The Admiral's Pride and the Morning Sickness
The Mesta Association’s power stems not only from the massive taxes they pay—accounting for 20 percent of the national treasury—but also from the status of its members, ranging from humble hidalgos and wealthy merchants to the heads of great noble houses.
Admiral Enrique, who had been meddling with the Mesta’s affairs, was himself one of its members.
"Admiral, this is a grave betrayal! Are you truly going to defy the will of the Association?"
The Count of Teruel was one of the Mesta executives who had planned and executed this recent disciplinary action. He was furious at the Admiral’s reckless behavior, which had effectively thrown their perfectly baked bread into the mud. Having been ignored by the Admiral’s letters, he had come to the Mesta meeting hall to confront him in person, firmly believing that the infringement upon the Mesta’s privileges was a crisis in itself.
Admiral Castilla, the guide of the New World treasure fleet, was enjoying some chocolatte brought from the New World right there in the hall. As he sipped the warm drink, rich with sugar, vanilla, and cinnamon, he didn't even pretend to listen to the Count. The Count of Teruel slammed his hand onto the table.
"You are ignoring me!"
"Keep it down. Remember that you are currently in the presence of the glorious Admiral of Castilla, you Usurero."
Usurero. A derogatory term derived from usura, meaning usury. Since it was a mortal sin under Catholic doctrine, the word was not merely a job title, but a label for a sinner destined for hell.
"H-how dare you! Retract that. Retract it! Admiral! If you don't!!!"
At the Count’s frantic outburst, the Admiral set down his cup.
"And if I don't?"
"I shall formally request a judgment from the Mesta against you!"
The Count of Teruel looked around at the other Mesta members, puffing out his chest.
"Ha! You lot, daring to pass 'judgment' on me? You truly are a delightful bunch of clowns."
The Admiral dismissed everything with a sneer.
"No matter how high your rank as Admiral, you are not above the will of the Association!"
The Count of Teruel and the other Mesta members pressured him, but the arrogant Admiral didn't even care.
"The only ones above me are God and His Majesty the King. My will is like the North Star; it shall neither move nor waver for the likes of you."
"No, I mean why! Why on earth did you interfere with the Association's event? Just answer that!"
Frustrated to the point of exploding, the Count of Teruel shoved the Admiral’s chocolatte away.
"Why? You want to hear the reason?"
"Yes!"
"I wanted to do as I pleased, so why would I need a reason?"
The Count of Teruel’s jaw dropped at the "just because" answer. He thought to himself: That crazy Admiral is one thing, but his younger sister is the same—there isn't a single normal person in that family. The arrogance of the Admiral who flipped over a banquet hall during the reign of the great Philip II because his chair was lower than the King's—that bloodline remains unchanged even after three generations.
"Vile creatures. Daring to insult my younger sister. This is no different from insulting me."
Only then did the Count of Teruel realize why the Admiral was sulking, and he couldn't help but retort in frustration.
"Ugh! It’s just a woman who ran away to marry a coachman!"
—*Snap.*
The Admiral’s relaxed and arrogant composure boiled over like a storm on the high seas. Rising from his seat, he looked at each of the gathered Mesta members one by one, his eyes like a churning ocean, his voice filled with a rage that seemed to make the heavens howl.
"Did you dare call the Admiral’s daughter a 'woman who ran away'?"
"When my father led the fleet, what were you? Do you think that just because you bought a title with silver coins from the late King and became a Grande, you are the same as us?"
"A mere money-changer who lived counting silver coins while lusting after interest. Daring to! Call the Admiral’s daughter that! I cannot possibly endure this insult."
The Admiral glanced at his faction of nobles who had appeared out of nowhere and spoke briefly.
"Recite it. Who am I?"
The nobles shouted in unison.
"You are His Excellency Juan Alfonso Enríquez de Cabrera, the 9th Admiral of Castilla, the 5th Duke of Medina de Rioseco, Chief Advisor to His Majesty the King, and a Knight of the Order of the Golden Fleece."
The Admiral, having boasted of his status, looked at the Count.
"Usurero. Do not dare to talk back to me again. The prestige of the Enríquez family is far too high to be touched by the filthy hands of a money-changer who spent his life handling interest."
Admiral Enríquez left the meeting hall, and no one dared to stop him.
"For now... let's play the long game. We cannot ignore that Admiral's influence, at least in the northwest."
"Agreed. If he issues a ban on entry to his lands, our sheep won't even be able to reach Burgos."
The Mesta executives, unable to do one thing or another, chose to hold off for now.
Autumn had arrived. The sheep of the Mesta, which had been causing trouble in the north, were heading south, and it was time to get busy with the sowing season before the frost winds arrived.
Come to think of it, last year I had clearly distributed the Don Quixote wheat, but there were quite a few farmers who had been growing Trigo Candial.
"Sigh. Should I start controlling the seeds they plant from now on?"
After giving a "first warning" to the farmers who had likely sold the seeds to outsiders, I had them plant Don Quixote in the new reclaimed lands and fava beans where wheat had already been planted.
For the land left over due to a lack of labor, I planned to sow wild radishes and clover to feed the cattle and horses.
If there was one good thing about becoming a Marquis, it was that in the past, I had to beg blacksmiths and carpenters to make sowing machines or tools, but now, a single word—"Do it"—was enough for them to bring me the best possible improvements. Thanks to that, the seed drill had been improved to the point where one person could pull it from the front while another walked alongside the donkey to assist.
