Among other dissonances within the ‘Madrid bubble’ at the nexus of the dysfunctional Empire of New Spain was the tension between the ‘modernisers’ of the Aranjuez Court and the ‘traditionalists’ of the El Escorial. While it would be a gross misrepresentation to claim that one faction was in any way anti-Catholic◦– such a thing was unthinkable in the Spanish Imperial establishment◦– the Holy See in Rome periodically castigated those ‘who would overturn the tradition in the name of progress’, and now and then had backed up this with bulls of ex-communication against several of Queen Sophia’s advisors in recent years. Moreover, the Cardinal of Madrid, a man in his eighties whom many considered a living anachronism had once famously bemoaned ‘the feebleness of the modern-day Inquisition.’ Apparently, he was still a ‘burning’ cardinal!
One of the main tasks assigned to ‘British’ members of the impotent Joint Commission to which Melody and Henrietta had been appointed last year, had been to probe both Royal Courts to identify people◦– men, if one was being picky because there were few women of influence, courtesans apart within either court◦– with whom London might ‘do business.’
Melody had actually been a little shocked to discover that Imperial Intelligence had so singularly failed to penetrate the apparatus of the Empire’s only serious transatlantic rival. The reasons for this had soon become crystal clear. Belatedly, she had come to understand that the closer to the top of Spanish society one moved the more profoundly opaque things became until by the time one tried to peer into the workings of the Royal Courts, all was veiled, smoke and mirrors and scores, possibly hundreds or thousands of lies, schemes and subterfuges obscured any glimpse of reality.
Consequently, the very fact that outside observers could see even slim shafts of murky daylight between the Courts of the El Escorial and Aranjuez was the real litmus test of how much trouble the Empire of Spain was in, and the likely ramifications for New Spain overseas. It was almost as if what everybody had known for decades but been afraid to talk about, was now the least-best kept secret in Christendom.
Even in Old Spain, there were factions who understood that the Empire of New Spain was dying, disintegrating around them and with it the century’s old dominion of an infallible monarchy.
Old Spain was not a country, it was an empire within an empire: Castile and Leon, Aragon, Galicia, Asturias, La Mancha, Catalonia, Extremadura, Andalusia, Navarre and all the other lands of the Iberian Peninsula might be nominally ‘Spanish’ but each had their own language, culture, histories and communal identities buried beneath ‘Spain’ but not extinguished, waiting to find new expression if and when the burden of the upstart Castilian, or Aragonese, or Asturian, or whichever royal blood line, which temporarily sat upon the throne in Madrid stood aside, or was… over-thrown.
However, for the moment Melody was content to forget all the wearisome ‘background noise’ and enjoy being with Henrietta, safe in this rural backwater many miles from the harsh realities of a once great nation in sad, irreversible decline.
The two women finished their drinks and walked slowly back up the gently rising cobbled street to the Hacienda de los Conquistadores, where, asking not to be disturbed until a few minutes before the evening meal was served, they retired to their bed chambers◦– or rather, Henrietta’s bed◦– to enjoy a lazy, playful siesta little knowing that the great storm long-predicted by an army of ‘Spanish experts’, few of whom had ever stepped foot on the soil of Old Spain, was about to break over the Mountains of Madrid.
It seemed odd that evening, eating alone together at the big table where Alonso had regaled them with witty asides, pithy word plays and gossip, both scurrilous and ironic about the goings on in his time in Philadelphia.
The women ate sparingly having excelled themselves in their wanderings around the town that morning, enjoying a long, browsing lunch in the Plaza Mayor and subsequently, done little to burn off the calories they had taken on board during their post-prandial perambulations and naps that afternoon. They savoured small glasses of wine, talked awhile on the veranda until a light, spotting rain began to fall in the darkness and the wind, as if on cue, chilled several degrees, quickly driving them inside.
“I could get used to this,” Melody admitted. “But I think we’d both grow quite plump in no time at all living the easy life!”
They laughed as they shut the door to Henrietta’s bed chamber at their backs, disrobed, trooped into the small washroom to wipe away a little of the day’s dust, brushed their teeth, and discarding their shifts, slipped beneath the blankets together.
“I’m sorry,” Melody whispered in the Stygian gloom. “I do thoughtless things sometimes, that’s who I am.”
Henrietta kissed her as their limbs tangled together.
“I’m sure I will do something bad one day,” the younger woman gasped, breathlessly.
Melody laughed softly.
“I shall look forward to that!”
It was all the prompting her lover needed to roll on top of her and straddle her.
Melody stretched and pressed against her, her hands gently kneading Henrietta’s breasts; presently her lover lowered herself onto her elbows, began to plant small, moist kisses on and around her mouth, moaning as Melody’s fingers began to explore between her thighs. Suddenly she wanted to lick and suck every inch of her partner’s flesh, touch her with every part of her being.
Much, much later the two women slept.
Their sleep was dreamless, sated, both utterly comfortable, safe in their own skins in the warm blanket of the Spanish night far, far from the troubles of the age.
Chapter 8
Friday 17th March
Government House, Philadelphia
The Governor of the Crown Colonies of the Commonwealth of New England, Edward Philip Cornwallis Sidney, 7th Viscount De L'Isle, who only usually used his full title ‘The Lord De L'Isle, Dudley and Northampton’ in his annual, summer appearances in the House of Lords to make his customary report on the year just completed in the Americas, was a much pre-occupied man that morning. Not least because he had felt it necessary to dissemble when, some minutes ago, his wife Diana had inquired, with horrible pertinacity, whether the ‘commotion in Spain’ was ‘likely to effect Henrietta and Miss Danson?’
‘Hen and the others will be as safe as houses in the Embassy, my love. It’ll all turn out to be a storm in a tea cup. You know how volatile the Latin temperament can be!’
The Governor of New England’s wife had been very ill in the last few days and although he justified his white lie◦– in reality only an embellishment of the truth because nobody seemed to know anything about the situation in Madrid or anywhere else in Old Spain at the moment◦– he felt damnably guilty.
Not to say more than a little worried about his daughter.
“Excuse me, My Lord,” a Government House staffer, a subaltern in the uniform of the 20th/21st Hussars murmured, reluctant to interrupt the great man mid-stream in the consideration of whatever mighty matters of state were demanding his immediate attention, ‘Brigadier Harrison has asked to speak to you at your earliest convenience. Should I put the call through to you, My Lord?”
“Yes, if you’d be so good. Thank you.”
De L’Isle settled behind his broad, uncluttered desk and waited a few seconds for the phone to ring. He had asked London if they had any idea what was going on in Spain, only to be informed that the Foreign and Colonial Secretary was in a meeting with ‘Cabinet colleagues’, which did not bode well.