The Knight Who Went Mad
I was dumbfounded by the Duke of Braganza’s words. I knew the wheat seeds had spread somewhat, but all the way to Portugal? At this speed in this era?
Admitting that I had severely underestimated the trade networks of the 17th century, I asked him, "How did you manage to grow them?"
"I had my farmers plant them in the best soil available. Since it was only a handful of seeds, I ordered them to be sown in the most fertile, well-irrigated land."
At the Duke’s clearly aggrieved tone, I asked again, "Then it shouldn't have been a lack of water... what was the soil like?"
"The soil? Well... isn't all soil the same? It was land where we’ve grown wheat every year."
Soil is not all the same. It varies not just by climate or water, but by whether it is acidic or alkaline. That is why local landraces, which have undergone thousands of years of optimization, are so precious.
"How far did they grow before they died?"
"Well, last year, once it got warm, they grew beautifully and shimmered like silver. But the moment they seemed to be forming grains and turning golden, they died overnight."
"They died overnight?"
Abscisic acid overload. It’s a mechanism that triggers in plants during droughts or floods. It’s a trait found in varieties that resist extreme environmental stress by closing their stomata, effectively boosting their resilience. But when it becomes excessive, it leads to forced maturation. It’s a farmer’s nightmare: the crop, which had been growing well, suddenly withers away, leaving nothing but empty husks.
I asked him out of pure curiosity, "Do you happen to have the dead wheat with you?"
"My attendant should have it."
Juan signaled his attendant to bring it out, and I carefully examined the wheat contained in a silk pouch.
"The wheat was trying to leave behind an ear."
Where the grain should have been, there was something that wasn't even a husk. When I split it with my fingernail, only the trace of an embryo was visible.
"Oh, boy..."
"What is it?"
"Thinking about it, I believe the great harvest I reaped was a stroke of luck brought by the flood."
Early-maturing varieties are as temperamental as a villainess in a romance novel; if even one thing doesn't suit their fancy, they just decide, 'Okay, I'm dying.'
Because they have such an extreme life cycle, they require precise water and nutrient supply at the right time. I had let my guard down, thinking that Don Quixote was growing well even in this era without precise management. But that wasn't the case at all.
Don Quixote, the knight who wanders off on his own adventures, was a knight who had truly gone mad—if there were no enemies to kill, he would simply kill himself.
"It seems the nature of the soil didn't match."
"Does soil have a 'nature' too?"
"For instance, here in Valladolid, the soil is limestone-based, which wheat loves most. While one must be careful of salt damage due to long-term farming, the wheat here has thoroughly adapted to that environment. Don Quixote likely has a personality optimized for this region, so it must have been difficult in your fields, Your Excellency."
"Is there no way?"
"Honestly, I don't know of one..."
If we rebooted the soil by spreading plenty of lime and ash, it might be possible, but...
Since I had never met another high-ranking noble who was born on this land and showed interest in farming, I felt like I had found a comrade and spoke to him excitedly.
"Even if it's not this specific wheat, if you intend to farm, I will help you! We shall be the ones to revive the agriculture of this land!"
"No. I want to grow this wheat. I have no need for other kinds."
My sincerity was betrayed in an instant.
When I said it was difficult to grow Don Quixote, the Duke of Braganza’s interest vanished rapidly. But remembering how happily he had torn into the bread at the banquet, I said, "Your Excellency. Isn't the bread made from Don Quixote truly delicious?"
"Hmm! It was a flavor befitting my tongue."
"Then why not invest in it? If the wagons can just reach Bilbao, you can receive the goods immediately via maritime transport from there."
I explained my plan to him. I spread out a map and showed him the settlements built every day's journey from the warehouse city here. My plan was that if we maintained the road network past Burgos to Haro, we could connect to maritime shipping through the mountain roads leading to Bilbao.
"In truth, I have plenty of physical assets, but no cash. And I have no choice but to be defensive regarding bonds."
"Why is that? I heard you accept royal bonds, so why not accept the reliable bonds from Amsterdam?"
There was a reason for that, one too embarrassing to tell anyone.
"If I say I accept bonds, the Spanish royal family will print their own trash bonds and try to drag away my physical goods. That 'Baldy' is already constantly trying to do that."
"Ah."
"Last time, they even tried to print bonds and pass them off at an 80 percent discount, so I told them I'd pay all my taxes in bonds, and they finally stopped. Even now, they are forcing contractors to 'cash out' their bonds. I’ve already kicked out one guy who was abusing the system, so they’re just treading carefully for now."
My blood boiled just thinking about 'that baldy.' A zookeeper trying to break things in front of a beaver building a dam should be prepared to be bitten by the beaver's teeth.
I glanced at him. Seeing him deep in thought, I launched a 'delaying tactic.'
"Do you have any urgent business that requires you to return soon?"
"No. I have no such plans."
"In that case, why not attend the 'gathering' at the end of the month?"
"Who is attending this gathering?"
"The Admiral of the Castile Navy, the Captain-General of the Army of Flanders, and the Constable of Castile will all be there."
"Hah!"
It was a gathering where even the heir to the greatest noble family in Portugal couldn't afford to ignore the attendees.
One cannot discuss the social activities of noblemen without mentioning hunting. Creating a well-situated grassland or forest as a hunting ground is like building a private golf lounge, but in my case, I had used all such land to create farmland, so I lacked a well-managed hunting ground.
