[The Potato and the Knight of La Mancha]
The Great Flood of 1626 was all the more lethal because it had rotted away even the tithes stored in the cathedrals. The tithe, which was meant to serve as a communal safety net for charity and storage, was the very foundation that kept a community alive during such disasters—and it had been lost entirely. Farmers who had sown their final grains during the autumn planting season were left with absolutely nothing to eat, forced to endure until the next harvest.
Ironically, that was precisely why the potato was introduced to this region.
The potatoes planted on the royal farms in March were experimental, but because they grew underground, they were far hardier against the surprise frosts of April and May than beans or millet. In particular, the primitive, ancient potatoes of the 17th century possessed a wild, tenacious vitality—the kind that seemed to rise from the dead. Unlike the 21st-century varieties that matured in three months, these took a good six months to fully develop, but they finally emerged in late September, establishing themselves alongside chickpeas as the last line of defense against starvation.
"H-how can we eat such food, which is not even mentioned in the Holy Scriptures!"
The devout, especially the priests, were disgusted by the potato.
"Is that so? If you aren't going to eat it, hand it over!"
But the citizens were desperate; they were enthusiastic about anything they could chew. So many citizens had fallen ill from scavenging the green sprouts—which were discarded because they were poisonous—that extreme measures had to be taken, and the sprouts were gathered and burned as fuel for the cooking pots. Porridge made with rye flour mixed with potato starch became far more popular than plain rye porridge.
The potatoes of the 17th century were truly tasteless, but in those times, even the luxury of taste was a privilege no one could afford.
The winter and spring transitioning from '26 to '27 seemed strangely blessed by the heavens, as if the rain and temperatures were favoring Valladolid. Those who had planted the seeds endured the hardships, fueled by the hope of the bumper crop they saw before them.
And then, at the end of May in '27, when even the last of the previous year's rye and potatoes had run out, and the citizens were beginning to abandon the city to scavenge for roots and bark, a knight appeared.
He bites into a stalk of grain, white and plump with kernels, and charges toward the giant of the mill wheel by the riverside.
Crushed and ground, pressed under the giant's feet, it vomits forth white powder.
The chimney of the bakery, which had not seen a wisp of smoke since the flood, began to belch clouds into the sky.
Bread had returned to the streets of Valladolid, where even the mills to grind flour had vanished after the Great Flood.
The citizens of Valladolid chewed their bread with tears in their eyes, singing.
That Don Quixote. The Knight of La Mancha had saved Valladolid.
Farmers outside the city of Valladolid were divided into those who harvested the Don Quixote and those who did not. I had clearly only distributed the Don Quixote seeds, but there were suspiciously many farmers who saw their yields multiply. Regardless, the long harvest, which began with the Don Quixote in late May, stretched on and on until the traditional wheat, Trigo Candial, was harvested in July, bestowing abundance upon the land.
I watched as the farmers, now in "auto-hunt mode," took it upon themselves to harvest, dry, and store the wheat in the granaries, rebuilding the mills in their spare time. I felt a peace and leisure I hadn't experienced in the last five years. Without needing to issue a single order or make a single judgment, I realized that if I just stayed still—not even needing to "click"—the wheat would just... replicate?
I called them agricultural workers, my employees, but they boasted among themselves, saying, "I don't know about all that, but I am a proud farmer tilling the direct holdings of the Marquis!" Honorable Sir Juan, who never abandoned his farmers through any hardship—they regarded themselves as if they were high-ranking officials, looking down on the farmers outside the company.
It was there that I truly felt my 21st-century roots. For the past five years, even the simple act of sharing my own meals with those below me had been a difficult and burdensome thing for them. The gaps in class and authority were densely divided by hierarchy and occupation, and conforming to them was the "natural" order. Unless I used a "hypnosis app" to click and reset them, it would be difficult to untangle this in a generation or two.
