The Duke of Braganza’s Secret
Portugal is a nation famously deficient in wheat. Rye is not even the standard; they survive on bread made from ground chestnuts. Yet, even the commoners crave white bread the moment they scrape together a few coins—it is a country starved for wheat.
The Portuguese solution had always been to import massive quantities of grain from Northern Europe, but wheat is bulky and notoriously sensitive to moisture. The shipping costs were so exorbitant that the freight often cost more than the cargo itself.
They do cultivate wheat in the plains of Beja to the south, but in that harsh, arid environment, the harvest is nothing more than a drop in the bucket.
The administrator of Portugal’s nearly singular plain region, João de Bragança, the Duke of Barcelos, was also the designated heir to the House of Braganza. Though the young Duke was a musician who loved the arts, he was, above all else, a rational lord.
He had been focusing his efforts on clearing away the low-yield wheat fields of Beja to replace them with more profitable ventures: cork oak forests, sheep pastures, or vineyards. The only reason he had taken an interest in wheat again was the handful of grains currently resting in his palm.
"This is certainly no ordinary seed, Ribeiro."
"Indeed, Your Excellency."
A young man with an academic air and spectacles replied to his summons. João Pinto Ribeiro, a brilliant mind who had graduated from the University of Coimbra, was steadily establishing himself as the right-hand man to the future Duke of Braganza.
"Why did we fail to harvest it?"
Portugal imports wheat every year from the Low Countries, England, and Castile. Since Portugal’s silver coins are reliable, every merchant boasts that their wheat is the finest.
Two years ago, a Castilian merchant had brought a handful of wheat, claiming it was a precious commodity. Intrigued by the merchant’s audacity in demanding silver for a mere handful of grain, the Duke had planted it. But the moment the weather warmed, the wheat grew with frantic speed, only to wither and die before long.
"It must be because the dry soil of the Alentejo plains does not suit the seeds from those northern lands," Ribeiro replied, offering a scientific deduction rather than a theological one.
"Even if a single grain doesn't multiply tenfold as it does in the north, shouldn't we at least be able to reap a minimal harvest?"
"I remain skeptical, Excellency. It is possible there was a bumper crop in Castile, but I do not believe such miraculous yields—ten or fifteen times the seed—are truly possible."
"The yield claims might be inflated, but the quality of the bread is exceptional. This seed is valuable for that alone."
Though the Duke had suspected he was being swindled, the merchant had appeared again the following year with unwavering confidence, this time selling a full sack of wheat instead of a handful. João, a true gourmet, had ordered the bread to be baked just to taste it, and he had been unable to eat any other bread since.
"That is true. The vitality contained in the bread was undeniably different."
Ribeiro was one of the few retainers who had experienced a new world through a single slice of bread gifted by the Duke. Even though it was baked by the same baker in the same oven, the taste, aroma, and texture were entirely different from any other wheat bread.
The scent of the freshly baked, steaming bread was so intoxicating that all the servants had stopped in their tracks.
The sweetness that bloomed as one chewed felt like the soul of the earth touching the tongue. It possessed a rich, concentrated flavor reminiscent of the finest Trigo Candial, with a subtle, lingering aroma like roasted almonds or walnuts.
"We shall soon know the truth. Marquis Juan. Or should I call him João, as we would? He shares my name."
"He is nothing more than a stable boy who struck it rich through the favor of the Spanish King, Excellency."
"But he is a big spender who handles our pepper."
At Ribeiro’s words, João smiled broadly.
"Indeed. The Castilians seem entirely unaware of the fact that the price of pepper has plummeted."
"If that were known, everyone would go bankrupt, so there is no chance of a rumor spreading."
With the Dutch dumping pepper on the market, prices had fallen by 40 percent, and now even England was importing it. Pepper had become toxic inventory that occupied warehouses, unsellable even at reduced prices. Because pepper is a commodity where freshness is paramount, the vicious cycle of its value dropping the longer it sat in storage continued unabated.
The era of pepper, which had led Portugal’s golden age, was coming to an end.
"I find myself craving membrillo topped with goat cheese today."
I chuckled at the words of Teresa, whose appetite had returned in full force after the Christmas season.
"Are you feeling better now? Didn't you used to dislike goat cheese?"
She had always preferred cheese made from sheep or cow milk. Goat cheese from this era had such a pungent, intense flavor that it was a polarizing delicacy.
"Hmm..."
She seemed to ponder my words for a moment before proudly pushing out her stomach.
"It seems the child you conceived desires it."
"I shall have to tell Master Bartolomé to increase our goat supply."
She looked at me with a strangely soft, gentle expression, wearing that beautiful smile of hers.
"Come, touch here! Can you feel our child?"
She took my hand and guided it below her navel. When I hesitated, she pressed my hand down firmly, giggling as she said, "Here, here."
Outwardly, her toned physique remained as firm as ever. But when I pressed with my fingers, I could feel something. As I felt that slight presence beneath her well-trained abdominal muscles, I noticed her gaze turning passionate.
"I find joy just looking at my man’s face."
She said, stroking my cheek. Seeing the hot desire flickering in her eyes, I feigned ignorance.
"Then shall we just look tonight?"
When I said this playfully, she straightened her back and replied.
"Are you confident you can do that, Juan? I told you clearly last night that my milk has not yet come in. Were you not trying to steal the portion of a child that hasn't even formed yet? What a greedy man you are."
