The Price of Honor and the Cost of Survival
To discuss money in matters of marriage is the way of the barbarian. However, a wedding is a social event, and it is a costly affair. Beyond the fact that it is a "once-in-a-lifetime" event, a 17th-century aristocratic wedding is, in a word, an exercise in throwing money into the dirt. For a high-ranking noble of this era, a bullfight is the bare minimum, and it is common to burn through an entire year’s budget of one’s estate.
So, how did I, a man without liquid cash, manage to fund my wedding? The answer lies with the savior of Valladolid and the savior of my bank account: Don Quijote.
In Spain, there are two times a year when wheat prices are at their peak: the sowing season and the hunger gap just before the harvest. The harvest time for wheat is delayed the further north one goes; in the Valladolid region, it is harvested between late June and early July. That one month—late May to early June—which is when the Don Quijote variety is harvested, is traditionally the time when wheat prices are highest.
The wheat entering Valladolid did not come for free. Following my contract with the mayor, I sold this wheat at the harvest-time price rather than the hunger-gap price, but I did not offer this price to everyone.
Nearby Tordesillas, and even distant Zamora and Salamanca, had been hit by floods and were suffering through the hunger gap, with wheat prices exceeding the value of silver by weight. When the news broke that fresh wheat had arrived in Valladolid, merchants flocked to us in a frenzy.
Since Olivares had begun minting vellón coins—which contained no silver at all—to maximize seigniorage, Spanish commerce had regressed to the point where "if it isn't a real silver coin, we won't buy or sell even a single chicken." Bonds and letters of credit were turning into scraps of paper. It was a textbook case of bad money driving out good, and the hyperinflation of copper coins was dragging the Spanish economy into the abyss in real-time.
Conversely, as the almost sole power holding a massive amount of essential physical goods—"wheat"—my asset value jumped fivefold overnight. Merchants begged me to sell them grain, and I was clearing out my wheat inventory by trading it for the goods I needed at a discount. Stonemasons and carpenters who had previously demanded high wages were now fighting over a handful of wheat for the chance to work, while architects from other cities approached me, offering to work for even less.
However, as a member of the local community who had already benefited from the granaries they had built, I decisively hired the Valladolid Stonemason Guild and the Carpenter Guild. Valladolid had requested them for emergency repairs, and I sent a portion of them to maintain the cathedral and the city's aqueducts.
To be honest, the collapse of currency value had been predictable since my trip to Madrid last year. I began commissioning the stonemason guild to build large warehouses—the most important infrastructure for physical-goods-centered trade—and started scouting for a prime location to serve as my base. Once I found a spot where I could draw water and that was reasonably safe from flooding, I began building my newlywed home. The farmers called it the Marquis’s Castle, but I simply called it the headquarters of the Agricultural Development Company.
To cultivate the rapidly expanding farmland productively, I needed the strength of oxen and horses, not just men. The Andalusian, the top-tier sports car of the horse world, was far too delicate for farm work, but the native horses of the Castilian plateau had hard hooves and sturdy legs adapted to the rugged mountain terrain. If the draft horses or oxen of Northern Europe were trucks, these horses were like SUVs or a sturdy blue pickup truck. The only problem was that these Castilian horses were so stubborn and so sensitive to the rider's skill that they were impossible for ordinary people to control.
The "Birdie-Jo" click was the god-tier solution to that problem. The stallions that lost their testicles became docile, gentle enough to pull plows and carts. Birdie-Jo was originally a task I performed myself, but I no longer do it. I shared the Birdie-Jo technique with my trusted partner, Bartolomé, and passed on the 21st-century breeding knowledge I knew from common sense, even if I wasn't a professional.
"So this is the secret to how you increased the number of castrated bulls, my lord."
He mastered the technique after a few practice sessions with the Birdie-Jo I handed him. Watching him click the Birdie-Jo while looking at the bulls made my own legs feel a bit cold.
"This is a technique that is something of a trade secret, sir."
"Indeed... to pass on such a secret. I think I understand how the Marquis regards this Bartolomé."
He joined the Agricultural Development Company as the Mayordomo de Ganadería—in modern terms, the Head of Livestock.
"I cannot pay you a great deal of money. And I will not hold you back by force, so if someone offers you better terms, I would appreciate it if you could tell me three months in advance."
"No! My Lord Marquis! This Bartolomé is not a man whose loyalty is so easily swayed."
After I entrusted him with full authority over livestock management, the company's cattle and horses multiplied rapidly, and eventually, we began to run out of pasture.
And that shortage of pasture led to a clash with the Mesta association.
Neither circuit judges nor mayordomos dared to touch my land now that I had been elevated to the rank of Marquis. Too lazy to come themselves and unable to order others to do it, they finally moved their heavy backsides and began to exert direct influence on me to feed the flocks of sheep that had started to increase again after the flood.
"Now that you are married, shouldn't you be entering high society? Marquis."
"That is correct. We are holding a grand banquet, so you must attend and grace us with your presence."
As I tried to ignore the pile of invitations, people began sending messengers or coming themselves to deliver them. I asked Teresa about this.
"Hmm... in my opinion, their intentions don't seem very good."
"Aren't they just asking me to come and pay my respects?"
She, who was always so confident, spoke to me with an uncharacteristic look of uncertainty.
"I am not accustomed to high society either, so it is difficult for me to give you any advice."
"Is that so?"
At that, I simply stopped worrying about it. Besides, there was too much work to do for the upcoming sowing season, and I didn't have the time.
