The Queen's Gift

By Toni Cor

"The Queen's Gift" is a historical mystery in which Dom Pedro, while still a very young man, sets out to solve a puzzle that has long troubled his grandmother, Queen Isabel. When she was a young woman, two young squires disappeared from her court without a word of warming or farewell. They were never heard from again. In this thrilling novel, Pedro offers to see if he can learn, even at this late date, what happened to them. He must travel, seek out and question many people. And the results of his search become a legend.

The backdrop for this unforgettable tale is fourteenth century Portugal. The central character is a man who existed: Pedro I, eighth king of Portugal, who ruled from 1357-1367. Known to some as Pedro the Cruel because of the harsh (even by medieval standards) sentences he imposed on criminals; others knew him as Pedro the Just for two reasons. First, as king he was the ultimate source of justice in the land and one of his favorite pastimes was presiding over the trials of criminals. Second, unlike many judges of his own time (and even modern times), he was not influenced by the social standing of the accused. Rich or poor, noble, or common, all – if found guilty – suffered the punishment prescribed by law, nothing less. This series of tales shows Pedro as a discoverer and punisher of crimes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098389819

Book preview

Introduction

I, Fernão Lopes, archivist, at the command of His Majesty Duarte, King of Portugal, do once again take up my pen to record the deeds of his illustrious ancestor, Dom Pedro, 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.

Prologue

Coimbra, Portugal

May 5, 1362

Taking advantage of the pleasant spring weather, Pedro, King of Portugal and the Algarve, leaned back in his chair.  Now past his fortieth year, his wavy dark brown hair and his well-trimmed beard were both lightly streaked with silver.  The sun was warm on his face, tanned by an active life spent hunting, hawking, riding about his realm.  For a moment his usually fierce blue eyes and the harsh lines of his face softened as the sights and sounds of this secluded area soothed his spirit and washed from his memory the trials of the day.  The well-stuffed cushions that padded the elaborately carved back and sides of his chair helped to ease the aches in his body that were a sign of approaching age. For at least a few moments he could relax and allow himself to enjoy the peace that filled this sheltered area the Moors might well have called a paradise. 

The garden, hidden deep within the royal palace of Coimbra, was an area enclosed by high walls.  No windows allowed those within the building to spy upon those without.  A slight breeze had sprung up, bringing with it the scent of flowers and fresh-cut grass. What could have been harsh stone walls were softened by espaliered fruit trees, now in bloom.  Before the trees were beds of flowers.  The central area was mostly covered by closely trimmed grass that resembled green velvet.

In the center of the garden was a waist-high circular stone wall forming a bench surrounding a pool with a central fountain whose falling drops provided a gentle music delighting the ears.  Smooth flat stones formed paths before the flower beds and about the fountain.  Other paths led from the corners of the garden to the pool at its center.  Thus, when the ground was damp, ladies might walk freely in the open air without muddying their dainty shoes. Their soft voices and silvery laughter would form a counterpoint to the song of falling water and the melodies of the birds flying overhead or perched on the branches of the trees.

This yard had always served as a refuge for the ladies of the court.  From time immemorial, queens, their attendants, and the royal or noble children in their care had here been able to find shelter from the turmoil of court life.  Now, as in the past, not far from the fountain, a cloth awning had been spread overhead to shade the delicate skin of those seated beneath it .from the rays of the sun.  At the moment there were three so sheltered:  an elderly woman who sat in a chair with a back but no arm rests, bent over her needlework; and two younger attendants on nearby stools, similarly occupied.  On the ground beside them were baskets filled with needles, thread, scissors, thimbles, all the paraphernalia of sewing.  The fabric of their garments was of good material but in dark in color and simple in  line.  No ribbons or laces trimmed the robes.  No embroidery delighted the eye. No jewels glittered to proclaim the women’s rank or wealth.  They might be widows.  They were, in fact, nuns.

Not that Pedro was in the habit of seeking the company of nuns in his leisure hours.  Far from it.  The reason for their presence could be found by the noise suddenly arising at one end of the garden: a dog’s barking and a young girl’s laughter.  That din now claimed all of Pedro’s attention. The girl was tall for her age and slender, her fair skin rapidly growing as bright a pink as the silk robe she wore.  Long golden curls fell down her back, held away from her face by ribbons a deeper pink than her garment.

The king watched with pleasure as the girl threw a brightly painted wooden ball a short distance away for her companion, as yet little more than a puppy, to retrieve and return it to her. There was a playful struggle when the animal growled and pretended to struggle to try to retain control of the ball.  After a few minutes of tussling the girl released the ball and turned away as if tired of the game.  The puppy raced around in front of her, dropped the ball, and crouched down, wagging its tail and yipping eagerly.  The girl picked up the ball, turned and ran with it, the young dog  gamboling after her and barking loudly.

