The old Queen lay still and peaceful on her bed: at first glance you would have thought that she was asleep.
"Well, I suppose she has been released from her sufferings", sighed a fat man with a huge head and small limbs: Dom João VI, the new King of the United Kingdom of Portugal, Brazil and the Algarves. His head was bowed, but every so often his eyes would flicker upwards to catch a glimpse of his dead mother. He was trying his hardest to put on a brave face for the three children who stood next him: Dom Pedro, the new Prince Royal and Duke of Braganza, aged 17; Infante Dom Miguel, aged 13; and Infanta Dona Isabel, age 14.
"Do you remember it?", João asked, after an interval of about 10 minutes.
"Remember what?", asked Pedro sharply. He was a tall, slender and broad shouldered youth, with a light complexion, rosy cheeks, thick brown hair with sideburns, large dark sparkling eyes, a thin moustache and a straight nose.
"How we came to this country of course", said João patiently. "How we had to leave Lisbon, to flee Bonaparte, how" - at this point an affectionate smile crossed his lips, "your poor demented grandmother said to the coachman taking her to the port, 'Don't go so fast! The people will think we are fleeing!"
João was finding it hard to maintain the appropriate solemnity, but he did his best.
"Our country was overrun", he continued, "but we got away: whatever trials we have to face, the House of Braganza will always endure. So we came to this beautiful country, and how things have changed since then! Once a poor, backward colony, Brazil is now a thriving, prosperous country! No more a colony, but a kingdom, in perfect equality with the Mother Country. Our trade and our industry are flourishing, and we now have books and newspapers, educational programmes and scientific and cultural institutions. And so many more slaves brought over from Africa!"
Pedro shuddered, but João did not appear to notice.
"And", João concluded, "Bonaparte has been defeated, Portugal is now free, thanks to the gallant Wellington and Beresford, and Brazil is at peace while chaos reigns in the rest of this continent. Soon the Banda Oriental will be ours, and our natural borders will be restored."
João looked rather misty-eyed. Pedro privately thought that the situation in Brazil was not as rosy as his father seemed to think.
"So", said João, "now I suppose we have a funeral to arrange . . ."
"Will she be going?", interrupted Pedro. Miguel gave his brother an annoyed look, while Isabel had a "Please don't say that" expression.
"She? You mean your mother?", asked João. "Of course she will, we have to keep up appearances, you know."
"You really want to humiliate yourself?", asked Pedro.
"Humiliate myself?" João was puzzled.
"She humiliates you constantly, all these men she fucks with, her constant plotting against you, I don't know how you put up with all that shit", said Pedro.
"Don't say that", said Miguel angrily. Miguel was dark haired with large brown eyes
Pedro looked at his brother in astonishment.
"Why can't you see what she does? She's a complete bitch", he said.
Miguel lunged at his brother, but João moved swiftly to hold him back.
"Please, Miguel, he doesn't mean it", said Isabel: she was dark haired and soft featured.
"You should show respect to Mama", Miguel shouted at Pedro.
"She shows no respect to Papa", insisted Pedro, "just because she is all lovely towards you . . ."
"Enough!", said João, in a manner that brooked no argument. "Stop it boys, you know myself and your mother are estranged, but we can't let the people see that."
"But . . .", began Pedro.
"The most important thing for us is to keep our dignity in public", said João, "and if that means I hold hands with a wife I am estranged from, so be it".
"Please", added Isabel, "can we just get along with each other, at least for the funeral."
Pedro muttered a grudging "Yes": Miguel gave a half-nod
"And speaking of husbands and wives", said João, "remember Pedro, that you are soon to be married, so I command you to put aside that French dancer."
"I will", promised Pedro, in a respectful tone.
After the royal family had filed out of the Carmo Convent, Pedro and Miguel enjoyed a race on horseback, with Miguel knocking off the hats of passers-by with his riding crop. Eventually they parted after Miguel confirmed he was heading to their mother's house.
When Miguel arrived at the farm near Botafogo where his mother lived, he was happy, but exhausted and sweating. He was escorted to the front door where a servant knocked for him: the initial response, a sharp "Who's there?", changed dramatically once the female voice inside was informed that it was her second son, and she commanded the door to be opened.
