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1492

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Barbaria1 said:
Yes, lovely though the Canary Islands may have been, history tells me that it was time for Colon and Bárbara to move on. Diego was getting to be a drag, and besides there were those pesky Portuguese out there.

So new discoveries to be made, new worlds to conquer, and new perils to avoid or somehow outlast.
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Very interesting and well written,it is a well established fact that Columbus visited the Canaries on his voyage. I am intrigued by your choice of La Gomera, which although beautiful, is a relatively minor island and would not have been the main administrative centre. Waiting for further episodes
 
twonines said:
Very interesting and well written,it is a well established fact that Columbus visited the Canaries on his voyage. I am intrigued by your choice of La Gomera, which although beautiful, is a relatively minor island and would not have been the main administrative centre. Waiting for further episodes
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Well, according to the historical record it was La Gomera, not the main islands. He had a special relationship (hmmmmm) with the Countess there, which in part explains the fact that he dallied on La Gomera for an entire month, and in fact left only in response to the threat of capture by a Portuguese fleet. It is said that as a parting gift the Countess presented him with some sugar cane, which he took with him on his voyage of discovery.
 
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T
Barbaria1 said:
Well, according to the historical record it was La Gomera, not the main islands. He had a special relationship (hmmmmm) with the Countess there, which in part explains the fact that he dallied on La Gomera for an entire month, and in fact left only in response to the threat of capture by a Portuguese fleet. It is said that as a parting gift the Countess presented him with some sugar cane, which he took with him on his voyage of discovery.
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Thanks for that,I stand corrected.
 
Barb and I have been pouring some more over the diaries of Bárbara Morales of Palos de la Frontera, and remarking on what a truly important document they are to validate and modify our knowledge and opinion of that long since past time, as Spain began to take shape. As much as we spent hours reading more and more about her life prior to her act of stowing away on the Santa Maria, both Barb and I were in full and unequivocal agreement about what to share with you next.

You have already read about why Bárbara ran away from the workhouse, and have experienced in some detail the abuse suffered by the poor girl while she was in the care of the wealthy Merchant, Tomas de Deza, and so now, having agreed it with Barb, I want to share with you all the extracts from Bárbara's diary covering the three day period in June of 1490. By reading these extracts you will understand how she came to be in the Merchant's workhouse in the first place.

Each entry is quite wordy and so I will publish them here, on this thread, at a rate of one per day over the next three days.

The first post from Sunday June 15th 1490 follows immediately after this introduction. Please take the time to read and hopefully enjoy ...
 
THE DIARY OF BARBARA MORALES of PALOS de la FRONTERA - SUNDAY, JUNE 15TH 1490

The more I read of the intriguing diaries of Bárbara Morales of Palos de la Frontera the more obsessed I am with her story … with her plight if you will, for it seemed that her life was a continual onslaught of unfortunate incidents. During a momentary pause in reading the compelling diary entries I reflected on the consideration that there must have been a time when her life was happy and contented, it surely must have been so, I thought to myself. It was with this deliberation in mind that I turned back to those rough, loose pages, bound by ribbon, in search of a happier time in poor Bárbara’s life.

It took a considerable amount of patient examination of the many entries written with such cursive dexterity in our hapless young lady’s fair hand, but finally I found what I was looking for … a place where the life of the lovely, young and yes, innocent, Bárbara Morales, who in 1490 had only just reached the age of nineteen years, was in an altogether cheerier place.

I also began to research the general context of the period during which our hapless heroine lived, so that I might better understand the context of her life, and found that the late Fifteenth century, particularly the 1490’s, was a very interesting time filled with violence and danger … but also, occasionally, just a little happiness.

In 1469 when Queen Isabella of Castile married King Ferdinand of Aragon, it brought together two Kingdoms to create the core of what we know today as Spain. It was their great ambition to unite the rest of the surrounding lands and to do so in a manner which obligated their subjects to follow, religiously, the Christian Faith. They pursued this quest with fire and sword, and were determined to continue until all of the followers of Judaea and the heretics had been weeded out and severely punished, particularly the Jews, the Conversos, who pretended to convert to Christianity simply in order to protect themselves. It was rumoured that Cristobel Colon was a Converso, but that was never proven, and it is with some irony, given what I am about to share with you, that Queen Isabella was rather taken with Colon, and in the not too distant future would fund at least four of his voyages, including the one on the Santa Maria during which Bárbara stowed away.

Another favourite of the Queen, and the King’s, was the resident Chief Inquisitor, a vindictive Iberian Friar called Tomás de Torquemada. Under this man torture became the default approach used to extract a confession, and very often the truth was simply an inconvenience that got in the way of his sadistic pleasure …

Please dear reader, take the time to consume the harrowing, disturbing and sometimes joyous, words from Bárbara herself …


Sunday, June 15th 1490


Today was a bright day, filled with sunshine and such heat that even the dogs and cats were seeking out the shade, slinking away from the warmth.

