Tales of Dom Pedro

By Toni Cor

Pedro I was king of Portugal from 1357-1367. Some called him Pedro the Cruel for the harsh punishments he meted out to lawbreakers. However, he was also called Pedro the Just because of his passion for justice. He was seldom happier than when holding court and judging those accused of wrongdoing. He showed no favoritism in his sentencing. Rich and poor, noble and common, all received the same sentence for the same crime. He spared no one, not even his close associates. This book contains three stories, each based in part on incidents described in the Cronicas of Fernão Lopes, one of the earliest Portuguese historians.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543913774

Book preview

But a short while before the bells rang for None I received an unexpected guest who, to my great amazement, imparted to me information that will aid me greatly in carrying out the task His Majesty has recently entrusted to me. Should I receive more such assistance, what I thought would prove to be a pleasant excursion along established, familiar paths may well transform into a voyage of discovery where I must often explore uncharted waters.

But I see I have started in advance of my tale which by rights begins on the nineteenth day of this month. By good fortune, I was wearing the garments that my good wife Mor, a most accomplished seamstress had but lately finished for the feast of Easter: a shirt of the finest linen; a robe of rich, dark fabric; and a high, circular dark cap made in the latest fashion. It is true that the king himself judges men not by how they dress but by how they perform their tasks and as long as my work pleases him, I need not fear for my position. But I confess to my share of vanity and would not be disdained for a shabby appearance. There is also this: my dress reflects on the image others have of my family. There is in particular Martinh, my son, a physician in the royal household and I would not have my shabby appearance bring shame upon him

No matter the reason, I was suitably attired when, shortly before the midday meal, a page arrived, summoning me to the royal presence. For almost a score of years, as curator of the Torre do Tombo it has been my task to manage the royal archives. It is therefore not uncommon for me to be in the presence of the king. But it is rare indeed for me to be granted an audience in the throne room.

King Duarte and Queen Leonore were seated on thrones placed on a dais at one end of the throne room. The king is still a handsome man: taller than most with the golden hair of his mother, Philippa of Lancaster. The queen is most worthy of him: still slender, despite the children she has born, with fair hair surrounding a lovely face. I waited near the door, awaiting my turn, admiring the many great and noble men and women present, resplendent in their elegant robes, and the vast chamber itself. When my name was at last called, I approached the king and bowed low. Not with the grace of a courtier born, it is true, but well enough for one of common birth. His nod to me was as gracious as always. Fernão, you have served me well in the Archives. I have an additional task that I would set before you.

I bowed again, Which I will perform to the best of my ability, Majesty.

You will be working, the king warned, not only for me but also for my beloved wife, whose idea this is. He nodded to her to continue and I bowed to her in turn.

In the evenings, the queen’s voice still held a faint trace of the Catalan spoken in her native Aragon, we often amuse ourselves by telling tales and legends of those who have gone before us. I was not surprised as among all ranks the ability to tell a story skillfully is highly prized. "Stories such as the unhappy love of King Pedro, His Majesty’s grandfather, for the beautiful and ill-fated Inés de Castro. It occurs to me that it would be fitting for our children to learn not merely the legends, but above all the true history of their country, the noble and valiant deeds of their ancestors."

It is therefore our desire, the king continued, that you put into chronicles the stories of the kings of old as well as the great and lofty actions of the most virtuous king my lord and father, João, first of that name.

That was some days in the past. This morning I had spent some tims searching through the archives in search of documents that might prove of use in my new task. Near midday, I proceeded to a chamber, not far from the Archives. once used for storage that given my new title and duties, I had recently claimed as my own. As I entered, I took a deep breath and inhaled the scents of dust and candlewax, of ink and parchment—the aromas that have surrounded me for the greater part of my life, and looked about with pride.

The room was small but there was a window filled with a pane made of bits of clear glass, admitting the light but keeping out the mild spring rain now falling that might injure the manuscripts. I had found a small table, some shelves, a writing desk and a few chairs, all old and worn but still sturdy. By the time the chill of winter arrived I hoped to have obtained a tapestry or two for the walls and perhaps a brazier to provide heat. I spent a few minutes sharpening quills. then arranging some bottles of ink, lighting a candle to provide more light, and placing sheets of blank parchment within easy reach. I then took my place at the table and began to sort through the documents I had chosen to start my studies.

