Chapter 234: The Duke’s Last Drink

“Tell me, Luis,” the King began, his voice surprisingly soft—the kind of softness that precedes a storm. “When your father fell into that… endless sleep, did he leave instructions for your brother for the West of Antioquia to be carved away like a slice of Sunday roast? Did he tell you who would be King—you or your bastard half-brother?”

Luis María kept his head slightly bowed. “Your Majesty knows my father’s loyalty was absolute. My brother’s actions do not represent the Lerma household, nor my father. I don’t understand what happened in New Granada that pushed him toward what he is doing, but I can assure you that was never our intention.”

“Intention?” Saavedra’s voice cut in from the shadows behind the King. “Intention is measured in gold, Duke. Your family has become extremely rich since that nephew of yours built his own factory—I think that is how the British call it—in Medellín. You monopolized the sales of that rich alcohol in all of Spain, even reaching your hands toward the factories in Spain, almost monopolizing the supply.”

Luis María looked deeply at Saavedra. “Must I remind you, sir, that the monopoly of the royal family is only in sales, not in supply? We never violated any law. We only took control over the factories to cut our partnership with that nephew and my brother after learning their intentions. Also, Your Majesty, even with all that supply, we always sell it through you, making only a small sum in comparison.”

The King went silent for a moment, thinking. It was indeed the case. Though the House of Lerma had made a fortune, his coffers had also become extremely full. That wealth had allowed him to arm his troops better and deal heavy damage to the French even when losing. So he couldn’t exactly accuse the Lerma household when his own coffers were filled with the alcohol of that boy.

But there was another thing that made him upset.

“Fine. Let us forget about the winnings from the alcohol. But Luis María, explain to me: why did your father make your brother marry the daughter of a Prussian general?”

Upon hearing the words, Luis María for the first time felt cold sweat running down his head. That was new information to him. Though he remembered the woman he had sent to Francisco seemed to say something like that, he had been so upset at the time that he kicked her out without hearing the rest of her words.

So he asked cautiously, “Is the information true, Your Majesty? Because from what I remember, that girl Anna was a poor woman from the Holy Roman Empire who escaped the famine with only her mother. My father chose her precisely because she was no one. If he had known she was the daughter of a Prussian general, he would have never done that.”

“Maybe,” said the King. “Or maybe that would be the perfect choice to obtain extremely good help from people outside Spain—and help your family create their own kingdom without raising suspicion.”

Luis María was speechless. The logic was there, and it was indeed suspicious. Even he was beginning to wonder if his father had been planning some kind of scheme and had never managed to reveal it before falling into that endless sleep.

Under the cold gaze of both the King and Saavedra, Luis María felt a knot tighten in his stomach. Anything he said now could easily be twisted into proof of treason. So he chose silence.

He would look for information when he returns to the castle.

For a long moment Saavedra simply observed him.

The minister had expected defiance… perhaps even arrogance. Instead, what he saw was something different: genuine confusion. The heir of Lerma did not look like a conspirator cornered by the Crown. He looked like a man who had just discovered a secret about his own family.

Saavedra narrowed his eyes slightly.

Interesting.

He had assumed the entire House of Lerma was part of the scheme. Yet if Luis María truly knew nothing, then the old Duke might have been playing a far deeper game.

Suddenly Saavedra was reminded of the sensational novels he occasionally read in secret—stories smuggled from London and Paris, filled with conspiracies and hidden masters moving their pawns from the shadows.

His thoughts raced through those familiar tropes.

It is just like the forbidden pages of The Monk or the whispered intrigues surrounding Cagliostro, Saavedra thought. The Grandmaster—the old Duke—sits in his high tower in Lerma, feigning a death-like slumber. A “coma” that is nothing more than a shield of political invulnerability.

He has cast Luis María as the distraction—the loyal, dull heir meant to bow and scrape in Aranjuez, drawing all suspicion while the real work is done in the shadows.

Perhaps the Duke is not even sick at all. Perhaps he is simply making fools of everyone.

