The air in the grand hall of Lisbon's Palace of Alcáçovas felt heavy, despite the cool ber breeze of 1663 attempting to filter through the tall windows.
There was no boisterous triumph from the Portuguese side, nor any overt despair from the Spanish. Instead, a palpable tension, a quiet, almost grim dignity, settled over the assembled dignitaries. This was the moment Portugal had bled for, and Spain had, through a bitter humiliation, been forced to concede.
At the center of the hall, on a table draped in the rich velvets of both nations, lay the parchment. Its articles were simple, yet revolutionary for the Iberian Peninsula. It enshrined the very essence of the 1668 Treaty that history would record, but signed years earlier, forced by an unendurable indignity.
The Spanish delegation, led by Don Gaspar de Haro y Guzmán, Marquis of Carpio – a man whose face seemed etched with the weight of a kingdom's pride – approached the table. His jaw was set, eyes fixed on the parchment, avoiding the gaze of the Portuguese. Madrid had given him a singular, agonizing directive: secure the Prince's release, whatever the price, short of utterly bankrupting the Crown.
The capture of Don Juan José de Austria at Ameixial, that crushing defeat just months prior, had been a blow too profound, too personal to the Hapsburg prestige, to endure.
Facing them, the Portuguese delegation, serene and outwardly composed, was led by the young Regent Dom Pedro. He was flanked by figures like the newly ennobled Marquis and his trusted Viscounts, whose recent exploits had made this very day possible. Their expressions were calm, knowing. They had won.
Not with overwhelming force, but with strategic brilliance and an audacious private enterprise that had broken the Spanish will. They had chosen pragmatism over excessive demands for land or indemnity, understanding that a clean, swift peace, sealed by the release of such a high-value hostage, was the true path to lasting stability and recognition.
The Marquis of Carpio picked up the quill. His hand did not tremble, but the effort was visible. With a scratch that echoed in the hushed chamber, he signed. Spain formally recognized the full independence of the Kingdom of Portugal under the House of Braganza, and renounced all claims to the Portuguese's Crown, and confirmed Portugal's dominion over its vast colonial empire, from Brazil to Angola. There were no territorial changes in Europe, no crushing indemnities that would prolong the bitterness.
It was a clear, unambiguous change for the iberians.
Then, the final, agonizing piece of the exchange.
From a side door, escorted by two Portuguese officers, stepped Prince John Joseph of Austria. His face was pale, drawn, his uniform meticulously clean but bearing the faint creases of captivity. He looked weary, but his eyes still held a flicker of the defiant Hapsburg fire, now banked by a raw, personal humiliation. He was a capable commander, a royal son, and his capture had ripped the heart out of Spain's war effort. The Spanish delegates surged forward, a collective sigh of relief, though quickly stifled, escaping their lips.
He was formally presented to the Marquis of Carpio, a brief, stiff bow exchanged between the two men who represented the old power and the newly affirmed. Don Juan José's gaze swept over the Portuguese, resting for a moment on the Marquis and his hardened Viscounts, a silent acknowledgment of the men who had orchestrated the Ceylon's operation.
Then, without a word, he turned and was quickly ushered away by his countrymen, a living symbol of Spain's bitter defeat.
As the Spanish delegation departed, a wave of quiet relief washed over the Portuguese. The war was truly over. Portugal, smaller in population but now vastly richer and strategically astute, stood tall, recognized among the Peers of Christendom.
The blood and treasure spent had secured not just independence, but a definitive end to a generation of conflict. The path was clear now for them to look outward, to their thriving empire, to the immense promise of Brazilian gold and diamonds, and to the pragmatic investments in their homeland that would secure their future. The era of the Braganzas had truly, irrevocably begun.
