The Iberian Flame

Chapter 21

Madrid was but forty miles along the fine royal road, but before they arrived at their destination, the Escorial, they were met by a strong escort, which formed up on the discreetly illustrious carriage, and proceeded at a smart clip, scattering peasants and traders alike. Twice Renzi saw sullen groups pulling back with angry shouts and snarls, and once the cavalcade stopped for consultation before setting off for the palace in a different direction.

It didn’t take much to deduce that in the capital there was a much different, volatile mood. If the masses had been driven onto the streets in the face of royal repression, was he seeing the first stirrings of revolution?

The tranquil calm of the palace was at odds with its lavish ostentation. Where England’s palaces had their crystal and marble, they could never compete against the flow of gold and silver from the New World that encrusted the vast chambers.

Renzi was ushered into one of the smaller rooms with a dining table at the end. A thick-set, extravagantly decorated officer rose to meet him, a major-domo by his side. An older individual, with a spade beard and an intelligent bearing, stood apart.

‘M’ lord Farndon,’ said the major-domo, in thickly accented English. ‘This is the Conde de Montijo, ministro de estado under the King, and I am his aide, Don Manuel Espartero.’ The older man made no attempt to approach.

After the flurry of bowing subsided, Renzi was invited to sit and an exquisite array of dishes was brought.

Montijo’s cruel face adopted a polite smile as he enquired after Renzi’s health and the progress of his pilgrimage. Renzi answered that he’d been most touched by the beauty and grace of the cathedral.

The Spaniard seemed to shrug it off as unimportant, then leaned forward, his words deferentially translated by Espartero. ‘Your good king Jorge. How does he?’

‘His Majesty flourishes, I’m happy to tell you, sir.’

Eyes flashed between Montijo and the older man. ‘Even in these fevered times monarchs must retain their majesty, their respect. Does he by chance convey by you any expression of brotherly regard to our recently enthroned gracious sovereign, King Fernando?’

In an instant Renzi understood. They were opening an avenue for any informal approach with which the British authorities might have primed him. An utterly unexpected and priceless opportunity – but one for which he was unprepared.

‘Er, His Majesty desires only the early restoring of peace between our nations,’ he declared carefully, adding, ‘and the preserving of the person of King Fernando in these so troublous times.’

Again the flashed glances. He was conscious that tension had been released – disappointment, or the conclusion that he was no more than he appeared to be?

Montijo continued silkily, ‘Quite. Our country is at this time racked by a trouble-making rabble bent on bringing it down to a base ignobility by their actions. I do hope you have not been inconvenienced, sir.’

The meal concluded, Renzi was ushered to an apartment in the rear of the palace, a suite with an airy balcony.

Whatever impression he might have drawn, there was no mistaking the character of those in power. He’d seen too many courts and chancelleries to be fooled: those were the King’s men and derived their dominance and command from him, to rise and fall with the monarch.

If Fernando fell in with the French, so would Spain. How could there be a chance for any British exploitation of the situation?

Renzi brooded on the impossibility of it all.

It left only the other side, the instigators of the unrest. Did they have plans for an uprising? If so, what was England’s position in relation to them?

He gave a wry smile. Did it matter? What he’d seen of the disturbances was minor and scattered, no basis for a full-scale revolt. And in any case, how could he find out who the opposition was, how to contact them?

A tentative knock at the door intruded into his thoughts.

He got up to see who it was, but it was only a maid, who bobbed shyly and asked in accented English, ‘Your service, El Marques?’

She slipped in, closing the door quietly.

‘Er, there is nothing I require at this time, senorita. Please to-’

She did not listen, crossing rapidly to the balcony to check outside before returning to confront him, the dark eyes wide and troubled. ‘Sir, I must trust you,’ she said urgently, her voice low. ‘There is a great matter I ’ave to ask of you. There is no time to satisfy who am I. Will you hear me, sir?’

Renzi’s senses came to full alert. If this was … ‘Go on.’

She gave a fleeting smile. ‘Thank you, Excelentisimo. I tell you somethin’ now in fear of my life.’

‘It will be safe with me.’

Her look of gratitude was quickly replaced by a frown of concentration. ‘The party of the King – we call them the Fernandinos – is in power, but they little understand that the people secretly hate them. Many, many do pray for their downfall.’ She gazed at him, pleading. ‘Sir, they are ready to rise up to overthrow them, cast out their false friends the French – and create a new world where men are truly equal!’

Renzi tensed. If the woman was to be believed she was in touch with a revolutionary underground that might just have the scale to set against the Napoleonic battalions. ‘How many are there of you?’ he asked.

‘Above a hundred thousand. In Madrid and nearby,’ she said immediately. ‘Wanting arms in their ’ands only.’

This was astonishing but credible. Too long the Spanish people had been tyrannised by the old, stifling ways, a degenerate and selfish aristocracy – it was a wonder it hadn’t happened before. ‘Who is your leader?’

‘He is …’ She glanced at the door fearfully, pulling him away and over to the balcony. ‘The name is of no consequence if he has vowed to die for the cause. Sir, what is of greater importance is your answer to my question.’

‘Oh?’ With a sense of inevitability Renzi knew what she was going to ask.

‘Excelentisimo, will you help us? Can you speak with your king, beseech him to send us muskets, soldiers, big guns to join us in our glorious revolution? We cannot do it alone, we need your help.’

Renzi paused, his mind racing. It was far past his remit to commit the British government to military involvement on such a scale but there were other considerations. If he refused to answer, even gave the impression of not wanting to commit to an expression of support, then the British would be held to be no friends of theirs and an alignment would almost certainly be with France. This could not be allowed to happen.

These were a simple people, consumed by hatred, and would not see subtleties. They needed strong words of sympathy and pledges now, not after months of parliamentary deliberation.

‘You will have it,’ he told her. This was no false promise: Canning would seize the opportunity to intervene with both hands.

Her eyes widened. ‘You will help us with guns and soldiers?’ she said breathlessly. ‘Say you will!’

‘In the name of justice for the people, we shall.’

Unexpectedly she fell back from him, her features unreadable.

Renzi caught his breath: something was wrong.

‘Agarra, todos ustedes,’ she called loudly.

From the balcony where they’d been concealed three palace guards thrust into the room and pinioned him to the wall.

A sick anger washed through Renzi. To be taken in so easily …

‘You shall stay here until we decide what to do with you,’ she said, almost sadly.

‘Why?’

‘We had to know what position England takes in our time of unrest under our new king. You have made it very plain, Excelentisimo.’?‘We?’

‘Los Fernandinos, of course. Who look to His Majesty for protection and stability in these bad times.’

She went to the door. ‘Remain quietly in your apartment. You will be well guarded. Know that if you forget yourself so much as to attempt to leave, these quarters will be exchanged for a prison cell.’ She made to leave, but hesitated and said gently, ‘I’m sorry, please forgive.’

Then she was gone.

Renzi was released, the guards pointedly taking up position outside, and he was left to his own company.

After the first rage of chagrin, he took stock. It was vital that he got word out of what had happened, if only to let the Spanish realise that his confining, a noble of the English aristocracy, was known to the wider world. After that, who knew? He was now an enemy of the state in breach of his cartel conditions by communicating with rebels.

He sat and awaited his fate.