It was Sunday and it was to church that I headed in the company of my escort, Alonzo Garcia. I enjoyed his company every day and this day was no exception. His breeding and good graces reflected his own noble upbringing and his declaration of undying love for me fixed him firmly in the role of my intended.

Alonzo sauntered by my side, his new sword made of the best Toledo Steel swinging at his hip, as we made our way towards the Iglesia de San Jorge.

I recall smiling sweetly at him, intending to radiate the feelings of my benevolence, when instead I must have looked concerned, for I know that my brow furrowed.

“My love?” I remember him saying, as concern raised itself in his voice. I had seen the first man, followed by others marching directly into our path, and the one at its head was known to me, though the others were not.

"WHORE!" The accusation cut through the air like a knife.

One minute I was strolling serenely to pay my respects to the Mother of Our Lord, and the next, this man, eyes bulging, face twisted in hate had pointed a finger at me and released his single word of vitriol.

There was no doubting that I was the recipient of his denunciation and what it implied. Heads in the street turned to look at me, as he stopped just a few feet short of where Alonzo and I were now standing, stationery and unable to move. With shock, I realised that this man, the Parish Priest of Palos de la Frontera, Fernando de Casilla, a so-called friend of my fathers, and someone whose shocking and forceful advances I had politely, but very firmly, refused on more than one occasion, was accusing me of being a whore, a loose woman without reputation. In that single moment, whatever happened thereafter, I quickly realised that my life had just changed for the worse.

What Alonzo made of this little vignette there was no knowing, because, although in my heart I knew I had never betrayed or cheated on him with another man, my accuser was a member of the Iberian Catholic Church, whose word was almost the law, and this fact alone gave warped credence to his outrageous and defamatory exclamation.

I knew that his anger was fuelled by my rejection of his encroachments, but my immediate belief was one of confusion as to why he should make the disgraceful claim he had against my character, especially in such a public manner. And so, at that precise moment, I was bewildered and puzzled by this rather shocking development rather than frightened or scared by it.

Then I recall turning scarlet, or at least feeling as thought I had, as all the nearby heads turned and stared at me. Everyone who was anyone was there in that moment heading to the church. They were all present to witness Fernando de Casilla’s untrue and malicious judgement of me. And I was undone.

But, as the small group stopped in our path, and the Priest’s Military Style retinue made sure to enclose Alonzo in such a way that he could not help me, the Holy Father continued his tirade.

The last time I turned him away had been as recent as the day before this one, when he had cornered me in a small alleyway and tried to lift my skirts. I had made my views clear and then when the Geese Herder had passed the end of the alleyway I seized upon the distraction and ran from this awful man’s sight.

And so once again I had humiliated him, but what choice did I have? I wasn’t going to let him have me, and with him being a man of God as well. But now he seized his chance to vilify me.

"She has sinned against the church by making her desires clear to me. The harlot attempted only yesterday to force me to have her, it was in that small alley over there …” Everyone turned to look, as his apoplectic indication using his long and bony index finger upon his right hand, made his point somewhat dramatically … but all to his good and so, in turn, to my ill.

"The devil is in her," he shouted, and then, everyone in the square turned on me and I was speechless. A Priest’s words are a powerful thing and I knew my protests would be treated with contempt and disbelief.
 

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Barbaria1 said:
I exceeded my two glasses of wine limit ... what did you expect? :rolleyes:
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Your statement connects with research I'm doing on 18th century English slang for my next story. One of the very many colorful epithets for that juniper-infused elixir, Gin, was "Strip me naked."

I think Barb should rename Riesling that! :meparto:
 
Migoz2 said:
Interesting. I have never come across that usage. Clearly it goes back to Hogarth.
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Due to Gin's cheapness and popularity, it had many nicknames at the time, including

blue ruin, cobblers punch, frog’s wine, heart’s ease, moonshine.

Don't say I don't do my research - almost as well as Barbara.
 
Fossy said:
THE DIARY OF BARBARA MORALES of PALOS de la FRONTERA - SUNDAY, JUNE 15TH 1490

The more I read of the intriguing diaries of Bárbara Morales of Palos de la Frontera the more obsessed I am with her story … with her plight if you will, for it seemed that her life was a continual onslaught of unfortunate incidents. During a momentary pause in reading the compelling diary entries I reflected on the consideration that there must have been a time when her life was happy and contented, it surely must have been so, I thought to myself. It was with this deliberation in mind that I turned back to those rough, loose pages, bound by ribbon, in search of a happier time in poor Bárbara’s life.

It took a considerable amount of patient examination of the many entries written with such cursive dexterity in our hapless young lady’s fair hand, but finally I found what I was looking for … a place where the life of the lovely, young and yes, innocent, Bárbara Morales, who in 1490 had only just reached the age of nineteen years, was in an altogether cheerier place.

