Negotiation (3)
Red stockings peeking out beneath formal attire, I arrived at the very place where my brother had first met me. A group of men in unfamiliar garb immediately caught my eye. Spotting my arrival, Philip II beckoned me forward.
"You summoned me, Your Highness?"
"Forgive the late hour. With these ill-mannered folk barging in, those who know etiquette have no choice but to suffer..."
He clicked his tongue in disapproval. The strangers in foreign dress glanced nervously at him, pretending not to notice. From my brother's position, they were an unwelcome intrusion. These were French envoys who had long stirred conflict within Italy.
Their sudden visit piqued my curiosity. Why would my cautious brother receive envoys at such a late hour?
"What brings King Henry II of France?"
The envoys turned to stare at me, then bowed their heads as if recognizing who I was.
"Heir to Luxembourg, Count of Malaga County..."
I raised my hand, silencing them. Then I fixed them with a steady gaze. Philip's lips curved into a satisfied smile the moment I pronounced Henry II in the Castilian fashion—Enrique.
I figured showing him I could pressure these French envoys in his stead would score me points.
"Am I not asking the question?"
I switched flawlessly to French. Alternating between Castilian and French, I had them on the ropes; the envoys could barely muster a response. Then one stepped forward—an older envoy compared to the rest. He eyed me cautiously before speaking.
"Greetings. I stand here as envoy of France's King Henri II, representing a nation of glorious history. I am a faithful Catholic and adhere to that truth unswervingly. Thus, while I speak in French, I can express all necessities in Latin as well. As the Latin adage goes, the king has ever been..."
Already my head throbbed from the verbosity. In this era without spam emails, they occasionally dispatched these envoys like long-winded bombers, overwhelming foes with incomprehensible Latin, pointless anecdotes, interspersed Castilian and French to sow confusion. It was routine enough not to annoy me outright. But the irritating barbs slipped in between...
For instance, claiming they never wanted the Italian wars and playing the victim. Or insisting they had no choice because England and we were too chummy. The crowning absurdity: boasting about gobbling up that pathetic scrap of land at Calais like it was life's ultimate victory—a pinnacle of mental gymnastics.
"Abi in malam crucem!"
Best to counter Latin with Latin. I spat the near-heretical curse—"Go hang on a cursed cross!"—and glared at the envoy. He went mute as a clamped honeycomb. I turned to Philip II and begged forgiveness.
"My apologies, Your Highness. I couldn't contain my rage and uttered a curse no Christian should speak."
Philip feigned stern anger, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his delight at my theatrics.
"In God's stead, I absolve your sin."
"Thank you, Your Highness."
Having pardoned me, he turned to the envoys with a smile, eyeing each one in turn.
"I trust you gentlemen can forgive my hot-blooded brother's outburst. He's barely twenty, after all."
"Haha... ha. Of... of course."
The long-winded old envoy nodded with a strained expression. With the King of Spain himself forgiving the insult, a mere envoy had no room to object.
"Now then, to the main point."
The envoy glanced at his colleagues' faces before stepping back. In his place emerged a dapper man who seemed the true representative—cloaked in a fine mantle, sporting a well-groomed beard. Young, yet he carried the air of a seasoned noble.
"Forgive our rudeness."
"No matter. But... who might you be?"
"I am the Viori Count, full ambassador plenipotentiary of France's great King Henri II."
The real deal. My brother regarded him coolly.
"What business does Enrique II have, conducting himself without decorum at this late hour?"
"A matter of utmost importance. One to resolve the ancient grudges between Iberia and Gaul."
"Hmm..."
Philip stroked his chin, then waved for him to continue.
"France intends to withdraw from Italy."
"Does that mean relinquishing claims to Milan, Genoa, and Savoy?"
"You know full well that's no simple task."
Indeed, for France—having poured vast sums and men into those lands—to now regurgitate them was bitter medicine. Yet Philip, ever honorable, grasped Henri II's intent. The devout Catholic king was at least comprehensible to him. Had Henri not issued the Edict of Chateaubriand branding Protestants heretics, my brother—the pious zealot—might not have listened at all.
A fine outcome for Spain, too. With the Low Countries in turmoil and the Islamic menace of the Ottomans gnawing at his nerves, this was timely. In the original history, he'd soon write to Pope Paul IV around now. Brooding over the coming Battle of Djerba, Philip yearned to smash the Ottomans—those foes he most wanted erased from the world.
Not just his Catholic fanaticism; Tripoli and Tunis turning Islamic threatened his realms gravely. Naples, Sicily, Sardinia—all Spanish territories—lay exposed to Barbary pirates. Those redheaded devils kidnapping Christians to galley-slave them into riches had my brother on the verge of explosion.
And now France volunteering to abandon influence over Milan, Genoa, and Savoy in northern Italy. My shrewd brother saw through it instantly.
"It seems France's colonial ventures aren't faring smoothly."
The envoy fell silent. Philip, not one to pick needless fights, let it drop.
"What are Enrique II's terms?"
"Peace. Eternal peace between two Catholic realms."
"...Hmm."
A decent offer. France withdrawing unconditionally seemed odd, but pro-French nobles heading the new independent states posed no great threat. I could guess a few names. And I knew the pivotal one: Andrea Doria, once a French naval admiral. His great-grandson, Giovanni Andrea Doria, would shine in the legendary Battle of Lepanto. Retired by 1555 but still kicking at what would be 94 in two years' time—a hale old Mediterranean legend.
In this altered history, his final career had been with France, never hired by my father Charles V. They meant to install him as a buffer between France and Spain.
"This shall be under Father Paul's auspices—no need for concern."
The pope of this era. In Korea, pope—meaning father—became "law king" or pontiff for making church law. In Europe, simply "Father." Protestants demoted him to Roman Bishop. Spain and France, bastions of Christendom, called him Father.
Thus, requesting Paul IV as mediator. My brother nodded. He had business with the pope anyway—handling this Franco-Spanish treaty as a bonus.
An awkward spot for me. The more my brother suffered, the better for me. Yet this boss-mode Philip II drew luck like a magnet. The Low Countries revolt now had a land route to suppress; long-hostile France was reconciling. Spain solidified Naples, Sicily, Sardinia. Genoa might have followed in the original timeline, but here France spat it out voluntarily. Savoy, Genoa, Milan reborn as French-influenced buffers.
I'd thought history diverged sharply, yet it looped back. Uncomfortable as hell, but I couldn't show it. My plan to swallow Genoa whole? Vanished in a puff.
Blissfully ignorant of my turmoil, Philip beamed and turned to me.
"Malaga Count, Don Juan de Austria, step forward."
"Yes, Your Highness."
Suddenly formal, he drew puzzled looks from me, but I complied. The French envoys gauged the mood and retreated. At Philip's gesture, the chamberlain approached, received instructions, and dashed off—returning with something wrapped in red carpet.
Unveiled: a Spanish ropera, the rapier known for thrusting. I knew what was coming.
Philip drew it deftly and offered it hilt-first.
"I, guardian of the Faith, sovereign of great Spain, the Low Countries, and Grand Master of the Golden Fleece Knights, do declare."
He met my eyes gravely.
"Malaga Count Don Juan, I name you my ambassador plenipotentiary. Proceed to Rome, pay respects to our Father, and forge peace with France in my stead."
My brother, clocking in the overtime. Now shoving a lone sword at me and shipping me off on a business trip.