_________
The Green Salon, Necessidades Palace, Lisbon — December 1664
The air was fresh and heavy with the scent of new paper and ink. The Lisbon sun struggled to penetrate the heavy velvet drapes. Around a polished, richly adorned table, representatives of the two Crowns faced each other. On the Portuguese side, Viscount Luís de Albuquerque, with a sharp mind and an amiable smile, was supported by Dom Francisco de Almeida, whose weathered face bore witness to a career spent defending Lisbon's interests. Across from them sat the French delegation: Monsieur Armand de Valois, the ambassador with an haughty bearing, reflecting the power of Louis XIV, and Monsieur Jean-Baptiste Leclerc, with a keen eye and an unfurled map, the field expert of the Compagnie des Indes Orientales.
Monsieur de Valois: (Begins, his voice smooth and confident) "Gentlemen, Your Excellencies. The unwavering friendship between our august Crowns, so brilliantly reaffirmed by the recent treaty with Madrid, compels us today to seek your valuable cooperation. As you know, His Most Christian Majesty is preparing to launch an unprecedented expedition to the East Indies – thirty vessels, including ten ships of the line, to establish a French presence worthy of our greatness. The Marquis's daring and the blow dealt to the VOC create an opportunity we cannot afford to miss."
Monsieur Leclerc: (Continues, his finger pointing at a map) "Such an undertaking requires infallible supply lines. We have already secured Île Bourbon, but for the power and longevity of our future establishments, it is vital for us to have additional strongholds along our route. We have therefore thought of the excellent facilities you offer. Beyond Luanda, in Angola, and Mozambique, in East Africa, whose utility is obvious, we would be most grateful for regular access to your jewel of the Estado da Índia, Goa."
A tense silence fell. Dom Francisco de Almeida adjusted his posture. Viscount Luís's smile had imperceptibly frozen.
Dom Francisco de Almeida: (His voice measured, yet unyielding) "Monsieur de Valois, Monsieur Leclerc. Portugal's friendship for His Majesty Louis XIV is sincere. We perfectly understand the logistical imperatives of such an expedition, and even the opportunity you perceive in the current situation of the Dutch. However, the mention of Goa... is a point on which we must be absolutely clear from the outset."
Viscount Luís: (Takes over, more affable but equally resolute) "Goa is not a simple port of call, Gentlemen. It is the beating heart of our presence in the East for over a century, the very symbol of the Estado da Índia, the seat of our Viceroy. Its significance for Portugal is invaluable, and its strategic position... is most sensitive."
Monsieur de Valois: (With a hint of impatience) "But it is precisely its position that makes it so attractive! A large, established port, at the center of activity. Would your Crown not fear depriving itself of an opportunity to strengthen its alliance with France while benefiting from our presence to contain Dutch ambitions, for example?"
Dom Francisco de Almeida: (His gaze is like steel) "Monsieur, allowing a fleet of thirty ships, including ten warships, to make Goa a regular stronghold would be perceived by all other powers, and particularly by England, as a direct provocation and a blatant violation of the neutrality we strive to maintain. Portugal does not seek to engage in conflicts that are not its own. Our independence is too new, too precious to risk offending our other allies or reawakening hostilities we have just extinguished."
Viscount Luís: "Our position in Goa is a delicate balance. Opening our doors to such a considerable force for prolonged stays would compromise that balance. We cannot risk the security of our Estado da Índia nor the perception of our impartiality in the eyes of the world."
Monsieur de Valois and Monsieur Leclerc exchanged a quick glance. Portuguese firmness on this point was clear. To push further would be futile, even counterproductive.
Monsieur Leclerc: (Conciliatory) "We understand Your Excellencies' prudence. Goa is, of course, particularly sensitive. In that case, allow us to re-emphasize the importance of the other stopovers. You mentioned Luanda and Mozambique. Are these, then, the only other options Portugal is willing to consider for our fleet?"