A short time later Alberto, the page who had been assigned to me, entered the room Master Lopes, there is a person who wishes to speak to you. I was uncertain as to whether the disdain in his voice was for me or my visitor.

It seemed that my new duties might suffer from as many interruptions as my old ones. A person? I inquired. To penetrate this deeply into the palace suggested to my mind an individual of some consequence.

The boy shrugged. It is only a Jew. Perhaps a merchant. Should I send him away?

No. Alberto’s tunic was embroidered with the crest of the Pires family. A nine year old child of the nobility can afford disdain for those of lesser rank. A common man does not rise as high as I have by needlessly creating enemies, in particular when to anger one is to anger all in a close-knit community. Show him in.

Alberto did not hurry on his task which gave me time to arrange the manuscripts on the table before me in some semblance of order. At last I heard approaching footsteps and looked up as an elderly man entered the room. It was well I had not dismissed him sight unseen. This was one of the more prominent members of the Jewish community. Not just a merchant such as might be encountered in any marketplace. Not just a rich merchant with a large shop to display a wide variety of wares. This was a prince of merchants, a man who often journeyed to other lands and on his return was consulted by the king and his ministers, eager to obtain any useful knowledge he had obtained.

He was of medium height and still of powerful build. Careful to follow the sumptuary laws, he used only the fabrics suitable to his station but their rich colors and the subtle patterns woven into them gave his garments an uncommon richness. He wore a long, full robe of deep saffron fastened with a belt of intricately braided leather. Over that was a cloak of deep green. On his head was a turban such as Moors sometimes wear in a mixture of green and gold cloth. A large gold pin containing an emerald fastened a bunch of feathers to the turban. Around his neck was a heavy chain of gold and he wore a massive gold ring with his seal on it. What showed of his square face was olive in color with shrewd dark brown eyes that seemed to take in every detail about them. His curly dark brown hair and beard were streaked with gray.

I stood and while I did not bow or come forward to greet him, I did speak respectfully, without any attempt to prove my superiority by pretending not to recognize him. More powerful men than I would be wary of playing any such games with this man. Welcome, Ezekial of Almada . Please be seated. Alberto! I ordered sharply, Fetch wine and food for our guest. And be quick about it!

My visitor seated himself and for a few minutes we studied each other. It was he who broke the silence. Master Fernão. Your son is a physician, I believe.

Yes, that is so. My voice warmed with pride. He has the honor to attend to His Majesty’s son, the Infante.

My brother Matthias speaks well of him.

This was no small matter. Matthias is a physician of great learning and renown. Martinh has often spoken of how much he has learned by consulting your brother and being permitted to make use of his library of herbals.

At that moment Alberto returned and not alone. Perhaps he had finally recognized the visitor, perhaps someone more knowledgeable had informed him, for with my page were three of his fellows. One bore a large bronze basin, another a ewer, and the last had folded over his arm two towels of fine white linen. The basin was held before each of us in turn and when we held our hands over it warm water on which floated rose petals was poured out over them. We then received a towel to dry our hands. When the three pages withdrew, Alberto placed a tray on the table before us. On it rested a pitcher of wine, two goblets, and not just the bowl of figs, almonds, and grapes I had expected. There was also a platter of pastries garnished with candied fruit. I poured wine for my guest and gestured Alberto to retire. When I tasted it, I found it of a higher quality than that usually provided me.

Ezekial sipped the wine with seeming approval, and then resumed the conversation. I have recently returned from a trip to Tangier where I have a cousin. With his help, I obtained a copy of an ancient herbal for my brother that he has long coveted. Tell your son to call upon Matthias. My brother will be happy to display his latest treasure to one who will truly appreciate it.

I shall do so. Perhaps it was the wine that emboldened me but I asked a question that had long puzzled me though some might have called it indiscreet. Please pardon me if my question gives offense, but I have long wondered why your people, who have relatives in Saracen lands, do not join them. Surely life is easier for you there than in the Christian world?

Ezekial did not seem offended but leaned back and waved his hand in the air. There are times, he confided, when I ask myself that very question. He smiled and for a moment I caught a glimpse of the mischievous boy he might once have been. I have heard that you have recently acquired an interest in legends. Shall I tell you one?

