The Necklace

by Carla Kelly

  Barefoot or not, Hanneke gave him the same bow she had given King Alfonso.

  “A graceful gesture before breakfast, Señora Gonzalez,” he said, and she laughed. “You have a rare treasure, Santiago.”

  “I do. I left most of it in Toledo with Don Levi.”

  Hanneke tried not to show her disappointment at his words, but Santiago saw her dismay. After a tiny pause, he continued, “But I brought the best part south with me. Wouldn›t you agree, Don Díaz?”

  “I do. I wish you joy and many children.” He nodded to Hanneke, his eyes lively. “I cannot understand why the Gonzalez men are blessed with lovely ladies. They have nothing whatsoever to recommend them.”

  She heard the grand master’s affection for her husband as he teased so gently, brothers of the sword. It relieved her heart as nothing else could have.

  “Will you join us for breakfast, or must you travel?” Santiago asked.

  “We will join you and share what we have. Then let us discuss this army you will raise.” He put his hands on Santiago’s shoulders and drew him close. “Is this to be our year at last?”

  “I pray it is,” Santiago replied simply.

  The two armies parted before the sun was much higher, the Knights riding north, and Santiago leading his soldiers south. Hanneke turned in her saddle to watch the knights ride away.

  “Women and uniforms,” Antonio teased.

  They traveled steadily for an hour or more, climbing toward a little break in the low hills ahead, the soldiers talking among themselves, no one wearing their helmets now. The whole column seemed relieved, thanks, in great measure, to the Knights of Calatrava. Hanneke felt it.

  She studied the countryside, knowing it was to be her home, hoping she would like it. There were no houses about, but soon she saw shepherds and their flocks. Dogs dashed in and out, nipping the reluctant, but keeping a wary eye fixed on the older rams with formidable horns.

  When Santiago called to her, she realized how far back she had strayed, in her eagerness to take in her surroundings. She rode to the head of column, placing herself between Santiago and Antonio, hoping she hadn’t earned a scold.

  Even Santiago seemed to relax. He gestured ahead. “When we are through that pass, you will see Las Claves. We are the key to this pass, hence the name.”

  “Las Claves,” he said, when they were through the pass. Hanneke heard his relief. He leaned across her and spoke to Antonio. “Do you know, friend, I never come to this point without thinking, will it still be there? Have the Almohades burned it? I see they have not.”

  “What would you have done if they had?” she asked, curious.

  “I would have taken you to the nuns in a convent south of Toledo for safekeeping first, then followed the raiders,” he said decisively.

  “Why? You said Las Claves can never be yours.”

  Had she overstepped herself? She watched Santiago›s frown line deepen. She also watched it soften, then fade.

  “Ana, that is a rather good question,” he said finally. “What would I do? I am not certain I have an answer.” He touched her leg. “Right now, I will give my horse the lead. See you at Las Claves.”

  With that, he dug his heels into his horse’s sides. Soon he was far in advance of the others. She watched him turn into a speck on a vast plain, and there was the fortress of Las Claves before them all.

  “What are you thinking?” Antonio asked.

  “It›s not what I expected.” She frowned at her vague answer. How would she know what a fortress in la frontera should be? She wished it appeared more sturdy. Even in the heat of late summer, Las Claves looked cold and uninviting. She looked away, thoroughly unsettled.

  “It was originally Moorish,” Antonio said. “You can tell that by the stonework and arches. Santiago’s grandfather captured it when he was a young man. All efforts since then have been to strengthen the walls. It may not even have had walls originally. I don’t think the Moors gave much thought to the Christians ever regaining the smallest foothold.”

  Las Claves doesn’t look safe, Hanneke thought, wishing the wall was higher. But what do I know of warfare? “It looks a little, well, shabby.”

  “It is beautiful to me,” Antonio said simply. “When I first saw it, I was starving. They took me in.”

  “I have wondered what your story is.”

