán for a lot of things now, but mostly his age. It’s not that prestigious to be the older brother when you’re in your eighties.”
A hearty laugh takes over the men, and eases the atmosphere in the hall. Even the servant feels more comfortable.
“So… now to more serious things. We hear of trouble in Spain, cousin. The sailors and merchants are talking, but they seem to have limited views of that. What has been going on?”
“Well, as you know the reds have been stirring up revolutionary sentiment in the country.”
“Tell me some news. They have been trying to do that for long now.”
“Well, this time it will probably start up something bigger.”
“I see. I mean, what else could be the result of accepting liberalism in any way? They have some resources now, they and all their dirty rabble.”
“This will not be like 1873, cousin! There is no fast peace to be thought of. There won’t be any more political moves that could avoid war on the streets and keep Spain as it has always been! Times are different. We have been lenient on socialists. They will take advantage of that.”
“Wait, is it a nationally organized uprising?”
“Yes. Their party is behind it. Things are happening fast. There is confusion in the palaces and castles. We don’t know whether to trust moderates. The demagoguery of socialists makes any good man sick to their stomach.”
“Hear, hear.”
Don Artai reached for a glass of wine. He enjoyed the silence while his family members waited for his thoughts. He was still a proud man.
“I’m old. Old people get bored easily, boys. Everyone knows the red devils shouldn’t exist, too much talk of it gets very boring. You didn’t come here just to warn us of a revolt, Cristóbal. On with it."
Cristóbal knew this moment would arrive, but he was still fighting the words and thoughts. Indeed, Don Artai was correct. The reason for his coming was much more important. It was also something that would change their lives.
“Uncle… sometimes I wonder, why haven’t you come back to Spain more times since the dukedom was passed to my father?”
“Old stories. They aren’t important now. I didn’t want to leave in the first place, but there were pressing matters for our family in Portugal, boy. You should know. Do you not remember the Miguelist War? Our Portuguese cousins were on the wrong side… that needed to be corrected. I got too much reputation for my own good, so I was needed here. I left the Spanish title to Brandán, and soon I had no reason to come back to Galiza. When I gave most of the duties to Alberto, I was old enough and just wanted to visit my brother and you.”
“Yes, uncle. I know the story. But couldn’t you have come back after the war?”
“Brandán was a lot like you, Cristóbal. Very ambitious, but also very capable. I came to love this region as much as I love Galiza. Why deny him the honor to be one of the Grandes de España when I just wanted to live comfortably and make my music?”
“Father, I think no one can say that didn’t work out. Your music’s really good, even though I have been listening to it for years.”
Another amused laugh.
“I’m glad you think that way, uncle. How is the money here? Does the barony still produce enough to sustain you, the castle and the servants?”
“Of course it does, cousin. You saw the market today! We could live well even if we just taxed the people on Sundays.”
“Good.”
“You’re still avoiding the point, Cristóbal.”
Oh well.
“Well, uncle, maybe Alberto has an idea of what I’m about to propose. Times of trouble in Spain may also mean times of renewal for us.”
“We only talked about this a little the last time I was in Santiago. But I don’t know exactly what you’re thinking of.”
“We need a new duke.”
“That’s something.”
“Maybe me?”
Another laugh.
“I wish we were still in those times, uncle. I am proposing the title returns to your side of the family. Father is old, and to be frank, I have been also getting some years. You mentioned me being like him, but this is where I’m starting to become like you: I want peace and quiet. Not to deal with a revolution. I want father to live without political cares, and so would I like to. You in here, however, have…”
“Two more years than you!”
A smile.
“But I know what you mean. Mariano?”
“Yes. Is he still in Lisbon?”
“God.”
The eyes in the room turned to Don Artai, who looked properly confused but happy.
“Sorry to be so drastic on my idea, uncle.”
“This is a lot to think about. I can’t say I’m not pleased, though…”
“Yes, he’s in Lisbon. The King has told us his service is very valuable there. Best Artillery officer in Portugal.”
“Surprising that he hasn’t added to the family’s titles yet.”
“He’s still considered young for that, I think. I’m sure the King would find it in him to let him go. We have been loyal subjects.”
“The defense of Santa Maria da Feira was brilliant, cousin. We all owe you one.
“It’s interesting how these rebellions have changed our lives. One more to go.”
Don Artai looked deep in thought, and this time a few more minutes were added to it. After consideration, he looked at Cristóbal.
“Tell me just one thing. You’re not choosing Martín because of his… issues?”
“Yes, uncle. I love the boy, as a good Catholic should always love his son, even if he is a sinner. But people who know him, suspect his persuasions. We have a name to preserve. Galiza is rightfully traditionalist. They would never accept a queer.”
“What a waste.”
“Indeed. Is Brandán aware of your opinion?”
“Since a few months ago. He supports it, of course. He also cannot wait to come to Portugal and see you, and live here.”
“I miss him. Tell him that. One more thing. The servant boy… why does he accompany you? He’s very quiet.”
“This is Fernando. He’s a good person, if too shy. I brought him as a witness and intend for him to be working for Mariano when he’s the new duke. To be honest, I came dressed in the dukedom’s coat of arms with the fancies because I thought Mariano could be here. We could have done this today, even.”
More silence.
“It is done. I trust your judgement. Send Fernando to Lisbon. Go there, boy, but speak nothing of what happened here today. Tell Mariano we will meet in Santiago in a month, for a family reunion. Let him believe that, and only that.”