In the 17th century, there are no tractors or agricultural drones. Instead, there are cattle, horses, and farmers who will work all day long as long as you feed them.
With farmers available almost for free, why try to achieve maximum mechanization? It is because labor is absolutely scarce.
For one, the Spanish land is a hostile environment for humans. It’s already a desolate land, and the forests were over-logged and disappeared long ago. Even the nobles can't afford the luxury of using log fuel, and they have to spend the winter using fuel made of dried grass mixed with donkey dung. It’s a land where sub-zero winds blow in the winter, yet fuel is scarce.
In the summer, the situation of having either too much or too little water repeats itself. This land has been suffering from the typical side effects of deforestation since the 15th century. That is why people cannot gather and live together.
I bundled them into small agricultural communities of 30 households, gave them similar land, and made them grow the same crops. I sent those who had suffered with me for several years as village chiefs to each town to provide agricultural guidance.
In the romantic 17th century, it is "natural" for an 8-year-old to pick up farm tools. This is also considered the perfect age to enter an apprenticeship as a craftsman. Even in the 21st century, 8- to 16-year-olds would be covered by labor laws, but here, everyone helped with farm work, yet labor remained in constant shortage. 50,000 fanegas. To manage nearly 30,000 hectares of farmland, I still needed twice as many farmers. Since farming is a profession where efficiency increases with skill and drops as skill wanes, the labor shortage is even more severe.
And this doesn't even count the desolate land on the Paramo plateau. That place was truly hopeless; I just planted saplings and had to pray to God that they would take root.
"So that’s why they raised sheep."
I emotionally understood why the Mesta Association had fed people and raised sheep. Even I, who am confident in raising agricultural productivity, often think, Everything is a hassle, should I just raise sheep?
"Oh, right, quince!"
I was pondering what to plant as a tree that could also serve as a fence when I thought of quince. Thanks to the fact that I had been steadily increasing them since I first arrived here, there were plenty of saplings, and the rooting rate was good even if I just cut the branches at the right time.
And the fact that Teresa liked membrillo was also a mitigating factor.
While the farmers were working hard to welcome the month of sowing, the "Mistress of all farmers in Valladolid" was going through a period of suffering.
"Ugh..."
Lying there almost like a corpse, Teresa was enduring the pain, unable to lie down, stand, or lie on her stomach.
"My Lady, you must eat something."
"I have no appetite today either."
Teresa was originally someone who couldn't eat a meal without meat, but now she was barely managing to eat porridge made by boiling breadcrumbs in milk.
"Huhu... to make this mother suffer so much, you must be a bad child, truly, I wonder who you take after."
Teresa had realized at 25 that she had only known a man for the first time then and had wasted half her life. Since then, she had tried to compensate for the loss at least twice a day, trying to make up for all the time she had missed. Even ignoring days of abstinence or feast days, the schedule continued, and as a result, Juan’s robust stamina, hardened by farm work, eventually couldn't take it and died a glorious death. They were a little more restrained afterward, but it was only natural that a child would be conceived by a couple who still maintained an active marital relationship more than five times a week.
"Would you like some quince?"
The maid of Enrique, who had come all this way to serve her upon hearing the news that the young lady was pregnant, offered her favorite quince, but Teresa shook her head after much deliberation.
"...... No."
"You must eat something, My Lady."
"No. Look here. Don't you see the fat I've gained? If I gain even a little weight, it gathers in my chest and makes me look unsightly..."
Teresa showed the fat that had gathered on her smooth waist and looked like she was about to cry. If her belly had come out, it would mean the child was growing well, but gaining weight on her sides was an intolerable humiliation. On top of that, her breasts, which were already heavy, had become one layer heavier, making every daily task uncomfortable.
"The Master seems to like that even more..."
The maid, who had served nobles for a long time, had the ability to "read the heart of her superiors."
"That cannot be."
When she said it firmly, the maid changed the subject.
"Is that why you've been avoiding the Master lately? My Lady?"
"Yes..."
"That's a shame. If the Master were here, your pain might lessen a little."
At the maid's words, Teresa perked up her ears and said.
"Is that true?"
"In my case, it was, My Lady."
"Hoho... tell me in detail!"
The maid sat by the side of her mistress, who was lying on the bed, and shared her own experience.
"Wheat is harvested in May?"
Landowners across Castilla, beyond Valladolid, had bought and planted the seeds last year out of vanity, just because they were told it belonged to the royal family.
But when that wheat was harvested faster than anyone else, they were thrilled.
A seed that harvests the most expensive May wheat—isn't this truly magic, no, a miracle where silver coins are copied?
"Collect all this wheat as seeds. From next year, my entire estate will plant only this wheat."
The landowners collected all the Don Quixote wheat grains from the tenant farmers who had been farming and stored them tightly in warehouses.
Unlike other wheat fields that were still ripening, the fields where Don Quixote had departed at the end of May, dry and brittle, felt devoid of any vitality.
Of course, since it wasn't their own wheat field anyway, the tenant farmers who saw it pretended not to see.
And the returning autumn sowing season. Don Quixote was planted on a large scale in the land rich in nutrients from last year's flooding.
These crazy knights provided a harvest that would burst the warehouses the following spring, but no one predicted what the result would be.
***
Author's Note:
Does it feel like a chuunibyou battle? It's historical accuracy! Is this normal, you ask? This is why the country collapsed...
The saying that "sex is good for morning sickness" is a rumor. But it’s a rumor that has been consistently passed down since ancient times.