"No! That’s not it!"
I felt wronged. Last night, she had pulled my head to her chest and teased me by letting her slightly darkened nipples brush against my eyes—was the intent not obvious?
She stopped acting playful, gripped my hand tightly, and whispered my name softly.
"Juan."
"Yes?"
"Are you worried?"
At those words, I realized she had been trying to cheer me up in her own way.
"Ah, um... was it that obvious?"
"Come here."
She buried my head in her bosom, which had become more bountiful than before she conceived, and stroked my hair.
"If you are truly worried, why not summon my brother? He will surely be a source of strength."
"Ah, that might be a bit much."
He is my brother-in-law, but the Admiral is, frankly, a very difficult man to deal with. It is literally like summoning a Predator because an Alien has invaded.
I emptied my mind in her arms, hoping that tomorrow would never come.
Pepper was no longer the "black gold" it once was, but because it was a spice that could not be cultivated in Europe, its price remained high. Furthermore, since it was an import, controlling the supply was easy. Naturally, the shattered Spanish treasury was in no position to be picky, and they imposed massive "fees" on spices, including pepper.
The spice trade was a rule of Spain that required strict central control.
However, just as there is a policy above, there is a countermeasure below, and the great nobles were no different.
The smuggling routes utilizing Portugal’s rugged mountainous terrain knew no recession, and it was being operated openly, not even bothering to hide.
Instead of the official route from his base in Vila Viçosa through Extremadura, João began his journey from the rugged mountains of the Duchy of Braganza—the origin of his family—toward Valladolid.
Because of the influence the House of Braganza had built over many years, the smugglers—the "friends of the mountains"—welcomed João not as a customer, but as their master, and cleared the path for him.
Following João down the rough mountain path, donkeys laden with pepper descended in a long line.
This procession, accompanied by his personal guard and the "benevolent free-traders of the local community," passed through the villages of the Kingdom of Castile that "provided services at reasonable prices without asking any questions," finally arriving in Valladolid.
Friday. The morning of the Feast of Saint Agnes dawned.
"Child. Bring the corset."
I stopped Teresa as she ordered the maid to bring her corset.
"No."
I wore the black formal uniform I had worn at our wedding, and Teresa wore a modest, deep navy dress. Around her neck hung a necklace that looked like it belonged in a museum.
It was a piece crafted with an emerald at the center, strung with thick pearls, and adorned with patterns of silver and gold. I felt a chill when I heard that the single piece the Admiral had tossed aside so casually was worth enough to buy several manors on the spot.
Regardless of the talk about the country collapsing due to a lack of money, I truly realized that the extravagance of the great nobles was in a different league.
"Your Excellency. And My Lady. Are you ready?"
"Ah, Leonel."
Leonel, dispatched by the Count-Duke of Olivares as a financial auditor, had risen to a position nearly equivalent to a chief steward. To be honest, he was a more capable man than ten "tax-parrot" Counts combined.
"The Duke of Barcelos is said to be arriving shortly."
"Is the banquet preparation finished?"
"I have prepared a three-course service. It is planned around tench, the pride of the estate, and finished with membrillo and chocolat."
My stomach churned at the sight of a budget that burned through more than a week’s worth of "headquarters" food expenses in one go, but I steeled my heart by thinking of the discounted price of the pepper.
"You are always working hard."
"Not at all, Excellency."
I left Teresa to wait in the reception room chair and stepped out to the front entrance.
The ten "Knights of Salt" who had been with me since the Day of Catastrophe stood in solemn formation, wearing new outer garments and breastplates. Behind them, wearing the clothes they had inherited from their fathers, their sons added to the solemnity, standing a few paces back.
"But shouldn't I go out further to meet him?"
It is the unwritten rule of this era that when a Grandee arrives, all the local lords must go to the border to welcome them.
I was meeting a man rumored to be wealthier than Felipe in the United Kingdom; I thought I should be going out far beyond the castle entrance to greet him.
"No. First of all, the Duke is not on an 'official' visit. And you, Marquis, must maintain your honor as the master of this land and a Grandee of Spain."
Leonel, who wore a bunch of keys at his waist to show off the dignity of a chief accountant and steward, stood on the middle of the stairs and spoke to me from above.
"Fine. Let’s do it."
I tapped my cheeks and waited for the Duke’s procession, which would be arriving soon.
However, when the procession did not arrive for over an hour, I asked in confusion.
"Why aren't they here?"
Leonel, who had already sensed something was wrong and sent someone outside, spoke to me with a grave face.
"They say the Duke has gone to the company’s farm, Excellency."
"What on earth is there to see there?"
"Let us move, for now."
We quickly prepared our horses and moved toward the farm where the Duke was said to have headed. Mounted on the saddle of Talia, I spurred my horse, followed by Leonel and the knights.
***
Author’s Note:
João de Bragança.
João Pinto Ribeiro.
Both are real historical figures, and they are the Portuguese pronunciation of "Juan." Admiral Henrique was also a Juan; this Iberian region is filled with Juans everywhere.
I am quite confused myself, so from now on, "Juan" will be used exclusively as the protagonist’s call name.
The Admiral has already quietly had his call name changed to Admiral Henrique.
The Duchy of Braganza is a mountainous region in northern Portugal. However, the court of Vila Viçosa, his base of operations, was located in the southern plains.