  “This winter, if I have time, I will tell you. Santiago is younger than I. Our friend Bendicio had just failed him as a squire. It was a time of desperate war and I became his squire.”

  “Now you are knight and friend?” She asked, wanting to know more.

  “Probably no title that distinguished,” he said. “All the same, war creates bonds that might not otherwise exist. You will see what I mean. Look there, he is motioning to me...to us, more likely. Shall we?”

  Why should she feel reluctant? “I will come with the others. You go ahead.”

  He gave her a small salute and was soon galloping toward Santiago.

  She rode at the head of the column, Pablo by her side. “We are nearly there,” she said, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt.

  “I don’t know, dama,” he said.

  “I don’t, either,” she admitted. Giving herself a mental shake, she noted the harvest underway, with laborers in the field, and neat bundles of grain at the ends of rows. As they neared Las Claves, she saw houses huddled close to the walled fortress with the wide-open gates, massive gates with crisscrossed iron bands.

  She waved to the children playing by the wall. They stared back. Shy, she turned her attention to Santiago and Antonio, dismounting in the courtyard. The soldiers rode past her, followed by Father Bendicio and Engracia, with Juana glaring at her as she hesitated. She felt foreign and alone, perhaps always the outsider.

  Hanneke stared at the towering gates, squelching a moment of panic that made her want to turn and ride back the whole way she had come. “I can’t,” she said out loud, her courage gone. She looked around, hoping no one had heard her. She waited for her brain to tell her, “You must.”

  She waited. All she heard was her heart, her practical heart, reminding her that the deed was done.

  She rode through the gates.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  She rode toward Santiago and Antonio, who stared above her at the gate’s lintel, where Carlos stood. As she watched, stunned, he pulled a rotting head from the burlap sack that had been tied to his saddle, since the fight in the mountain pass.

  “No,” she said. “No.”

  She dismounted quickly, but not fast enough, as bits of rotting matter rained down on her. Every instinct in her body told her to leave this place, but where would she go? Her first thought was the Levis, but she banished that quickly, remembering a pogrom in Visslingen only two years ago, called down by an irate citizen who was certain Jews had killed his son as a Sabbath offering. It was all nonsense, but other innocents had died. No, she could never involve the Levis in her life here.

  She had no choice but to move away from the shower of gore. She ran into the shadows, unable to take her eyes from the scene above. She watched in horror as Carlos jammed four heads down on four empty spikes, turning them around so the sightless eyes gazed across the valley.

  She stood near a well, with a half-filled bucket resting beside it. She dabbed water on her face and raised her skirt to wipe it. What Carlos had done could only have been because that was what Santiago wanted. So much war was yet to come, and she was complicit, because her dowry financed it.

  “God forgive me,” she said. “God help me.”

  “He will, sister.”

  The words were softly spoken, kind, even, in this stark place now her home. She saw a small man standing in deeper shadows, leaning near inner stairs. He was short and dark, his head tilted to one side. Her second glance told her he wasn’t so short, but hunched to one
side, as if he stood on uneven legs.

  “Manolo Gonzalez?” she asked, forgetting the others in the courtyard.

  “A vuestra servicio.”

  His smile lit up his whole face and glowed in his eyes. Hanneke bowed, then held out her hand. “You must know who I am.”

  He took her hand and pulled her closer. All his energy appeared to be centered in the brilliance of his dark eyes. He was as different in appearance from his younger brother as night from day. Hadn’t Father Bendicio told her that Manuel Gonzalez resembled his slain mother?

  “I know who you are, and I like what I see.”

  Who could not smile at that? “Thank you.” Hanneke saw Carlos climb down from the catwalk, and Santiago start in her direction. “I can see that I have a lot to learn if I am to survive Las Claves,” she said, hoping it wasn’t too much to admit.

  “We all had a lot to learn.”