In reply I also smiled and bowed my head. Why not? I have come to believe that there is often a grain of truth hidden in even the wildest legend. And moreover. Do we not ourselves live in what may one day be seen as a time of legend?

He seemed intrigued. In what way?

Surely I need not remind you how our brave sailors on our sturdy ships sail further and yet ever further into the unknown? And do they not bring back news of lands and peoples and goods unknown to our fathers and grandfathers? Is this not the stuff of legends? Does not the king’s brother, the Infante Enrique collect maps of these voyages which guide others thus earning for himself the name’ The Navigator?’

Then I shall tell to you a legend of our people which also begins with a voyage. A journey from familiar streets and neighbors to a strange land with unknown dangers. Another sip of wine, a distant look in his eyes as if he gazed back into the past.

Our fathers’ fathers’ fathers came to this land, or so it is said, on trading ships: mighty vessels that sailed from Tyre and Sidon to the great realm of Tartessus, when Hiram ruled Lebanon, Solomon was king in Jerusalem, and Rome was but a village. Years passed. Greece rose and fell and we traded with its many cities. Rome grew into a city and then an empire with armies that conquered many lands, including this one to which they gave the name Lusitania. My people survived the arrival—and the fall as well—of Rome and later the coming of your ancestors across the mountains to the north. Next there came, from the south, the Moors to rule the land they would call Al-Andalus. The Moors were at last driven back and Christians again rule what is now the realm of Portugal.

His face darkened and anger glowed in his eyes. And still we stay and still we are counted as strangers. He was silent a moment, struggling to control his anger. Why do we stay? Nathan shrugged. Where would we go? This is our home. The land our ancestors inhabited, where they lived, worshipped, died, and were buried. And if we are forced to leave, it will be a day of sorrow and lamentation for my people.

I bent my head ashamed I had allowed my curiosity to overcome my discretion and poured another glass of wine for my guest. After a moment Ezekiel regained his composure and said more briskly, But I did not come to speak to you of legends.

I was grateful to escape that subject. Indeed. Then how may I be of service to you?

His smile returned. I think it is rather I who may be of service to you.

How so?

His Gracious Majesty, King Duarte has, I am told, asked you to collect true stories of his ancestors.

That is so.

My people have long memories. We do not forget our enemies. A somewhat grim smile, Yearly we still celebrate the death of our great enemy Haman who plotted our death and who ended his own life on the gallows he had prepared for another.

I swallowed at the look in his eyes, not wanting such anger directed at me and made a gesture encouraging him to continue.

My grandfather once encountered King Pedro, called by some the Cruel, His Majesty’s grandfather.

It is not unknown for merchants to loan money to nobles or even to kings when great men come upon troubled times. The lenders may take as pledge of repayment jewels or sometimes just the word of the one requesting money. It is perhaps less known for the borrowers to repay the sums fully. The prudent then call their loans gifts and hope for future goodwill. Was your grandfather able to render the king assistance in some time of need?

Ezekial smiled, good humor restored. To the contrary. It was the king who gave him aid. He settled back in his chair and took another sip of wine.

I took a final sip of wine, stood, and made my way to my writing desk. I hastily dipped a quill in ink and arranged parchment before me. With your permission, I will take notes as my memory is not of the best.

A nod and a wave of encouragement. My great-grandfather was, like me, a merchant. Perhaps not so successful. Or so lucky. As he was traveling from one town to another, he was set upon by thieves, robbed, beaten, and left for dead.

In spite of myself I interrupted. It sounds like a parable.

There was grim amusement in his face. I also know that tale. But for my grandfather there was no kindly stranger to tend his wounds and take him to shelter. He died.

May I ask more details? His name? The town where this occurred? Later I would surely wish to consult municipal or judicial archives to find additional details, if any such records yet exist.

And thus I, Fernão Lopes, archivist, at the command of His Majesty Duarte, King of Portugal, began my task as Cronista-mor, Royal Chronicler. I took up my pen to record the deeds of his illustrious ancestors in the fervent hope that those now living may, by meditating on the actions of those who have gone before, both imitate the good and abstain from the bad.