For a few minutes more the king watched his daughter, his youngest child, play joyfully with her companion.  His pleasure was interrupted by a worried voice.  From her chair, on attendant of Beatriz, Sister Lucia, fretted , The child exerts herself too much.  It is not seemly.

His answer was curt.  F-for a nun, no.  For my d-daughter, yes.  For himself,  he delighted to see in her his own energy and delight in activity.  It might well be time for her sojourn in the cloister to end.  For a few moments more he watched his daughter play joyfully with her dog.

Then he sighed and a faint frown came to his face.  In truth, the sun was growing low in the sky and both girl and dog appeared to be moving more slowly.  Could the nun be right?  Was she in danger of over-tiring herself?  The weather was still changeable at this time of year.  She might be risking some childhood illness that could rapidly grow more serious.

He raised his voice.  B-Beatriz!  C-come sit down!  R-rest a moment!  Even now his voice still retained the stutter that had plagued him from his earliest youth,

Hearing her father’s voice, she willingly raced across the grass to collapse on a footstool set by his feet and rest her head against his knee.  Her dog followed her, yelping and dancing with excitement.  Sit, Sissi! she ordered before the dog could leave muddy paw prints on her clothes.  Sissi sat obediently, if reluctantly, panting, his tongue hanging out.  The girl’s companion was a water dog, a gift from the captain of a boat that had taken the royal family on a voyage from Lisbon to Oporto.  As the name implied, they were more commonly found along the waterfront and on ships.  They were highly intelligent and athletic, of medium size and curved with short, curly or wavy hair.  They could be trained to help fishermen gathering their catch or even carry messages from boat to boat.  Sissi had black fur with a white chest and had proved, in addition, to be both affectionate and playful.

Again Sister Lucia frowned and decided to intervene as was indeed her right.  Pedro had entrusted the care and education of his child to the nuns at the Franciscan convent of Coimbra, founded by the late Queen Isabel, his grandmother.  Beatriz, the elderly woman now chided.  You are well into your eleventh year.  It is time for you to set aside such unbecoming, boisterous behavior and to start to act in the proper fashion and display appropriate decorum.  You are, after all, of royal blood.

Again Pedro frowned.  His daughter might not have noticed the slight but he most definitely had.  Beatriz had not been given her true rank of Infanta, Princess, but was merely described as being of royal blood.  He could not let this pass.  He had legitimated her and her brothers when he became king.  By law they were his true children, not merely the offspring of a casual liaison.  A p-princess, his voice was harsh and he emphasized the title, d-does not f-follow f-fashion.  She m-makes it. 

Beatriz glanced up.  Her eyes met her father’s and she put her hand on his.  Don’t fuss, Papa, she told him.  I’m not tired.

The hour grows late, child, the elderly nun now spoke more gently.  We have yet the journey to the convent before us.

Beatriz pretended to pout for a moment.  I’m not tired, Papa, Sister Lucia, she protested again.  Then her eyes returned to her father’s face and a dimple appeared as she smiled mischievously.  But Sissi is hungry.

He smiled indulgently.  S-Sissi is hungry?  His daughter nodded vigorously.  Well, then.  P-perhaps S-Sissi has earned a b-bite to eat. He raised his hand in a signal to the servants waiting at a distance.  They immediately scurried forward.  One held a platter whose contents were covered by a plain linen cloth.  He presented it with a low bow to the princess.  She lifted the cloth revealing a large bone with bits of raw meat and gristle yet attached.  Beatriz picked up the bone and held it high over her head.  Sissi sat back on his hind legs, lifted his front paws and whined.  She laughed and tossed the bone as far as she could.  The dog raced after it, grabbed it out of the air, and lay down to gnaw happily on his prize.

I am teaching him to eat only from my hands, she said proudly.

Her father nodded.  A wise p-precaution.  The animal might well prove more vigilant than her human guards.  Without thinking he began to stroke her long curls and he sighed.  As always the joy he found in her presence was mixed with sorrow.  With each passing day the resemblance to her mother grew ever more striking. Her eyes were blue not green but she had not only the hair but the features and the grace of her mother, his lost love, Inês de Castro.

He thought of how his daughter, young as she was  just recently seemed to have deliberately attempted to distract him and Sister Lucia from their quarrel.  He would like to believe that from another member of her family she had inherited the ability to make peace between quarreling sides.  A useful gift, diplomacy.  One he too often lacked.  He must try to encourage it in her.  For the moment he smiled and confided in a low voice.  Sissi is not the only one who is h-hungry.  So am I.  And, since you have a t-trip to the c-convent b-before you, it m-might be wise to strengthen yourself with some f-food and d-drink b-before you leave.