Dom Francisco de Almeida: (A slight relief was visible in his eyes) "Indeed, Monsieur Leclerc. Luanda, in Angola, and Mozambique, on the east coast of Africa, are ideal strategic strongholds for a fleet heading to Asia. They are located on your route, well-equipped for water and provisions, and have repair facilities. They represent a substantial mark of Portuguese friendship without compromising our security or neutrality in overly audacious maneuvers."
Viscount Luís: "The terms of access will, of course, need to be very precisely defined. Limits on the duration of stopovers, the amount of military equipment landed, and no military action may be planned or launched from our ports. With these conditions, Portugal is ready to facilitate your undertaking."
Monsieur de Valois, though visibly frustrated by the categorical refusal regarding Goa, knew this was the best possible agreement. Obtaining Luanda and Mozambique without incident as supply points was already a major diplomatic victory for the young Company.
Monsieur de Valois: (With a forced but polite smile) "Very well, Your Excellencies. We take note of your position regarding Goa, however regrettable it may be for our needs. We therefore accept the generous offer of access to Luanda and Mozambique. We are ready to discuss the exact terms and conditions for these two ports immediately, so that the fleet can set sail with all necessary guarantees."
The tension eased somewhat.
Portugal had maintained its red lines, but had offered crucial assistance. France had obtained vital strongholds, even if the arrival in the Indies might prove problematic. Diplomacy, after all, was the art of the possible, even with great friends.
________
Joao's Inner Sanctum, Carrasca Mansion, Algarve, December 1663
The heavy oak doors of the Marquis's private chambers were shut against the world, but inside, the air buzzed with a comfortable familiarity. Empty wine glasses, maps still unfurled, and a lingering scent of pipe tobacco from the evening before mingled with the fresh morning air. The Marquis, though seated at the head of the polished table, leaned back, a faint smile playing on his lips as he looked at the men around him. Luís, ever composed, but with a new lightness in his eyes since the Spanish treaty; Diogo, whose rough hands looked more at home on a ship's rail than a mahogany table; and Rui, the syndicate's living ledger, already tapping a rhythmic pattern on the wood.
"Alright, you rogues," the Marquis began, his voice low and genial, "Spain's finally signed on the dotted line. No more fighting cousins for a while. We've got more gold than the King's own vaults, thanks to all your… spirited endeavors." He winked at Diogo, who snorted a laugh.
Rui, already poring over a scroll, grumbled playfully. "Aye, Excellency, and it's a good thing, too. My fingers are cramping from counting all those cruzados. Nine million from that Dutch little holiday in Ceylon, plus the rest... my poor ledgers are begging for mercy."
"Oh, stop your whining, Rui," Diogo boomed, clapping him on the shoulder, making the meticulous accountant wince. "It's a beautiful problem to have, isn't it? Better than counting mouldy biscuit rations."
The Marquis chuckled. "Indeed. But wealth, like a good ship, needs careful steering. That grand dam we built in the Algarve back in '58? A fine beast, but by the saints, it nearly broke the 'common pocket' in one go. Teach a man to be pragmatic about his investments, that one did." He gestured to a rolled-up parchment. "So, I've got a new plan for our own lands along the Odelouca. Not another monster dam, no. Something smarter."
Luís, adjusting his lace cuff, raised an eyebrow. "Smarter, you say? Not another one of your mad dashes, I hope. My nerves are barely recovered from that last 'diplomatic' mission to the East."
"Hardly, old friend," the Marquis grinned. "This is measured madness. I've brought in a fellow from Flanders, a chap named Master Hendrik Van der Velde. Claims he can make a barren stone spit blossom like a spring garden with enough water. His plan is about a whole network of clever little dams, channels, and water tricks. Calls it 'intensive cultivation' – apparently, they grow three crops where we manage one, over there in the mud. Imagine what he can do with some proper Portuguese sun!"
"Flanders, eh?" Diogo mused. "They're good with water, those Dutchmen. Mostly for keeping it out though. Hope he knows how to keep it in when needed."