  She wondered what to say to Santiago. Those heads! Santiago had been stopped by a several soldiers and appeared deep in conversation. With an effort, Manolo sat down on the third step. He patted the step beside him. “You’ll have to help me up in a moment. Engracia will find me and fling herself on me soon enough. Ah, that is better. My dear Engracia. Did she mope and cry and complain?”

  “Who wouldn’t?” Hanneke asked in turn. “It was a ghastly journey.”

  “You are a diplomat.” He took her hand in his. “She is nothing but silliness, but life without her would be even harder.” His face lighted up. “I hear her. Help me up, please.”

  He winced when she helped him to his feet, but they both chose to ignore it. In the next moment, Engracia was in his arms, sobbing and kissing him at the same time, smoothing back his hair as she tried to encapsulate the whole, miserable journey into well-chosen words, none of which she possessed.

  He patted her belly and spoke to his brother, who stood by Hanneke now.

  “Brother, Engracia did not look like this when she left. Was there something in the water of Valladolid?”

  Santiago put his arm around his brother, steadying him in Engracia’s tumultuous embrace. “That must have been it. Manolo, how good to see you again. You have met Ana?”

  “I have. Santiago, you are to be envied.”

  She didn’t know what her husband would say and reminded herself to expect nothing. To her amazement, he rested his hand on her shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. “I know.” He looked toward the gate. “Some might think Ana has other ideas. Do you?”

  It was a question for the ages. All she wanted was to be left alone. The stairwell was suddenly too crowded, with Engracia clinging to Manolo, Juana frowning as usual, Pablo looking worried, and Carlos coming closer, gore spattered on himself. When she saw Antonio, she noticed something in his eyes that suggested he was aware of her desperation.

  He could do nothing. No one could. “Other ideas?” she asked. “No. I am tired. That is all.”

  “I’ll take you upstairs, wife,” Santiago said.

  He offered her his arm at the same time more soldiers joined them, arguing about swords or tents, or something she did not care about, but which she knew would demand her husband’s attention.

  “Antonio, take her to my room,” he said, and left her there. He joined the soldiers and crossed the courtyard.

  She turned blindly toward the stairs and started up, stumbling over her skirt, unsure where to go.

  “Wait.”

  Antonio picked her up. He carried her up the stairs and down the hall, speaking softly to her. “The look in your eyes is a look I have seen in eyes of horses we have whipped to get a few more leagues out of them to escape the Almohades.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she assured him. “I’ll just sleep for fifty years.”

  She tried to make it sound like a joke, but he didn’t laugh. Maybe he knew she meant it; maybe she didn’t care. The bleakness of her life to come stretched ahead and she did not like what she saw.

  He carried her to Santiago’s room and put her on the bed. She turned away, too upset to open her eyes.

  Antonio wouldn’t leave her alone. He sat down next to her. “Until your husband releases me, you are my responsibility,” he told her. “There are some things I can do nothing about, however.”

  Hanneke nodded. She understood.

  “But those I can, I will. This is my pledge to you.”

  He looked like he had more to say, but he didn’t. He found a light blanket and covered her. “Go to sleep, Ana.”

  She took him at his word and slept. In full darkness later, she heard someone moving around the room, a door opening and closing, hushed voices. At some point in the night, Santiago lay down beside her. He tugged on their shared pillow and pulled her close with a sigh.

  “Do with me what you wish,” she murmured, desperate for comfort, and he did.

  “Thank you, Ana,” he whispered into her shoulder later. “Someday when there is more time...”

  She slept again, dreaming of knights in white with Greek crosses, and Carlos cramming heads onto spikes, and wind blowing hot and driving bits of gore into her hair, and Juana laughing at her discomfort. She sat up in fright, her heart racing, wishing for anything but Las Claves.

  Santiago lay on his back, perfectly relaxed. She smiled in spite of herself, knowing she had much to do with his satisfaction. She watched him until her eyes started to close, and lay down again. She thought of winter coming eventually, and days with less for him to do. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps there would be time to get to know this man she was bound to for the rest of her mortal life.

