The Past (6th June 1682) - Continued
It appears that we are expected, for a man with a full beard and greying waiting for us. He grabs hold of de Aranda’s hand and shakes it vigorously, greeting him in English. With a firm pull Carlos disengages, and turns to me. “This is Jean de Fontenay, the friend I spoke of. Jean, this is John – you could call him a namesake.” He grins at his own humour.
“Morning good, monsieur,” he welcomes me in mangled French. “I hope you the Lion Red pleases very good.” He beckons us and turns. “This way, me follow, me follow!”
Carlos steps beside me. “And you compare my accent to an Englishman’s!” he chortles, as wave for him to go first.
We are led to a small private chamber, pungent with the smells of fresh cooking and fresh bread. Set on a side table are platters and plates, with beakers and tankards. There is also a large pot, with air steaming from a spout. We are left alone. I look at the unfamiliar feast, and my stomach feels very small.
Carlos is no stranger to this fare, and fills up two plates with bacon, sausages, mushrooms, and various other things. From the pot he fills two of he beakers, and I recognise it as tea. He offers me a plate, and after a moment I take it. It seems quite absurd to eat so hearty so early. He fills the tankards with English ale, putting them on the table as he sits. The chair looks comfortable, and I settle into mine glad for some steady ground.
“One of the best things about this place,” Carlos expounds as he tucks into his breakfast, “is that, in addition to being very accommodating to a little intrigue they feed you well! You can plot here quite certain your secrets are safe, and equally certain your stomachs will be filled.”
With a good deal more caution I sample a sausage. It is not quite as bad as I had feared. The meat is at least cooked, and not rotten.
“It is a most uncommon kind of place then,” I reflect, studying something on my plate, a small, dark, cake-like thing I do not recognise.
“Black pudding,” Carlos identifies the oddity. “I am not sure, but I think Old Charles – the proprietor (it was his younger brother who met us) – served Prince Rupert for a time when Cromwell ruled England in certain nefarious capacities. After the Prince died he moved here and opened the Red Lion, declaring it neutral ground to the various smugglers and riff-raff. There were a few arguments about that at first, or so I have been told, but Charles had brought over most of his family, and his services were soon accepted.”
“And us diplomats followed suit.”
“We are more profitable as a clientele, and it is a useful place. More plots are made here than anywhere else in the world – with the possible exception of the Curia I suppose,” he says with a chuckle. I take a hesitant bite of the strange concoction, and then spit the foul stuff out. Carlos laughs all the louder as I slurp some ale, trying to rid myself of that terrible taste.
“Of course,” he continues still smiling, “not everyone wants to be seen in such a place. The common room can be a little rowdy, but that is part of the make-up. Old Charles is a very wily man.”
“Old Charles?”
“Charles is a popular name in the family. There is Old Charles, Young Charles – his son – and three more Charles’ among the cousins and nephews.”
“Quite the family business,” I comment. The rest of the food is palatable, but I eat without Carlos’ apparent enthusiasm. Diverting though this is, the news I have learnt this morning is too momentous for me to be truly calm.
A few minutes pass as de Aranda continues to eat, and I sip at the tea. I am not sure why the English are so enamoured of this decoction, but it is pleasant in a watery sort of way. Carlos concentrates on his food, his eyes bright and alive. Each times he selects another morsel an irrepressible smile appears on his face. I wait, and he appears to be quite happy to let me wait, but there is no sense of superiority. He does not even look at me so intent is he on the contents of his plate. I wonder, as I take another sip, whether he is being deliberately rude. I do not know him well enough to find an answer, and my patience is, for the moment, less large than his appetite.
“Carlos,” I say, learning forward to get his attention. “You mentioned three individuals of particular note. I think I should know who they are.”
He takes a long swig of ale. “Of course,” he replies, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Like an Englishman,” I affirm, and he gives me a quick smile.
“The first suspect, if you will, is Alonso Ponce de Leon.”
I frown. “The Duke of Puerto Rico?”
“The same,” Carlos nods, picking up a napkin. He wipes the back of his hand. “He is not in the capital himself of course – the Caribbean is his playground. But he is the head of the family, and that family is the centre of a faction that has been out of power since not long after King Carlos’ accession. They are always ready to make a little mischief, and this time should be no different. The man we have to worry about is his stooge on the Committee of the Americas, Miguel de los Santos. An important man in his own right – he is one of three Treasurers of that Committee and has great influence on the Secretary. Others will defer to him, and see in his actions the wishes of his master. He won’t act directly – far too dangerous – but is likely to incite others, and there are always plenty of hopefuls seeking to gain the favour of such a powerful family.”
“That sounds all very … convoluted,” I say, testing an idea.
Carlos shrugs. “The factions have been circling so long they have almost forgotten how to face each other directly.”
“Almost.” I sigh. “I presume the real reason for all of this is the question of King Carlos’ successor?”
De Aranda drinks some tea before answering. “There are three main choices: native, Hapsburg, or Bourbon.”
A silence develops. I stare into the bottom of my beaker. I know he is studying me, gauging me. I look up.
“And whom would you choose?” I keep my tone casual, but there is surely no mistaking the intensity of my eyes.
Carlos leans back, and lets out a full breath in one long exhalation. He regards me for a moment, without a trace of jollity. “Hapsburg.” He leans forward again, putting his hands on the table. “I might prefer a Spaniard, but that would likely lead to civil war, which would be disaster, and I would rather…”
“…Rather die than serve a Frenchman?” He looks straight at me when I speak, and I hold his eyes for a moment before they fall.
He smiles. “You have me figured out. Incidentally, the Duke of Milan is also a supporter of the Hapsburg candidature.”
There is another silence, and now de Aranda is the one looking down.
“The other two?” I ask, trying to take us past that point.
“The second is the Mediterranean Secretary, Enrique Velasco. He will oppose anything supported by my Minister – theirs is a personal quarrel from before we were born. He is the lesser worry, because although he would dearly love to see my Duke discomforted, he would not put personal hatred before a love of country. He will scheme, but only to a point. He is known.”
He pauses again, but before I can interject he starts again. “The third person is the real peril my friend, and I would like us to be friends. He is dangerous because he is without our – by that I mean Spanish – control; and because he really does want a Bourbon to sit on the Spanish throne, and he holds to that opinion with a frightening fervour. I do not truly think he is rational in this, or understands the consequences. For us to do something directly would entail war, a war that we cannot afford whilst the Succession is in doubt.” One side of his mouth quirks, but with a sinking feeling I know what he is going to say. “I speak, of course, of your own Ambassador."