The Iberian Flame

Chapter 14

The Escorial Palace, San Lorenzo, Spain

‘It’s blundering lunacy, makes no sense – none at all!’ Chancellor Godoy spluttered, throwing the sheaf of ill-written dispatches to the floor and pacing nervously to and fro.

His grand secretary Enrique Herrera picked them up, his stooped frame creaking under the effort. When he rose it was with heavy patience and mute resentment – Godoy was the King’s principal minister and held all power, but he was blind to what was happening, most of it the direct result of his own inept ambition.

‘Look at it! The idiots are turning our soldiers out of their own castles and moving in as if they were their private estates!’

Herrera held his tongue. The French were arrogant, overbearing and difficult, to be expected of the liege men of Napoleon Bonaparte, the master of all Europe. And now, while the secret Treaty of Fontainebleau allowed their divisions to cross Spain and fall jointly on Portugal, they were taking their time about it, advancing into Spain as though into an enemy country, insisting on securing strong-points and leaving garrisons in their wake.

The treaty made explicit provision for how it was to be done: a long column moving forward on each side of the country to unite at the Portuguese border. Yet there seemed to be no pattern in what they were doing, taking whichever road they fancied in alarming numbers.

‘Confound it, as if we’ve not enough to worry on, they’re upsetting the rabble by their antics. God’s bones, but it’s a trial!’

‘Principe, the people do not know of the secret treaty. All they see is Frenchmen marching into Spain. Can you blame them for being restless?’

‘Bonaparte should heed what I say,’ Godoy burst out. ‘The stakes are clear and he risks losing all for want of a little patience.’

Their room was high up in the austere palace that was the administrative centre of the Spanish Empire, but faint noises could be heard from below – crowds pressed up against the railings, demanding the King show himself and reassure them that this was no French plot. Well, they were going to be disappointed, mused Godoy, bitterly. King Carlos had departed for his usual sojourn in Aranjuez, his summer palace thirty miles away.

The reply he’d received from the Emperor of France to his offer of a marriage alliance between the Crown Prince of Spain, the Prince of Asturias, Fernando, and a Bonaparte princess was quite out of all understanding. The haughty Marshal Duroc in Paris had replied on behalf of his master that the proposal was tainted, given that the prince had so recently been arrested and condemned by his own father.

Godoy asked himself time and time again: why had he turned it down? By this simple dynastic act he could have secured an unparalleled position of influence and bound the two nations as close as he desired without the need of complex diplomatic or even military manoeuvring.

Voices sounded outside and the Conde de Montijo strode in, the quick-tempered court functionary whose family had been grandees of Spain before the time of the virtuous King Felipe II and who never ceased to provoke Godoy as he plotted and schemed against him.

‘Ha! What are you doing here, Godoy, when the French are marching on us? Hey?’

‘Calm yourself, Montijo. You know of the treaty and-’

‘You’ve not heard the news,’ the man said, with fat satisfaction. ‘They’re not telling you, are they?’

‘What are you prating about?’

‘Your French friends are overreaching themselves, Godoy. Now that toad Murat is himself on the march – to Madrid!’

Godoy went cold. There could be little mistaking the significance of the act. His entire understanding with Bonaparte had degenerated into a one-sided disdainful keeping-at-a-distance. ‘There are military reasons for this, or do you not perceive them?’ he said icily.

‘I perceive that the people and the Cortes want explanation of why the French are here at all. Can you give ’em one?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Godoy said venomously. ‘Now be so good as to leave us. I’ve much to do.’

With a dark chuckle, the man departed.

Godoy tried to make sense of the situation. Murat, chosen by Bonaparte to be the head of all French forces in Iberia, was unscrupulous, aggressive and vain. To be openly marching on the capital in defiance of the provisions of the treaty would need the complicity of his emperor, even the personal connivance. What did it mean?

Herrera gazed at him accusingly, then said, in a low voice charged with emotion, ‘He wants the throne for himself.’