Instead, I had the 'wild hunting ground' of the Paramo Plateau at my disposal. It’s the perfect place to die screaming if you go there in January during a blizzard. And men are animals obsessed with such things.
As we mounted our horses and rode through the valley up to the plateau, the whole world was a field of snow. I go up every January to see if there will be a flood this year, and seeing the snow piled just right, I knew this year would be a bumper crop.
I could hear the hunting dogs and the settlers from the Tercio driving the game from afar. Behind me and Juan, four Hidalgos followed on horseback.
While those assisting with the loading walked through the snow behind the horses, the first prey finally appeared.
Beyond the matchlock muskets that require lighting a fuse, the wheel-lock guns that create sparks by winding a spring are expensive items.
These guns, which Admiral Enrique had given me saying, "A man should at least have this much," were masterpieces with beautiful, artistic engravings.
This gun, which I could never afford with my own money, was held in the Duke of Braganza’s hands, aimed at a wild boar.
-Bang!
-Squeeeal!
"Your Grace, that was magnificent."
I clapped, feeling like I was saying "Nice shot, boss," and praised his prowess.
"I intended to finish it off with a spear like a man, but the gun the Marquis gifted me is quite accurate."
These masterpieces, which had only gathered dust while in my possession, finally spat fire for the first time in the hands of the Duke of Braganza.
"Haha, it seems the gun is also happy to have found its true master."
"The Marquis should feel the thrill as well, shouldn't you? Look, the second prey is coming."
I took a gun from one of the Tercio settlers who had followed as a loader and took a deep breath.
-Bang!
Not even close!
"No! No, no, no!"
I was flustered by my own marksmanship, which hadn't even come near the target, let alone hit it. Juan Manuel, the 'perfect marksman' who had received awards for perfect scores time and again—was this humiliation happening to me?
-Bang!
-Thud.
The winter boar, which had been running wild, died without even letting out a scream, hit somewhere by the bullet.
"Oh, I apologize. I hit it again."
The Duke of Braganza said to me with an embarrassed face. I didn't care at all; I simply praised the Duke's shooting skills.
"No, how are you such a good shot?"
"Hahahaha, it’s just luck."
As I praised the Duke's shooting skills once more and 'certified' his ability to catch two boars with two bullets, he was genuinely pleased while trying to maintain his composure.
'It’s all because this gun is crap. I’m a good shot, but this gun is just subpar.'
I thought to myself, looking quietly at the muzzle of the gun in my hand.
'Wait? Why is there only one rifling groove, and why is it cut in a straight line?'
It was a defective gun, that's why it didn't hit! It wasn't that I was a bad shot! I vowed to myself that I would get a gun with properly cut rifling.
Afterward, a butchery ritual was held on the spot to dismantle the hunted meat.
First, the entrails were thrown to the hunting dogs that had driven the boars, and the 'trophy' boar heads—the evidence of the hunt—and the most noble parts, the tenderloin and loin (Lomo), were divided and offered to me and the Duke of Braganza first. The heart and liver, symbols of spirit and strength, were also offered to us.
Next was the share for the Hidalgos who had come to serve me. When I bestowed upon each of them a hind leg, which could be used to make 'special Jamón from a hunted boar,' all four Hidalgos could not hide their smiles. The remaining parts were taken by those who had suffered while driving the game. Since the amount was barely enough to satisfy dozens of people, it was the unwritten rule of the nobility of this era to catch a few boars and let them taste the meat.
I gave the wheat storage certificate to a sturdy man from the Tercio to use as he saw fit, and said to the Hidalgos:
"Haha, next time I'll give you the hind legs of a boar I caught myself, so look forward to it!"
"We shall wait for it, Your Excellency!"
That’s just talk; there’s no way I’m coming up to the plateau in this cold winter to hunt.
While we sat in front of a warm fireplace after the hunt, feeling the warmth of the fragrant cypress firewood, the chef prepared a small banquet centered around the hunted boar loin.
Enjoying a banquet that wasn't a formal affair with multiple courses, but a single serving with only dessert following, we deepened our friendship.
Ten days passed in a flash, and the day of the 'meeting' dawned.
The attendants we brought were left to wait below, and in the end, only five people ascended to the mansion.
First was Admiral Enrique of Castile, who was leisurely chatting with the Duke of Braganza while drinking chocolate. He was my brother-in-law, a member of the 25 Grandees of the Spanish Empire, and a tycoon ranked first in the navy, enjoying the wealth of New World trade.
The Duke of Braganza, sitting next to him and talking to Admiral Enrique, was also a tycoon, the designated heir to the greatest family in Portugal.
The Captain-General of the Army of Flanders, Ambrogio Spinola, Duke of Balbases. 'The Sacker of Cities,' 'The Ruin of Fortresses,' 'The Conqueror of Ostend.'
Contrary to his terrifying titles, he was a representative of the Genoese bankers, a noble and honorable knight wearing goat-skin gloves studded with jewels. He observed me carefully, sitting with a face full of the regrets of old age.
The fourth person. The 9th Duke of Frías, the 11th Count of Haro, and the 7th hereditary Constable of Castile (Condestable de Castilla). Bernardino Fernández de Velasco. He was a young noble, now 18 years old, who had inherited the dukedom six years ago in 1622.
***
Author's Note:
Rifling originally started as straight, long grooves added like a trash bin to remove carbon fouling. When this changed to a spiral and when people realized it provided a gyroscopic effect is one of the mysteries of firearms development.
Bye~ See you next weekend~