Yet as long as he retained the unquestioning trust of the King he was safe, and this he ensured by interpreting the buzz and confusion of the outside world to him in a soothing and glib fashion, every so often uncovering some plot or intrigue to demonstrate his loyalty and devotion. He had early taken the precaution of becoming the Queen’s lover, the sottish woman insatiable, a trying burden now she was in her fifties, with nothing to do but plot.
‘Excellency.’
It was a messenger – and he bore a missive. Swallowing his apprehension Godoy held out his hand then waved the man away and retired to his desk, almost afraid of what he would read.
A quick scan reassured him and, in rising excitement, he took in the hurried phrases.
He’d been right to entrust Izquierdo with the business: Napoleon Bonaparte had taken the bait.
In his eagerness he’d been willing to make a binding agreement, the Treaty of Fontainebleau, and in it was detailed the formal dismembering of the corpse of Portugal, now bereft of its sovereign, who had fled to Brazil.
Portentously, the Emperor had pronounced that: ‘The name of Portugal is to be removed from the list of nations’, the land divided in thirds between them. Oporto and the north would become the kingdom of Northern Lusitania and go to the young King of Etruria. The centre, including Lisbon, was to be administered by France until the conclusion of a general peace. But gloriously, wonderfully, all of southern Portugal, including Alentejo, was to be made an independent principality … under the rule of one Don Manuel Godoy, to be styled Prince of the Algarves.
In lesser paragraphs there was detail on how it was to be accomplished. With the gracious permission of King Carlos, French columns would enter Spain, and thereby be made quite safe from the predacious Royal Navy, enabled to march overland to join in a descent on helpless Portugal from both north and south. It was expected that the whole affair could be concluded in no more than small months.
At last – no more waiting. In a paroxysm of impatience Godoy got to his feet. There was no point in delay: he would get the business under way immediately.
‘Chancellor Godoy, Majesty.’
‘Oh. Come in, mi primo,’ King Carlos grunted genially, holding his arms high as his slim-fitting leather hunting surcoat was eased on. ‘You have something for me?’
Godoy had timed it well. Affairs of state were a tiresome intrusion when the hunting field beckoned, as it so often did. It shouldn’t take long. ‘Good news, sire, much to be welcomed in these parlous times. An initiative I’ve caused to be raised before the French Emperor has been received with a pleasing degree of acclamation.’
‘Really. Then well done, Godoy. Er, what’s it all about?’
‘Bonaparte is restless, seeing Portugal without a ruler yet flouting his offers of friendship – and, worse, seeking to plot with the British to our common distress. There is a solution I have humbly offered, which he has seen fit to accede to. It is, sire, the answer to centuries of Spanish humiliation – no less than the final unifying of the Iberian peninsula under our banner.’
‘What can you mean by this, Godoy? How can-’
‘In return for a fair division of the proceeds of the dissolution of the Portuguese nation into a Spanish province, he will provide sufficient troops to join with us in our reordering of the progress of history. For this he undertakes to enact a grand treaty between our two nations, to remain secret until we are ready to march.’
The King paused, his face comically pulled out of shape by the tight surcoat inching its way on. ‘That’s all he wants?’
‘That, and permission to march to Portugal through Spain, thereby defying the English fleet.’ He allowed his voice to acquire a more reverential tone and went on, ‘He does aver that such will be the resulting great accession of territory to the Spanish Crown that it may be necessary henceforth to refer to the King of Spain as emperor – his suggestion is “Emperor of the Two Americas”, sire.’
The coat finally settled in place while the King blinked happily. ‘A fine and statesmanlike resolving of an ancient problem,’ he pronounced at length. ‘What should I do?’
‘Merely the ratifying of the treaty will answer, sire. I’ve given the clauses my personal care and attention so you may be sure there will be no difficulties.’
‘Yes, yes, I shall. You’ve done very well, mi primo, and let the world know how grateful I am for your ministry. Is there aught else?’
Godoy’s face fell, his features carefully sorrowful. This final move would set the seal on a brilliant stroke, serving to rid himself of his deadliest and until now untouchable adversary.
‘Sire, why is it that the gods raise us up with one hand only to cast us down with the other?’
King Carlos frowned. ‘There is an impediment to the treaty?’
‘No, sire,’ he hastened to say, ‘rather it is a matter of personal sadness that I feel obliged to divulge to you.’
‘You can tell me, old friend.’
‘My man in Fontainebleau, while in the process of negotiation, discovered a grave and sinister design, no less than your deposing and replacing by another more pliable to the foreign cause.’
‘Have you the details?’
‘As of last evening, unhappily, I have, sire.’
‘The wretch shall be made to pay for his villainy!’
‘It is in truth naught but an attempt to bind Spain for ever to France through an unequal and demeaning marriage.’
‘Deposing – what in Heaven’s name is this damnable roguery?’
‘Majesty, it is the act of one who has agreed – in writing – to take whomsoever the French Emperor chooses as pledge of loyalty and obedience.’
‘He shall die, of course. Who is he – do I know the treasonous Judas?’ he spluttered.
‘Sire, it grieves me to say it but we have the evidence that it is the foolish intriguing of none other than … the Prince of Asturias.’ The King’s son Fernando. Impatient heir and implacable foe of Godoy in whatever he did.
‘No!’
‘I fear it be so, sire. Acting on information received, I made search of the royal apartments and found certain letters that shall be laid before you that are unanswerable proof of his perfidy. Shall I …?’
‘Seize him and take him to El Escorial,’ King Carlos said heavily. ‘He shall be dealt with.’
Luxuriating in the satin caress of the big four-poster bed, Godoy smiled indulgently at his mistress. ‘As it was a coup rarely seen, Pepita. In one afternoon I have vanquished that toad Fernando but much more than that – to be made a prince of Spain with a demesne of my own to rule as I please!’
‘Prince of the Algarves,’ murmured Pepita, sleepily. ‘I like that. Does your wife still have to be with us?’
‘As crowned head I shall put her from me, mi pichoncita,’ Godoy said airily. ‘Besides which, you plainly haven’t deduced what all this will lead to.’
She wriggled round to see him more clearly. ‘To more? Tell me.’
‘You really want to know?’ he teased.
‘If it touches on you and me, of course.’ She pouted prettily.
‘Then I shall tell you, carino. After so much hard striving, the biggest prize of all is within my reach.’
‘Yes, yes, go on.’
‘With the heir to throne now disgraced, and as the only Prince of Spain not in the royal line of that old imbecile, there are many advantages to my acceding … to the throne myself.’
‘You!’ she squealed.
‘I.’
‘But …’
‘I will not weary you with details, Pepita, but there’s one that stands above and beyond all others.’
‘Tell me!’
‘Consider this. I am not a Bourbon. The French exerted themselves to extraordinary lengths to rid themselves of that decrepit bloodline, and Emperor Napoleon would like nothing better than to ally himself to one not tainted by such. As prince, I will be in the line of succession. He will undoubtedly bring much pressure to bear on the Cortes that will, in the end, see me King of Spain!’