This week, we’re welcoming historical fiction author Kathryn Kopple, whose title LITTLE VELASQUEZ takes readers to 15th century Spain and the court of the united Catholic monarchs, Ferdinand and Isabel. Join us Sunday, when Kathryn will be here to talk about the novel and offer a copy to a lucky winner. Here's the blurb:
Five years of war between Castile and Portugal have come to an end.
A new queen, Isabel I, sits on the throne of Castile. Her consort,
Fernando of Aragón, suspects that the child she is carrying is illegitimate. A dwarf
by the name of Velasquillo journeys from the pestilent-stricken lands of
Catalonia to the imperial city of Toledo in search of fame and fortune. He
rises to the highest circles of power, where he learns what it means to
sacrifice his will and dignity to the ambitions of great men and women.
Little Velásquez is a work of historical fiction set in 15th
century Spain, and a tragic-comedic exploration of political intrigue,
religious persecution, foreign conquest, and personal exile.
**An Excerpt from Little
Velásquez**
Velasquillo had never received such a scrubbing. The
maids rubbed his skin raw; the muck that fell off him blackening the bath, hot
water scalding his scalp again and again. An ordeal worthy of the Santísima
Inquisición, he grumbled, when not begging for mercy. One maid, a large woman
with a dowager’s face, hauled him by his armpits out of the tub. Steam rose off
his pink skin, water pooled on the stones around his feet. The other servant,
also well past childbearing years, took a towel to him, running it vigorously
up and down his legs.
“Careful!”
The maid glared at him. “Hold your tongue,” she scolded
and then ordered him to turn around.
Velasquillo imagined that he would enjoy his rub far
more at the hands of some young thing rather than this old woman. The
marquesa’s women might know their business but he had not spied a pretty face
among them. The one behind him had a wide, flat face, like a platter tarnished
by age spots, and a large black mole on the side of her nose. Who would kiss
that muzzle? His mule was more endearing.
Were all the marquesa’s women so homely? He’d seen
farm girls with more to offer, and there was one in particular that he
remembered. She had given him a fine time and, if he closed his eyes, he felt
her hands on his bare chest, the roll of her hips underneath him.
Velasquillo had known his share of beautiful women.
Finishing him off with a swipe and a grunt, the maid
looked him up and down and then beckoned the dwarf to
follow her into a small room used for dressing.
The Moor now arrived, her arms loaded with garments.
She was a remarkable beauty: her skin the color of cinnamon and eyes that were
as green as a cat’s. A goddess she was, especially compared to
the old hags
that attended him.
Velasquillo waited while the women pulled apart the
pile of clothing.
“If I may—”
“No, you may not.” The platter-faced woman held up a
pair of linen hosen and a blue tunic with puffed sleeves.
The dwarf tried again: “Good lady, do tell: where is
my mount?”
“How should I know?”
“Poor mule! How I loved you.”
The old woman paid him no mind, and barked orders at
the Moor instead. “Garters, laces. Don’t forget the underpants.”
“You see,” continued Velasquillo, “one moment I was
engaged in most pleasant conversation with the Marquesa de Moya, and the next I
was stripped of my belongings and flung into a tub, scrubbed with a horse brush
and scalded with boiling water.”
No response.
Velasquillo went on: “My lot has not been an easy one.
At the proud gates of Toledo, I was seized and stowed like a
roast on market day in a blanket and flung on the back of a horse. When I
emerged from under the
blanket, I found myself in a dark room, with no windows, nothing but the cold
floor, and the door bolted. Let me tell you: it was black as pitch in there. I
pounded on the walls but, alas, no one heeded my calls. There I was, knowing
not whether it was night or day, whether I was dead or alive.”
He sniffed. “I was on the verge of despair, when the
door opened, but before I could speak, I was seized by the arms and dragged
like an old carpet up and down many stairs, round dozens of corners. Am I
always to be carted around this way?”
“Hold your tongue,” said the old woman. “You are giving
me a headache.”
Dolores said nothing. Velasquillo wondered if the Moor
were not mute. She handed him a pair of linen hosen and blue pantaloons. A
shirt with wide cuffs followed. Velasquillo dressed quickly.
Indeed, these were the clothes of a prince! He
imagined that he must cut a noble figure in garb so luxurious and soft. A far
cry from the soiled woolens he’d worn only hours before. His luck had turned,
he decided. His newly washed flesh quivered with excitement under his finery.
“Good,” said the old woman. “Now follow us,”
Velasquillo did as ordered and fell in line behind
them.
Find Kathryn Kopple on Facebook and Twitter.
Little Velásquez is available now.
Find Kathryn Kopple on Facebook and Twitter.
Little Velásquez is available now.
