MICHAEL COY has a story for us – a stirring tale of honour, abuse and true nobility.
It’s unlikely that you’ve ever visited Zalamea.

The town, still dominated by its medieval castle, nestles in the remote countryside of Estremadura, sixty miles from Mérida, the nearest community of any size.

If you want an English equivalent, you’d have to go for a place like Nether Wallop, a village proverbial for representing the pastoral heart of the nation.
In the Middle Ages, country folk had a myriad of joys and concerns, but one of each will suffice us today.

Back then, the King dispensed the law – literally. The people looked forward to his annual visit, when he would rule on local legal disputes. And they dreaded the army.

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If the army showed up, the soldiers were ‘quartered’ on the local people. We wouldn’t like it today, but back in the 1500s people didn’t have much food and certainly couldn’t offer spare rooms.

Who wants some unknown, uncouth squaddie bedding down in their cottage for a week or two?
Which brings us to virginity.

Any parent of an adolescent girl is anxious to protect her, of course. It’s one of the strongest emotions we humans can feel.
But there was an added element in medieval times.

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A family forced to offer a bed to a soldier knew that, if he violated their daughter and she found herself pregnant, their cottage and plot of land were at risk.
That is, everything.
Suppose she were to give birth to a boy. The soldier could claim the family home for his son, the ‘heir’.

This is why men wanted to marry virgins, and rejected a girl who was, in their eyes, “soiled goods”.

It seems barbaric to us, but that’s how it was.
We all know someone like Pedro Crespo.
In his 40s, hard-working and totally honest, Pedro was very popular in Zalamea.

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He had built up his farm from nothing. Though he couldn’t lay claim to noble blood (people were obsessed with aristocracy in those days), he didn’t owe anybody anything, and he and his wife had raised their children the right way.

Pedro was deeply admired. One day, the bad news arrived.
The army would be passing through Zalamea on its way to Badajoz, and billets had to be found for fifty men.

Because Pedro was a prominent citizen and his cottage was well-kept and comfortable, the young officer, Don Alvaro, would be quartered on the Crespo family.
You’ve probably guessed what’s coming.
During his stay Don Alvaro, being an ‘entitled’ nobleman, takes a fancy to Pedro’s teenage daughter, Isabel, and rapes her.
She is devastated, of course, and tells her father what happened.

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Pedro is now in a difficult position. There are no police.
If he complains to the army’s top brass, they might ignore him – he’s a peasant, and Don Alvaro is an aristocrat.

Besides, the soldiers have physical force on their side: how could Pedro possibly arrest Don Alvaro, and hold him, until the King came by, to hear the case?
On the other hand, if he does nothing, or fails to achieve justice, he will lose all his honour in the eyes of the community.

He might even lose his farm.
Just then, news arrives that the King is on his way to Zalamea.
His Majesty is dispensing justice in Cáceres right now, but he’ll be here in two days.
“The Mayor of Zalamea” is a stage play.

It was written five hundred years ago by Calderón de la Barca. (In the age of Shakespeare, Spain produced three playwrights of genius – Calderón, Tirso and Lope de Vega.)
If you ever get a chance to see it, you should.

It deals powerfully with the issues mentioned here, and makes the point that true nobility comes from inside, and has nothing to do with titles.
The villagers gather outside Pedro’s barn as the King shows up, to hold court in the open air.

After hearing the evidence, His Majesty decides that Don Alvaro must die for raping the girl.
Pedro throws open his barn door – there dangles the body of Don Alvaro: Pedro has already killed him!
On the spot, the villagers declare Pedro mayor for life.

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