-------------------------
A few hours later, a light rain had started to fall over the town and castle. The sun was on its descendent trajectory, leaving behind a sky of orange and blue hues, into which Cristóbal gazed as he sat in the cloister in the company of a book. It would soon become too dark to read in there, and as he thought of leaving to a room, he noticed Alberto coming from the left side and sitting down beside him.
“Father is taking a siesta before dinner. Fernando has left. We equipped him properly. He is a good servant, and for some reason his hair reminds me of our great-uncle, you remember him? The same reddish brown. Fernando doesn’t seem like he laughs or drinks as much, though.”
Laughter.
“It feels great to be here again.”
“Too many memories, right?”
“A lot. Just today as I was going through the left wing there…”
“The day we fought, right?”
Cristóbal got awkward, but surprised that Alberto thought of the same thing as he did.
“How did you remember that too?”
“Well, I know you probably remembered it because the day was similar and you were walking through there. I’m used to the castle, though. What brought it to mind was our conversation and how Mariano will get the dukedom.”
“Interesting. Why?”
“You were really angry that day and you told me we had run away from Spain.”
Cristóbal lowered his head.
“I also thought of that. It’s shameful, cousin. I know you forgave me, but I ask once again.”
“Don’t worry. It’s just funny. After years, decades, you come back here to fix that. It had to be you, cousin. In a way you were right. I’ll never be the Duke of Galiza. I don’t care that much for it anyway. Yet my son will, and he will do so by your hand, and your father’s blessings.”
Silence.
“How the world turns.”
They both admire the sky above.
“Truly.”
-----------------
Santiago de Compostela woke up that Sunday with excitement. The people got out of their houses as if following the Sun, going to the different parishes where Mass would take place, but that was the usual part. After ten, a crowd started to converge to the Praza do Obradoiro, in front of the cathedral. Space soon became a luxury, and even the cathedral’s steps started getting crowded around eleven, when a single bell tolled and marked the beginning of the ceremony. The Soutomaior family sat on the front benches, all the men and women and children that could come from other parts of Spain, the colonies, America and Portugal. In a special place was Don Artai, whose aura even at age 86 commanded respect. In the last part of the nave, in front of all the people but below the sacred altar, there stood two men, with a third one kneeling in front of them.
“Gratia suae Maiestatis Phillippus Sextus rex Hispaniae…”
A long process had just been finished, by which Duke Brandán de Soutomaior e Valladares, Duke of Galiza, would abdicate from his title and grant it to his grand-nephew, fulfilling a promise between brothers when Artai left Spain fifty years ago. He, standing now by the Cardinal Archbishop, lifted a ceremonial sword in a straight motion, in front of his body.
“... et sub semper vigilantibus oculi Dei altissimo…”
The young man shivered at the mention of God, whom he was brought up to fear and respect. It felt like that same God, who in his teenaged curiosity seemed so far, was now very close, looking through the blooming light of the cathedral’s windows at him.
“... hodie annuntiamus Mariano Enrique de Soutomaior e Andrade Dux Galliciae…”
He felt the sword fall gently upon his shoulder, as if a symbol for the responsibilities he would bear.
“... dominus in terram istam, ut serviant populi, Dei et gloria Hispaniae…”
Most of all, to learn how to do it. How would a young man deal with being a Grande de España? How would he serve his people in the times of trouble, when the red menace knocks? How to maintain piety and respect his family name when there is always war on the horizon? How…
“... sic fiat.”
Then all wondering stopped. When requested, Mariano rose up and faced the smiling face of his great-uncle Brandán, and walked out along the nave to the sound of organ pieces composed by his grandfather, who also watched proudly. The respectful quiet and music of the cathedral turned to a cheer as he took the square. The Soutomaior family was beloved in Galiza, many still remembering how Don Artai had defended them in the Carlist War. Mariano was something new and fresh, and the news of his reputation in Portugal had reached Santiago de Compostela as soon as he was publicly appointed to succeed his great-uncle.
He has a bright future ahead of him.
Name: Mariano Enrique de Soutomaior e Andrade, Duke of Galiza
Date of Birth: February 8th, 1871
Background: Mariano was born into the prestigious Soutomaior e Andrade family, to Alberto Franco Soutomaior e Andrade, son of the legendary aristocrat and musician Don Artai Amaro de Soutomaior e Andrade, who served in the Privy Council of King Carlos V as Minister for the Interior before his somewhat mysterious decision to leave Spain in 1843. Don Artai and Don Alberto relocated to Portugal, however Mariano had been brought back to Galiza to be born in the ducal palace now led by his great-uncle. Enjoying a good education in his years between Portugal and Spain, Mariano at first gained training in music, but prefered the path of the Army. Enlisted as a commissioned officer in the Portuguese Army, because of his aristocratic origins and the close relationship of that nation with Spain, Mariano had an easy path to higher office and his particular talents in artillery gave him a place in Lisbon as a second-rank Captain protecting the Tagus. A peculiar string of events made him come back to Santiago de Compostela at age 22, when after some months of preparation he received the coronet of the Dukedom of Galiza and prepared for a career in Spanish politics, and if possible, the Armed Forces. News of a rebellion were around, and the Royalist and Catholic Soutomaior family would find no shortage of leading to do.