"Are you not going to ask why?"
"Well, you must have your reasons. I didn't really want to go in the first place, anyway."
When I said that, she pulled me into her arms and gave me an anxious smile I had never seen before.
"I really do love you so much, Juan. Then, let's just go to pay our respects once."
At that first banquet, I realized what her anxiety was about.
"Hey, look at the Cart-Driver Marquis!"
"Ahahahaha. Isn't that a bit harsh, Count Hinojosa? Hahaha."
Thinking I was just going to pay my respects, I found myself the target of insults and mockery. I left the venue, barely managing to calm down Teresa, who was more outraged than anyone else.
"Why did you stop me, Juan?"
"Because that wasn't an advantageous position to fight in."
At my words, she shouted at me with the fury of a lioness.
"Ha! Did I marry a coward who weighs pros and cons in the face of honor!"
"Because that is the profitable choice."
I didn't understand why she was so angry. If we had started a fight there, even if we won, it clearly wouldn't have been a victory.
She then shoved me onto the bed, drew her sword, and stabbed it right next to my ear.
-Thwack!
The sharp blade sliced through the linen sheet in an instant and embedded itself into the wooden floor below.
"Do not discuss profit in the face of honor! You are not a merchant, Juan! You are a Marquis of this Spain! You are the noble hero of Valladolid, my man, Juan Manuel!"
"Ah......"
Only then did I understand her rage. Realizing that I had no idea of the value of honor to a noble, she sighed and sheathed her sword.
"This is the only time. And let me be clear: I am very, very disappointed in my man today. Therefore, I shall sleep alone tonight."
I grabbed her as she was about to leave the room. As I looked into her eyes without a word, the light that had been blazing with fury began to fade.
"You're being underhanded, Juan."
When I pulled her in without saying anything, she resisted for a moment, but eventually, she let herself be held in my arms.
"I'll say it again, this is the only time. Never take honor lightly again."
"I'm sorry, Teresa."
"Ha... I don't know why I fell for a man like this."
As the atmosphere softened, I jokingly added,
"I'll tell you, it was you who seduced me, Teresa."
As soon as she heard that, she pushed me away. In an instant, she drew her sword, sliced my clothes, pinned my chin down, and growled with terrifying eyes.
"Yes, you are mine, chosen by me. So, I will tighten those reins again, just to my liking."
That night, unlike usual, she was wild. Unlike the times she enjoyed my lead, she became a tyrannical oppressor and didn't let me go until the morning sun rose.
"Do you still like spicy things?"
At her words, I remembered the previous days and answered. So she had been paying attention.
"Actually, I think you and Membrio prefer the sweet things."
"Hufufu. You've thought it through well."
"Ah, I apologize. As the King's Inspector General of Agriculture, I am busy with post-flood farmland restoration, so I'm afraid I cannot attend."
After that, I thoroughly ignored the high society where I wouldn't get a good reception anyway. Finding it difficult to exert influence, the Mesta association resorted to other methods.
"This land is ours by possession-prior rights! This is our right recognized by His Majesty the King, so move your cattle and horses at once!"
"Who gave you permission to make farmland! This is land that the Mesta has used as pasture for 500 years, anyway!"
I had become a Marquis, but my "commoner sensor" was still sharp. This couldn't go to court. It was correct not to be under the illusion that the judge would be fair when the judge was a member of the Mesta.
-Grind.
"You're the ones who started this."
I officially exercised the authority of the "Supreme Commander of Reclamation of the Kingdom of Castile" on the Paramo plateau in the Valladolid region. In a country currently at war, the gravity of military law is second only to the King's decree. And it is applied most cruelly and harshly.
"From now on, all grasslands in this area are preserved and managed as pastures for military horses, and are subject to military privilege. This is a top-priority project supporting a nation at war."
"Based on the supreme water rights applied to this region, the use of water resources by all personnel except for military horses and managers is restricted."
"Anyone who does not comply will be evicted, and trespassing livestock will be requisitioned for military purposes."
I gathered the hidalgos of Valladolid, who were living in poverty with no honorable work to do, gave them the title of "His Majesty's Pasture Managers," and deployed them to the plateau.
In areas where the lupines had grown enough to stabilize the vegetation, I had them plant oak saplings every 20 meters and three pine saplings between each oak, creating a forest. When these trees grow, excellent pasture will grow beneath them, and in 10 or 20 years, when the pines are cut down, the finest pasture will stretch out endlessly.
I knew the hidalgos wouldn't do the planting, so I had the farmers do that, but protecting those saplings from the sheep was the job of "His Majesty's Pasture Managers."
The Mesta pressured me by shaking the central power-broker, Olivares. The debtor count-duke raised the white flag against the counterattack of a massive association that provided 20 percent of the national tax revenue.
Thus, after receiving a letter from the Count, I had to open up the parts where trees hadn't been planted yet. However, for the places where trees were planted, I attached the title "Future Forest Resources for the Royal Fleet," and Admiral Enrique stepped forward, claiming it was the "Right of the Admiral of Castile to use in 20 years," forcing the Mesta to give up.
A scream from Olivares arrived by letter, asking why I was planting trees when things were so urgent right now, but I ignored it and pushed forward. Instead, I sent him a reply saying that if he sent the poor of Madrid before the sowing season, I would accommodate them as much as possible. It was possible because, after the flood, this region had become fertile land that guaranteed a harvest exceeding the input of labor, provided there were enough hands.
And the fight between me and the Mesta association, once it had started, was now dragging out into a long-term war, not a short one.