Miguel stepped inside: coming down the stairs towards him was a short, sharp-featured woman whose dark frizzy hair was rapidly fading: she also had facial hair, and one side of her body was taller than the other. On seeing Miguel, she smiled broadly and held her arms out wide: Miguel knelt to her.
"Why . . .", began Carlota Joaquina, but she quickly understood. "So I am now Queen?"
"Yes, Mama", said Miguel, looking at the floor.
"Well, then, stand up, and let us embrace", Carlota Joaquina demanded, and Miguel did not need telling twice. They hugged each other hard, and Carlota Joaquina lovingly caressed her son's face.
"So", said Carlota Joaquina, once they had separated. "Your father is now the King."
"Yes", said Miguel.
"All the worse", said Carlota Joaquina, making no attempt to hide her scorn. "He is a weak man, changing his mind from one second to the next. And as for that Pedro . . ."
Her contempt increased.
"With all his French ideas, all his claptrap about the 'rights of man', I mean, does he even know what happened in France? Has he forgotten the dastardly Bonaparte, the man who drove your father out of his kingdom, and stole your uncle's throne? I fear for the future of this United Kingdom."
Miguel said nothing.
"Why does he like all of Bonaparte's ideas? I will never understand that", the Queen went on. She then fixed her gaze on Miguel.
"But, Miguel", she said, in a softer but commanding tone, "will you make a promise to me, to your mother?"
"Of course", said Miguel. "What is it?"
"That you will never go down your brother's path. That you will always pledge yourself to the traditional ways."
"I will", said Miguel unhesitatingly.
Carlota Joaquina smiled again. "That's my boy", she said, patting him on the head. "What a pity that it is Pedro and not you who is born to wear the crown. But let's forget him: would you like to go for a ride?"
"Yes, please", said Miguel enthusiastically, and in no time at all he and his mother were saddled up and riding next to each other, thoroughly enjoying the activity.
The day of the funeral arrived. The black-clad crowds all bowed and curtsied as the royal family passed between them: first the King and Queen, holding hands, with João doing a rather better job than his wife of smiling and waving to the well-wishers; then Pedro; then Miguel; and Isabel bringing up the rear. João and Carlota Joaquina climbed the steps to the door of the Royal Chapel, and then stood on the threshold, still waving to the crowd, waiting for their children to join them. When Pedro did, he threw his mother an angry look.
"You bitch", he spat.
"I beg your pardon", said Carlota Joaquina, trying to remain as dignified as possible.
"You heard what I said", answered Pedro. "You have no business being here, you who show no respect to Papa."
"He put me under house arrest, if you would care to remember", responded Carlota Joaquina. "In Queluz Palace, two years before the French came".
"Because you had plotted to have him arrested and declared unfit to rule", hit back Pedro.
"Pedro!", said Miguel angrily.
"Boys", said João sternly, as Isabel put a restraining hand on each of her brothers' shoulders, "please, this is a funeral, for God's sake."
That silenced Pedro and Miguel, and the family took their seats at the head of the congregation, but all the onlookers could see the tension between the Queen and the Prince Royal.
It was some hours after the funeral. Pedro stepped into one of Rio's taverns and ordered a drink of water. It was nice to get away from the family bubble and spend time among ordinary people. His family did not approve, but for Pedro it was important to mingle with the people he would one day rule, and to see what they were saying and thinking. As he sat at his table, he overheard his fellow patrons complaining about press censorship, the harsh repression of any dissent, increasing numbers of Portuguese immigrants, high taxes, income inequality, the requisitioning of food to fund the Royal Court, the fact that only Portuguese were given ministerial posts. How could any King be safe on his throne, thought Pedro, if his people were so unhappy? Why couldn't his family see that times had changed, that Kings needed to give their people more freedom if they were to survive? Wasn't that the lesson of Louis XVI? But he would make changes, Pedro thought: it was probably many years away, but he would make great changes when he became King, and then the people would be content.
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