‘Impossible!’ But as soon as he said it, Godoy could see how it might well be. In a replay of what had happened to so many crowned heads across Europe, it was going to happen here.

He’d been deceived, tricked. The Treaty of Fontainebleau had been nothing but an elaborate charade to enable Bonaparte to flood Spain with his troops to support his coup.

Heedless and impetuous, Godoy had allowed talk of Prince of the Algarves to go to his head – he, the son of a poor scion of Badajoz to be set on a throne. Now, in a cruel reversal, it was plain he was to be sacrificed cynically to the mob, who would blame him for allying with the invading French.

Furious thoughts roared through his brain. As long as he had the King’s ear he could do something. But what?

Then he had it. Stuffing papers into a valise, he shouted to Herrera to ready himself to travel to Aranjuez.

The man obeyed, and in bare minutes they were in a coach that took them through streets alive with sullen, unpredictable crowds, who shouted and screamed at their noble conveyance. Was this a taste of what would take place if the revolutionary poison came to do its work?

Godoy sneered at the idea: Napoleon Bonaparte wanted a crown and subject people, not an ungovernable horde.

Some time later the carriage swerved into the vast winged courtyard of Aranjuez and stopped at the imposing red and cream edifice. Palace soldiery stood on the steps, splendid in their accoutrements – more than the usual number, Godoy noticed uneasily.

He was shortly granted audience.

‘Oh, Godoy, mi primo, I’ve waited for your attendance on me,’ King Carlos greeted him, cheeks a-quiver. ‘And our queen, she cannot feel safe without you are by our side.’

‘Majesty, it has been hard for me in these fevered days.’

‘Yes, yes, I quite understand. Now what is going on out there? Tell me! Tell me!’

‘Sire, it is grave news. I do not know how I might explain other than to say that we have been betrayed.’

‘B-b-betrayed?’

‘I fear, sire, that the French have not kept the terms of our treaty concerning Portugal. It was a ruse to enter Spain with their armies to achieve their goal – to seize the Crown of Spain.’

‘The Crown! B-but-’

‘Just so, Majesty. As did happen to so many other kingdoms before the weight of the Emperor’s power.’

Grey with worry, the King asked, ‘What can we do? Nothing can stand against him.’

‘There is a course we must consider.’ One that even a Bonaparte could not prevent.

‘Oh?’

‘Sire, you must do as the Portuguese did with such success. You will transport your crown and government to your loyal colonies in America and from there rule as King of Spain still.’

‘I cannot!’

‘Why not?’ Impatience made him sound sharper than he’d intended. With Carlos out of reach of Bonaparte and his battalions, he himself would still retain influence and power in an exiled court and he had to see it through.

‘The Royal Navy, our sworn enemy of the ages,’ the King said more strongly. ‘I will be taken on the high seas and paraded through the streets, like a common captive. What will the world think of us then?’

Godoy cursed under his breath. ‘Majesty, you will travel from here to Seville, then rest in your royal chambers while we summon your loyal vessels. From Cadiz, Malaga, Cartagena – your fleet then sails for the New World, knocking aside the unprepared foe and sailing on to safety in your realms beyond the seas.’

God’s blood! There was so little time to do what was needed – dire threats to the Spanish commanders if they did not put to sea, a secret approach to the British admiral parlaying a safe passage for a fat slice of cargo from the Manila treasure galleon, forged orders to the French men-o’-war in Spanish ports …

‘We must consider this carefully, Godoy, mi primo,’ the King said shakily. ‘I will seek guidance in prayer.’

‘Yes, sire,’ Godoy said coldly, inwardly furious. ‘I await your decision in my home here.’ Bowing stiffly, he withdrew. Things were spiralling out of control; if he couldn’t move within hours he would lose the race – and probably his head.

Montijo was waiting, arms folded, in front of a detachment of royal guards. ‘Why, Godoy – in a hurry?’

‘Out of my way, fool,’ he snarled, in no mood to be taunted by his rival.

‘You’ve been upsetting His Majesty, haven’t you, little worm?’