A murder of crows burst into the sky, their harsh voices reproaching riders and hounds who had interrupted their feast. Dom Pedro, first of that name, King of Portugal and the Algarve, held up his hand as he drew his mount to a halt. His followers reined in as well, forming a chaotic mass milling about and blocking the road. Of but average height and sturdy build, an aura of power yet seemed to hang about Dom Pedro that had nothing to do with his rank. His face, framed by wavy, shoulder length brown hair and a curly brown beard showing only a few threads of gray could be described as stern, even harsh. Fierce blue eyes narrowed as they surveyed the area the birds had abandoned: a mound the size of a large animal, the same color as the ground on which it lay.

The day was clear and the brisk autumn breeze should have brought to him only the fragrance of fields and woods, washed clean by the previous day’s rain. Instead it brought another aroma, one well remembered from scenes of pestilence, battle, and the execution ground. The smell of the dead left too long unburied. R-Ricardo! he called. He had stuttered from his youth and now none about him seemed to pay it any heed.

The Master of the Hunt approached. The hood of his cloak was thrown back to reveal short iron gray hair above a square, clean-shaven face. The skin was darkened by exposure to sun, wind, and rain to almost the same brown color as his horse. Majesty? He was careful to bring his horse to a halt just out of reach of the riding crop now, as always, clutched in the king’s right hand. His Majesty was known, when in a temper, to lash out at both beast and man.

Pedro now pointed with the whip. What d-do you think? Some w-wild animal or b-beast of the fields?

Ricardo shook his head. No, Majesty. A wild animal would not have strayed so far from the woods. Some peasant’s animal would not have been left here to rot. Even if it died of disease, its hide could be used. A grim smile. Ricardo had been born poor. In hard times peasants would eat even diseased flesh. Or try to sell it to the butcher. I’d say that’s human. Perhaps a traveler, overcome by sudden illness, leaving the road to find shelter, however rough? Perhaps some unfortunate, overtaken and killed by robbers?

The king frowned. D-daring robbers indeed. T-to murder my subject when I am in r-residence nearby. The harsh reproaches of the crows put him in a somber mood, reminding him of men put to the torture or dying on the field of battle. Pedro noticed his Master of the Hunt was bent over his saddle, studying the ground attentively, a slight frown on his face. Something t-troubles you, Ricardo?

Majesty, it is a plowed field and there has been rain but I see signs that at least one mounted man left the road here.

And?

It could be coincidence. It could have something to do with what may be a corpse.

Let us g-go see what it is and, if human, what this unfortunate c-can tell us. He addressed the others. Just R-Ricardo and me. The rest of you stay here. He wanted such signs as there were left untouched so his huntsman, a skilled tracker, could examine them. He urged his horse towards the body, Ricardo following more slowly. Both men kept a distance from faint markings in the soil that might have been hoofprints.

Looking down at what was indeed a human corpse, both men crossed themselves. There was little left of the face: birds and other scavengers had seen to that. There were signs of other wounds on the body. The clothes, ragged, sodden by the rain, muddy from the ground, were little more than rags. He looks like a beggar, Ricardo suggested. Or perhaps a poor pilgrim.

Pedro made an impatient gesture with his whip. Why k-kill a beggar? Or a p-pilgrim?

A fellow traveler? Driven by some private quarrel? Or perhaps he had—or was suspected to have—hidden wealth?

Whoever it was and whatever the reason, he will p-pay a high price for c-committing such a crime almost in my p-presence.

Ricardo dismounted, walked in a circle about the corpse, then walked back the way they had come, occasionally leaning over to examine the ground. When he returned, he reported, I see signs of at least two, perhaps three mounts. Horses or, perhaps, donkeys. There was silence for a few minutes, then Ricardo asked cautiously, Do we continue the hunt, Majesty?

Indeed. Coming to a decision, the king nodded and straightened in his saddle. Have you an assistant fit to t-take your p-place as Master of the Hunt?

My son, Diego, Ricardo answered proudly. I have been training him for some twenty years, Majesty, since he first could ride.

Let him p-prove his skill in hunting b-boar today then. And you, my master hunter, I s-send you after more d-dangerous quarry. Commoners would be more likely to talk freely to a servant like Ricardo, one of their own, than any noble sent on such an errand. T-take a man with you. F-first learn who t-tends this land and what he knows of this d-dead man. Why has he b-been allowed to lie here untended, unburied? Then ride t-to any other farms or inns in the area. Ask about any villagers who may have g-gone missing or t-travelers who may have p-passed. Take special note of groups of t-two or even three who have suddenly lost a member b-between one town and the next. See if you c-can learn anything of this t-traveler. R-report to me when you return.