  When morning came, she knew it was long past the time she should have risen. As she sat up, wondering what to do, Santiago came into his room - their room, she reminded herself.

  “You barely moved all night,” he said. “Well, except for…”

  Why blush? She had enjoyed herself. She sniffed. He must have bathed and washed his hair, which shone golden in the morning light. It was much shorter, too.

  “Manolo is my barber,” he said, touching his head where his hair used to curl around his ears. “Perhaps he should do his barbering when he is not more intent upon talking to me, eh?”

  They laughed together. He touched her hair. “Don’t let Manolo get near you with shears, chiquita.” He kissed her. “Let me take you to a place much safer than Rio Tajo.” He smiled. “At least for me! We have a bath house.”

  She stared at him. “Don’t look so skeptical,” he said. “It a legacy from previous Muslim owners that my grandfather displaced.”

  “I wish I had something better to wear than my woolen dresses and bridal clothes that don’t fit,” she began, then stopped, wary again. “I don’t mean to complain.”

  “You don’t complain.”

  “You told me not to ever complain,” she said without thinking, then felt the familiar fear all over again, a reminder of their hard journey.

  “I could have been kinder,” he told her. “I wish there were not so much pressing on my mind.”

  “I’ll make do with the clothing I have,” she said, wanting to end this conversation.

  “No need. Manolo found some dresses of our mother’s. Here.”

  He tugged her from bed and led her to a Moorish chest on a carved wooden stand. She opened the trunk, breathing deep of the sandalwood lining. “How lovely,” she said, pulling out a camisa, clean, delicate and lacy. Next came a blue cotton gown and a silk-plaited belt. She draped the lovely things over her arm. “What was your mother’s name?”

  “Liria,” he said. “She was as pretty as her name. From what Manolo tells me, she was about your size. Just a little lady. Come with me.”

  They walked down the corridor, Santiago keeping step with her and not striding ahead, almost as if he wanted to spend a few moments with her. I could like this, she thought.

  He stopped at the row
of open windows. “Mira, chiquita.”

  Hanneke leaned over the stone-worked railing and looked down on a garden. Bushes of orange blossoms and roses competed for the attention of bees, and was that a lemon tree? The garden had obviously been well-tended once, but not in recent months. She heard a fountain.

  Santiago rested his elbows on the railing. “It is Engracia’s special delight. Before she came, we used it for livestock.” He shook his head. “You can tell she has been gone too long.”

  “I will help her tend it. I like to make things grow.” She looked around and decided this was not a castle at all, to her way of thinking, but more like the inn at Toledo. She couldn’t help wondering if the walls surrounding them were strong enough.

  As they walked down the wide staircase, Santiago gestured to the great hall, with its Moorish and Almohad banners taken in battle and now hanging from smoke-blackened rafters. “Pray God we will add to our collection during the season of battle.”

  Outside, he pointed to the chapel, the soldiers’ hall, and the bath house. “Many of my soldiers live in the village just beyond the gates,” he told her, “but the single men live here. After the turn of the year, if I begin immediately, this hall will be full of more soldiers.”

  “Immediately?”

  “I’m leaving with Antonio and a small guard as soon as they assemble. Go into the bath house. The water is warm.”

  She did as he said, wanting to obey and cry at the same time. So soon? Couldn’t he stay a few days longer? Introduce her to Manolo’s villagers? Tell her some stories about his childhood? Surely there were some happy ones.

  Agitated, she hurried though the wonderful bath, washing her hair until she was satisfied, rubbing gingerly around her sunburned nose, wishing she were prettier. Not that it mattered. Who was there to notice? Santiago was going away.

  The dress fit her as if Liria Gonzalez had told her seamstresses to make it thus and so for a small woman she would never meet. Hanneke smoothed down the soft folds, then tried to tug the bodice higher. Mama would never have approved, but Antje Aardema was far away in a Vlissingen cemetery, and her daughter was alone among strangers. And Santiago was going away.