I also began to research the general context of the period during which our hapless heroine lived, so that I might better understand the context of her life, and found that the late Fifteenth century, particularly the 1490’s, was a very interesting time filled with violence and danger … but also, occasionally, just a little happiness.

In 1469 when Queen Isabella of Castile married King Ferdinand of Aragon, it brought together two Kingdoms to create the core of what we know today as Spain. It was their great ambition to unite the rest of the surrounding lands and to do so in a manner which obligated their subjects to follow, religiously, the Christian Faith. They pursued this quest with fire and sword, and were determined to continue until all of the followers of Judaea and the heretics had been weeded out and severely punished, particularly the Jews, the Conversos, who pretended to convert to Christianity simply in order to protect themselves. It was rumoured that Cristobel Colon was a Converso, but that was never proven, and it is with some irony, given what I am about to share with you, that Queen Isabella was rather taken with Colon, and in the not too distant future would fund at least four of his voyages, including the one on the Santa Maria during which Bárbara stowed away.

Another favourite of the Queen, and the King’s, was the resident Chief Inquisitor, a vindictive Iberian Friar called Tomás de Torquemada. Under this man torture became the default approach used to extract a confession, and very often the truth was simply an inconvenience that got in the way of his sadistic pleasure …

Please dear reader, take the time to consume the harrowing, disturbing and sometimes joyous, words from Bárbara herself …


Sunday, June 15th 1490


Today was a bright day, filled with sunshine and such heat that even the dogs and cats were seeking out the shade, slinking away from the warmth.

It was Sunday and it was to church that I headed in the company of my escort, Alonzo Garcia. I enjoyed his company every day and this day was no exception. His breeding and good graces reflected his own noble upbringing and his declaration of undying love for me fixed him firmly in the role of my intended.

Alonzo sauntered by my side, his new sword made of the best Toledo Steel swinging at his hip, as we made our way towards the Iglesia de San Jorge.

I recall smiling sweetly at him, intending to radiate the feelings of my benevolence, when instead I must have looked concerned, for I know that my brow furrowed.

“My love?” I remember him saying, as concern raised itself in his voice. I had seen the first man, followed by others marching directly into our path, and the one at its head was known to me, though the others were not.

"WHORE!" The accusation cut through the air like a knife.

One minute I was strolling serenely to pay my respects to the Mother of Our Lord, and the next, this man, eyes bulging, face twisted in hate had pointed a finger at me and released his single word of vitriol.

There was no doubting that I was the recipient of his denunciation and what it implied. Heads in the street turned to look at me, as he stopped just a few feet short of where Alonzo and I were now standing, stationery and unable to move. With shock, I realised that this man, the Parish Priest of Palos de la Frontera, Fernando de Casilla, a so-called friend of my fathers, and someone whose shocking and forceful advances I had politely, but very firmly, refused on more than one occasion, was accusing me of being a whore, a loose woman without reputation. In that single moment, whatever happened thereafter, I quickly realised that my life had just changed for the worse.

What Alonzo made of this little vignette there was no knowing, because, although in my heart I knew I had never betrayed or cheated on him with another man, my accuser was a member of the Iberian Catholic Church, whose word was almost the law, and this fact alone gave warped credence to his outrageous and defamatory exclamation.

I knew that his anger was fuelled by my rejection of his encroachments, but my immediate belief was one of confusion as to why he should make the disgraceful claim he had against my character, especially in such a public manner. And so, at that precise moment, I was bewildered and puzzled by this rather shocking development rather than frightened or scared by it.

Then I recall turning scarlet, or at least feeling as thought I had, as all the nearby heads turned and stared at me. Everyone who was anyone was there in that moment heading to the church. They were all present to witness Fernando de Casilla’s untrue and malicious judgement of me. And I was undone.

But, as the small group stopped in our path, and the Priest’s Military Style retinue made sure to enclose Alonzo in such a way that he could not help me, the Holy Father continued his tirade.

The last time I turned him away had been as recent as the day before this one, when he had cornered me in a small alleyway and tried to lift my skirts. I had made my views clear and then when the Geese Herder had passed the end of the alleyway I seized upon the distraction and ran from this awful man’s sight.

And so once again I had humiliated him, but what choice did I have? I wasn’t going to let him have me, and with him being a man of God as well. But now he seized his chance to vilify me.

"She has sinned against the church by making her desires clear to me. The harlot attempted only yesterday to force me to have her, it was in that small alley over there …” Everyone turned to look, as his apoplectic indication using his long and bony index finger upon his right hand, made his point somewhat dramatically … but all to his good and so, in turn, to my ill.

"The devil is in her," he shouted, and then, everyone in the square turned on me and I was speechless. A Priest’s words are a powerful thing and I knew my protests would be treated with contempt and disbelief.
Click to expand...

I hope this is heading where I think it's heading.
 
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