I used to be the one working busily out there, but now, if I even try to touch the farm work, the farmers beg me not to. I had clearly told them, unlike other nobles, that I wanted to work, but they adamantly refused, telling me that if I really wanted to work, I should tend to the horses. Thanks to that, I often look after Aventador, but this insane white stallion, having impregnated all thirty mares, rears up on its hind legs and charges at me, demanding more mares.
The horse of horses, adored by all of Europe. A purebred Andalusian, P.R.E. (Pura Raza Española). And if it’s a white stallion, it’s a living fortress. If the oats and beans that went into feeding this insanely expensive stud and his harem had been given to people, wouldn't more lives have been saved?
I lived in an era where cows, horses, and sheep were prioritized over people, but I didn't want to abandon humanity.
"Juan. Isn't it a pity? If you had waited just one more month, they would have handed over the cathedral for a handful of wheat."
I had become a noble, but my life hadn't changed much. In the end, all I had were rights, and while I had ideas in my head on how to monetize them, survival from the disaster was the top priority. The first adobe house restored after the flood had been Teresa's residence, but now it had become the residence for both of us—that was the only thing that had changed.
"No. I don't want to do that."
One of Spain's greatest misfortunes is its lack of population. Fundamentally, this land is hostile to humans. In France or England, all cities are connected to the sea by rivers, but the land of Spain is severed section by section by rapids and waterfalls. The Douro River flows through Portugal and Spain, but the rapids and massive valleys between them separate the two countries, which is a prime example.
Since they couldn't farm or trade, people didn't climb onto horses to raise sheep; they did it because they had no choice. Necessity is the mother of invention, and the Andalusian became the symbol of a fine horse, while the Merino sheep became living gold. The Spanish nobles, having confirmed that animal husbandry was more profitable than people, drove more people away to raise sheep.
But not anymore. That was only possible when there was at least something to eat. The current Spain, where people have nothing to live on and must sell the gold obtained from Merino sheep just to buy bread, would be the greatest opportunity for a prepared farmer.
The bread I sent to Valladolid was not mere relief or charity. It was a pre-paid wage, a trap of savory bread scent to keep them from scattering. I was already imagining them all becoming my workers, laboring all day long.
"Hehe, you are truly soft, Juan. I prefer an ambitious man."
At her words, I stopped daydreaming and bit her earlobe as she laughed playfully, whispering.
"My ambition is satisfied with you alone."
At my words, she widened her eyes and pushed me away hard. Her partially covered face turned bright red.
"Aha! How sweet. Too sweet. Truly sweeter than sugar. How do you manage to toy with my heart like this?"
But it was only for a moment. She returned to her usual relaxed, arrogant face, rubbing her cheek against my chest, before her eyes landed on a small box. It was a box of Dulce de Membrillo that I had brought back when a clerk in Madrid insisted I take it. This sweet preserve made with honey never spoiled, so in times like these, it was as expensive and precious as gold.
"Do you want to eat the Membrillo?"
If she had a tail, it would have been thumping against the bed. She seemed to struggle between the dignity of a noble and the temptation of sweets, then commanded loftily:
"Very well, Juan. I grant you permission to offer it to me."
When I took out a piece and handed it to her, she looked at me while chewing the Membrillo slowly.
"Why are you not eating, Juan?"
I couldn't bring myself to say I couldn't eat it because it was too expensive, so I sold her out.
"I'm satisfied just watching you eat it."
She wore an expression full of annoyance, then pushed me onto the bed and kissed me. Her tongue forced its way past my lips, feeding me the sticky Membrillo pulp.
"Hehe, how is it? The Membrillo that tastes like me?"
"It's too sweet."
As I wiped my lips, she took a piece of Membrillo that had been stuck to the top of her snow-white hill and brought it to her mouth, saying,
"They say that women and Membrillo are better the sweeter they are."
"I prefer spicy over sweet."
"Hmm..."