Saavedra could not help but cast a brief look of pity at Luis María. Then he leaned toward the King and quietly explained his suspicions.

Soon the King was looking at Luis María in the same way.

Luis María felt the change immediately. A moment ago their eyes had been full of scorn—now they seemed filled with pity.

The shift made him uneasy, but he did not dare to ask the reason.

Finally the King spoke again.

“Luis María, we must stop Carlos. Because this mess comes from your family, it will fall upon you to resolve it.”

The King leaned back in his chair.

“How you do it, I do not care. I only want Antioquia returned to royal control, and New Granada restored so we can eliminate the fanatics.”

His voice hardened.

“If you wish to send your family’s troops, do so. If you wish to travel there yourself and convince him to lay down his arms, do so.”

Then the King added something unexpected.

“In exchange, I promise that if he returns control peacefully, I will grant him a noble title in Spain. We will also protect his son. Even if the boy wishes to pursue those strange Protestant studies of his… we will allow it.”

Luis María’s eyes widened.

He immediately understood the value of what the King was offering.

A noble title.

Royal protection.

Official recognition.

And most dangerous of all—royal support for the boy’s intellectual pursuits.

Luis María felt panic rise inside him.

And jealousy.

From what he had heard, his nephew already showed unusual talent in his investigations and studies. If the King began supporting him directly, the balance inside the House of Lerma could shift completely.

Even his own position as heir might one day disappear.

Still, he forced his expression to remain calm.

“At your will, Your Majesty,” Luis María said with a respectful bow. “I will make sure my brother and nephew return to their mother country.”

The King smiled with satisfaction.

He believed the matter was settled.

What he did not realize was that his words had only alerted the young heir of the Lerma household—and had quietly destroyed any chance of reconciliation with Carlos and Francisco.

Had the King given this mission to someone else, perhaps negotiation would have remained possible.

But by entrusting the task to the heir himself, he had made conflict inevitable.

The King dismissed Luis María.

As he walked through the palace corridors and stepped into his carriage, Luis María’s eyes slowly filled with resentment.

And determination.

Hours later, his carriage arrived at the family castle.

Inside the dark chambers of the estate lay the old Duke, still unconscious in his long and unnatural sleep.

Luis María entered the room silently.

He prepared a small concoction and poured it into a cup of water. The liquid dissolved slowly, leaving no trace.

Then he sat beside his father’s bed.

“Father,” he murmured quietly, “did you truly intend for the family to rebel? Did you truly plan to help my brother become a king?”

His voice trembled slightly.

“How much must you have loved that lowly servant woman to do all this for my brother?”

For years he had believed his father’s actions came from guilt toward the woman and her son. That was why the old Duke had spent so much time educating Carlos.

But now things looked different.

He let out a bitter laugh.

“And yet… who would have thought that you, a man who always preached tradition, would be capable of such a wicked plan? I must admit—even I was fooled.”

Tears welled in his eyes, though his smile was cold and crooked.

“Sadly, Father, I cannot allow you to live any longer. I will not accept you handing everything to my bastard brother. So come… let us drink some water. Once you are gone, no one will threaten this family again.”

With trembling hands, he lifted the Duke’s frail body and pressed the cup to his lips. The old man was too weak to resist. Slowly, mercilessly, Luis María forced the poisoned water down his throat until the cup was empty.

Only when he was certain that every drop had been swallowed did he set the body back upon the bed.

Luis María stepped away.

The silence in the room became absolute—a heavy velvet weight that replaced the Duke’s ragged breathing.

He did not call the servants.

Instead, he walked calmly to the sideboard and picked up a crystal decanter filled with Aguardiente de Caña, the so-called Spirit of the West. He poured himself a generous measure, the clear liquid glimmering faintly in the candlelight—transparent as a lie.

He did not look back at the bed.

Glass in hand, he walked toward the balcony and pushed open the heavy oak doors. The cold night air of the Castilian plateau rushed in, carrying with it the silence of the dark countryside.

Luis María took a slow drink.

Behind him, the Duke of Lerma lay motionless.

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