Beatriz smiled and nodded her head emphatically.  Even Sister Lucia gave a nod of tacit approval.  Again Pedro lifted his hand. Now servants brought and held silver basins over which scented water might be poured  from matching ewers,cleansing out-stretched hands.  Next, towels were brought to dry hands.  Then, the servants brought flagons of water and wine, and goblets to place on a small tables set beside chairs and stools.  Finally, they placed on the tables plates of ripe strawberries, the first of the season; bowls of thick, rich cream; and platters of sweet cakes glazed with honey.

For the king and the nuns, servants poured goblets of sweet wine.  For the girl, water was mixed into the wine.  Pedro waved aside the cakes that were offered to him as did Beatriz whose eyes were fastened hungrily on the fruit.  She had a passion for strawberries and these were among the first of the season.  Pedro gestured the servants away and, taking a berry from the bowl, dipped it in the cream.  The cream had been slightly whipped and coated most of the berry, almost hiding the fruit. He placed almost the entire fruit in his mouth and bit down.  He tossed the green top onto the grass and chewed vigorously, letting the sweet juices gush out and fill his mouth.  Beatriz seized a berry and looked as though about to follow her father’s example.  A loud cough from the nun caused the princess instead to dip and bite daintily into the piece of fruit.  She took only half, chewing it politely before swallowing and taking another bite to finish it.

The bowl of fruit finished, Pedro asked his daughter, M-more b-berries or some c-cake?

More berries, Papa.  Please.

Gluttony, the nun chided, is a grievous fault—

Pedro turned slightly to look the nun in the eye and said firmly, G-gluttony may be m-mentioned at the t-twentieth b-bowl.  Not the s-second.

Seasoned warriors quailed when Pedro so looked and spoke to them.  The nun shrank back into her seat.

Beatriz giggled as the servants brought more fruit and asked, Could we even eat twenty bowls?

Her father lowered his voice to a conspirator’s whisper.  We c-could t-try.  He dipped a large berry into the cream, poked it into her mouth and laughed as she tried to giggle and eat at the same time.

Sister Lucia signaled the attendants to remove her and her companions’ food and drink, an austere expression on her face.  As father and daughter ate, she resumed her sewing, as did the two other nuns.  As she worked, she looked around the garden and remarked, It has hardly changed at all since the time of my lady, Queen Isabel.

Pedro nodded.  My m-mother m-maintained it as my g-grandmother d-designed it.  It was, he supposed, a kind of shrine dedicated by his mother to her mother-in-law, widely regarded as a saint.  He had seen no reason to order changes nor had he a queen who would have had the authority to do so.

Sister Lucia sighed.  She was a great lady, Queen Isabel.  You would do well, she informed her charge, to imitate her.

You have spoken of her often. Beatriz replied politely.

Somehow Pedro doubted that the nuns would have mentioned Isabel’s beauty, her grace, her charm.  They would have concentrated on her piety, her daily attendance at Mass, her prayers, her kindness and generosity to the poor and the ill.  Of how, upon the death of her husband, King Dinis, she had spent much of her time in the convent of Poor Clares in Coimbra—the one that now sheltered Beatriz.

I have heard, Beatriz spoke with caution, That her husband was not always kind to her.  She lifted her eyes to her father’s face and spoke to him.  They said that once God granted her a miracle.  That the king, her husband, was angry she gave so much to the poor.  Once, when she was carrying some bread under her cloak to feed the hungry, he saw her and asked what she had hidden.  She was frightened and said it was roses.  And when he jerked back the cloak, the bread had changed to roses!  Did that really happen?

He was not about to call her teachers liars or deluded.  I d-did not myself see that h-happen, he answered cautiously.  B-but I have heard it said.

It was indeed a common tale among the people.  Once, when he was a child of about seven and had found himself alone with her—he believed she had been hearing him read a Psalm—he had dared to ask her about it.  She had looked surprised for a moment and then, to his surprise; a smile had appeared on her face.  A surprisingly youthful smile.  She had laughed softly.  Poor Dinis, she spoke with fond amusement.  He was so angry!  But a few days before I had ordered the servants to take some wine from our cellars to the hospital to be distributed to the sick.  I had not realized it was a special wine he had intended for a feast he was giving for his close friends!  She had patted Pedro’s cheek and confided.  I never made such a blunder again.  It was then that I began to learn that while generosity is indeed a virtue so also is prudence.  It was only later that he had realized she had never truly answered his question.  Still, he had to admit it was a good story.  He supposed that even a saint might enjoy a good story.

Fortunately, Beatriz was