She looked at me as if displeased, then pulled my face toward the top of her white hill where the Membrillo had been stuck.
"Don't spill it, eat it clean, Juan."
Suddenly turned into a biological cleaner, I faithfully followed the orders of the high noble and meticulously cleaned the dazzlingly white tableware.
From the top of the hill, past the smooth plains, to the valley beyond the thicket—just as the Knight of La Mancha had brought salvation to the citizens of Valladolid.
It was one week before our wedding.
"Brother-in-law. This Admiral is very disappointed in you."
The Admiral of Castile, Juan, who had arrived suddenly, was very disappointed—not in the collapsing adobe house or the worn-out bed, but in something else entirely.
"I apologize, Admiral."
Even if he called me brother-in-law, as a Marquis, I had to address him by his formal title as a Duke. Knowing my guilt, I maintained an even lower posture.
"I clearly gave permission for the Marquis to be my brother-in-law, but is it proper for a man and woman who have not yet held their wedding to live under the same roof?"
"Hmm. Then are you saying that this younger sister should sleep out on the streets in the dew, brother?"
The Admiral, who had been lecturing his brother-in-law as he bowed his head in apology, had been holding back his anger, but at his sister's follow-up, his lid finally blew off.
"Teresa! Show some remorse. What would people say if a daughter of the Enriquez family walked around in such a scandalous state?"
"If it's the eyes of the world, didn't you give up on caring about that five years ago, brother?"
The Duke struck his chest and sighed.
"This is all my lack of virtue. No matter what Anna said, I should have just locked her in a convent five years ago!"
"If you had done that, you wouldn't have been able to make the King's left arm your brother-in-law."
"You never lose an argument! Teresa!"
"Then shall we settle this with swords, brother?"
The Duke sighed deeply and brought up the reason he had secretly come here alone.
"You remember that officially, the Enriquez family knows nothing about this, right?"
"Of course, Admiral."
No matter how much I had risen to the title of Marquis, to the true nobility, this was a mesalliance. Since the family's response to a mesalliance was to not pay a dowry (dote), the Enriquez family would not pay any costs for my wedding with Teresa. The official stance of the Enriquez family, the truest of the true nobility, would be "no comment," and only after I proved my worth would I be formally recognized as a brother-in-law.
"But if my sister holds her wedding in a worn-out linen nightgown, it is a disgrace to this Admiral."
The Admiral had said he came alone, but he hadn't. Household goods, clothes, fabrics, and jewelry enough to fill a small mansion poured out of seven carriages.
"I told you in my letter to bring my feather quilt, brother."
"Anna sent it anyway. You don't know how worried Anna was after that disaster. And she asked me to tell you she's sorry she couldn't make it to the wedding."
"Please give my regards to my sister-in-law, brother."
The Admiral gave up on talking to his immature sister and spoke to his brother-in-law.
"I'll talk to you again next time. Brother-in-law! I won't say anything after the ceremony, so please, for just one week, show some piety. You are now a member of the Enriquez family."
After seeing off the Admiral, who had appeared like the wind and vanished like a storm, I asked Teresa.
"Teresa. Did you know how to handle a sword?"
"Juan, you are of commoner origin, so you don't know. Swordsmanship is a basic accomplishment for high nobles, and it is no different for a woman, so I merely learned a little as part of my education."
It was a bit strange, but why would she have any reason to lie to me? I brushed it off as nothing.
"Is that so?"
"That is so, Juan. Now, since the intruder is gone, I wish to sleep."
Well, it was the middle of July, the time to enjoy a siesta. She was an active woman, but one who hated the sun.
"Oh, really? Then I'll come back later."
I tried to leave, but my hand was already being held.
"I said I wished to sleep."
She pulled me onto the bed.
"With you."
Author's Note:
In actual history, the potato was rejected in Spain until the very end, only becoming popular after a war broke out on the mainland in the 1940s. This is because while grain can be looted, potatoes in the ground cannot.