"He assures me he does," the Marquis said dryly. "Now, this little 'garden project' will run us about 5 million cruzados over five years. We'll kick it off with 1 million cruzados upfront. Don't worry, Rui, I'm not touching our armament fund for it. We need those cannons polished for future business opportunities."
Rui, surprisingly, looked pleased. "Five years, spread out? That's far more palatable, Excellency. A steady stream, not a flood. Keeps the coffers healthy for other… liquid assets."
"Exactly!" Diogo slapped the table. "So, we fill our fields with water, and then we go back to empty the seas! I like it. A steady flow of coin, both from the land and from the tides. Who's he got working on this, then? Not more Portuguese lads going to the new world, I hope?"
"No, no, my friend," the Marquis reassured him. "Master Van der Velde needs strong backs, yes, but we learned our lesson about pulling from home. We'll deploy those Polish lads we brought in – quite the hardy bunch, surprisingly adept with a shovel. And for the fancy stone bits, the Master wants some Italians. Apparently, they know a thing or two about building things that last, even if their temperaments don't always."
He leaned back again, a contented sigh escaping him. "This Algarve project isn't just about growing grapes, my friends. It's about securing our roots here, feeding our people, showing the Crown we're more than just privateers. But make no mistake," his voice dropped conspiratorially, "once the first million is flowing into the soil, our ships will be back on the horizon. We invest here, yes, but we go back to loot more. That, gentlemen, is the true secret to our success, and long live Portugal for letting us do it!"
A round of knowing smiles and clinking of refilled glasses followed, the camaraderie of shared adventure and audacious ambition filling the room.
January 1664, LondonSpeech by His Majesty Charles II's Emissary:
"Noble Lords, esteemed Members of Parliament, loyal subjects of the Crown of England,
We are gathered in this grave hour not by choice, but by the force of necessity and the growing insolence of a nation that threatens not only our prosperity, but also our honour and the very peace of the Christian world: the United Provinces.
For years, our patience has been tested. Our merchants, those pillars of our kingdom's wealth, have been harassed, their ships seized under false pretenses, their cargoes plundered on the high seas. Our ventures, which courageously stretch to the ends of the Earth, have been thwarted by the boundless jealousy and rapacity of the Dutch East India Company and its sister, the West India Company.
We have seen our just commercial claims trampled underfoot. We have seen our subjects insulted. And yet, we sought peace, reason, negotiation. But patience has its limits, and the dignity of England shall not be trodden upon indefinitely.
For Holland, under the deceptive veil of their 'independent Company,' has waged a clandestine war against us, not by the honourable rules of combat, but by cunning and treachery. While their emissaries swore peace and friendship in the salons of Europe, their warships, under the pretext of private operations, attacked our forts, plundered our trading posts, and massacred our men.
And that is not all! On the coasts of Africa, where our brave men of the Royal African Company sought to establish fair and prosperous trade for the Crown, they met not fair competition, but the Dutch sword! Our forts were assailed, our supply lines severed. They sought to suffocate our commercial breath before we even had time to draw it!
As we speak, reports are pouring in: their fleets are gathering, their shipyards teem. They are preparing new aggressions, seeking to drive us from the seas, to strip us of our possessions, to reduce us to a nation without commerce or greatness.
But England shall not bend! We shall not recoil from this insolence. We shall not allow Dutch rapacity to dictate the laws of global commerce and the honour of nations. The time for warnings is over. The time for action has come!
Let no one misunderstand: this war is not a war of vain conquest. It is a war of legitimate defense! It is a war for the protection of our subjects, for the security of our commerce, for the dignity of our Crown, and for the respect of divine and human laws. We seek justice, and we shall find it by the strength of our arms.
Let our ships sail under the banner of Saint George, let our cannons thunder for the freedom of the seas and the prosperity of England! We shall break their double veil of deceit, and we shall restore the balance of power for the good of all civilized nations.
God bless England!"