‘King Carlos leaves for his American colonies for his own safety in a very short while and is-’

‘He’s going nowhere. You’ve lost the game, Godoy!’

‘You think so? Then-’

‘The royal guard. We’re the real guardians of the Crown, not you. Now the people are speaking – you hear them?’

Outside there were confused shouts, angry exchanges.

‘I’ve told them it’s you who invited in the French, with that miserable treaty, you interfering with the royal will – they’re after your blood, vermin.’

Godoy paused, but only for a moment, then pushed by Montijo, who allowed him to pass, a sardonic smile playing on his lips.

‘Go on!’ jeered Montijo. ‘They’ll want to spit on the traitorous pig who’s taking their king away from them!’

Seeing the gathering mob, Godoy knew it was past time that he could influence matters. He wheeled about and ran into the palace, went through to the back, to the mews, and threw himself into his carriage, scrabbling to hide as it picked up speed for the race to his mansion.

The crowd had found their way into the palace gardens and forecourt and swarmed over flowerbeds, trampling ornamental hedges and raising a fear-driven howl of protest. From the window the terrified King goggled at the surging throng, completely at a loss, his queen wringing her hands and wailing piteously behind him. There was only the thin line of royal guards between them and the seething mob. Soon there would be scenes last witnessed when the French king had met his end.

‘Montijo, what should I do?’ King Carlos called out in terror.

The man sheathed his rapier and darted up the stairs. His face betrayed cruel exultation when he reached the King. ‘Majesty, only one thing will steady them.’

‘Yes, yes!’

‘Release the Prince of Asturias. Bring him out. Show him to the crowd, proving that he still lives.’

‘Y-yes. Do it now, if you please.’

Summoned from the Escorial, the King’s son stalked into the room, his glance contemptuous, his thin lips curling in triumph. ‘So, Father, you have need of me? A villainous felon who-’

‘That is over, my son. A mistake.’

‘Which you greatly regret, of course.’

‘Whatever you say, dear infante. Fernando, it would be of great comfort to me if you’d speak to that vile assembly below. Do calm them, will you? Say something or we’re like to be murdered, like poor King Louis!’

‘And I’m then fully restored.’

‘You are now, my son.’

Montijo threw open the window and bellowed down for silence. ‘Su alteza real, el Principe de Asturias!’

Fernando strode over to the window and held up his hands. It brought a happy roar from the concourse. ‘People of Spain! My people!’ With Montijo at his side he launched into a passionate diatribe, sympathising with their travails, the wanton trampling of the French over their lands and heritage. ‘But this day I bring you release! The author of your misfortunes, the villainous and accursed First Minister Godoy, is now dismissed from his post and from the royal presence entirely.’

The tumult grew and swelled into a thunder of ecstasy. In his hiding place in the attic of his nearby mansion Godoy quivered and trembled.

The crowd in the streets lessened but it was still there the next morning when it was joined by many more who’d come from Madrid, eager to be present at the incredible scenes.

In the palace the King and Queen hid in terror. A number broke into Godoy’s mansion, wrecking and looting in a murderous spree. He was discovered, but before the crowd could tear him to pieces, the royal guard found him and dragged him to the palace to display beside the distraught King.

The crowd roared but soon a shout went up. ‘El Deseado! El Deseado!’ The wanted one – Fernando the Hopeful, the young, the desired!

‘Then, Father, it seems it is I they call upon.’ His features bore an oddly serene expression, as the baying outside went on and on.

‘W-what shall I d-do?’ King Carlos gobbled, sunk in fear.

‘Why, that should be obvious, Father. You will yield your throne to me. Abdicate. Here, paper and pen. Write – I shall tell you the words.’

Kneeling in subjection on the floor, Godoy looked up slowly, a twisted smile on his face. Whatever lay in the future for him, this was not what Napoleon Bonaparte had bribed Montijo to do. Montijo had allowed a Spanish king to take the throne through public acclamation, not the Emperor’s appointing.