Ricardo bowed awkwardly from his saddle and rode off. Pedro stared down at the body grimly. Poor and friendless the dead man might have been. But the king owed justice to all his subjects and this man would surely receive it.

Pedro rejoined his followers who were more excited than troubled by the discovery of a body.. Your Majesty, a young man had forced his way to the front of the crowd. His handsome face and athletic body were well set off by his jaunty cap, well-fitting hose, and tunic of the latest fashion. He now spoke up eagerly. Allow me to assemble a group of my fellows and scour the woods about this place. We will find these robbers and deal with them as they deserve!

The king smiled indulgently at Luis Pacheco . He had joined Pedro’s entourage as a youth of fourteen and followed him in war and in peace. Now, some years later, he was a valued member of the court whose cheerful nature could always lighten the king’s spirits. He was ambitious, of course, but while the Church might condemn ambition as a sin, Pedro found it a useful quality. Why else would men swarm about him, eager to serve, but to gain his favor and so rise in the world?

There had been no recent reports of robbers in this area. That did not mean a new group might not be forming. If so they must be dealt with. And swiftly. At the moment, Alvaro de Castro, the High Constable, was absent from court. The second most powerful man in the land, after the king and so responsible for the security of the realm, the hunt for robbers should have fallen to him. In his absence, the king decided to assign the task to Luis. It was time the young man was given more responsibility. Pedro nodded permission but added, G-get them and g-good luck on your hunt. B-But do not hang the robbers or even injure them severely. B-bring them back that they may face me in c-court and learn the cost of d-defying my laws. The young man bowed, called out to four or five of his friends, whirled his horse around, and the small troop set off down the road.

Your Majesty, Roberto Pires, another younger son anxious to rise by finding favor with the king, made his way forward. I could locate the nearest church and make arrangements with its priest for the burial of this unfortunate.

A p-pious thought, the king approved. Your uncle, the b-bishop, would be pleased with you. He paused a moment. But no. I have another t-task for you. R-Roberto, he ordered, return to Santarém, to the p-palace. Have servants come and fetch this b-body. Take it to Nathan, my physician, to be examined. T-tell him to speak to me of what he learns b-before the evening meal.

There was surprise in the young man’s eyes but he bowed gracefully, As you command, Your Majesty.

Having, for the moment, done as much as he could for his unfortunate subject, Pedro returned his attention to the hunt. Young Diego, he was pleased to note, proved himself capable of the task placed before him. He kept the hounds under strict control until it was time to loose them. Once on the trail of their quarry, he and his assistants managed to keep up with them without getting in the way of the hunters. And when the boar was brought to bay and surrounded, Diego kept the hounds far enough back so that they could neither be injured by the beast’s fearsome tusks, nor rip the animal to shreds themselves. The dogs were held back while the king and nobles approached with spears.

They managed to take down three great boars before Pedro called an end to the day’s sport and all returned to a large clearing nearing the forest’s edge where servants had kindled fires. They had also set out on clean cloths loaves of fine bread baked that morning in the palace ovens, cheeses, and casks of wine. Servants butchered the animals. The hunters found long, thin branches, sharpened the ends, and skewered bits of hearts, livers, and kidneys that had been cut into small pieces and stood about the fires, cooking their own meat and talking over the morning’s sport. Servants brought goblets filled with wine and the mood grew even merrier. Other servants took the hounds aside and rewarded them with offal from the animals they had tracked down. Another group fed and watered the horses.

Pedro bit into his meat with gusto, letting the juices run down into his beard. Nothing pleased him more than fresh meat, charred on the outside, almost raw on the inside. Not that he would disdain the meat that had been carried back to the palace to be prepared by the cooks for the feasts planned for that evening and the following one as well. There would be boars’ heads that night, he thought with satisfaction, and at least one of the animals would be roasted whole for the next night. Some of the meat would also be preserved in salt or smoked for use during the winter months. When all the hunters had eaten their fill, they made their way back to the palace at a leisurely pace.

The palace of Santarém was not part of the original fortress built as a defense against the Moors and other enemies of the city. It was a more modern and spacious structure built to ensure the comfort of its residents. There Pedro and those of his