The Necklace

by Carla Kelly

  She heard many horses in the courtyard. She paused at the bath house door, almost afraid to open it, certain that once Santiago rode away, no one would take any interest in her. She had never felt so alone in her life, and there was no remedy for it.

  “You’re braver than this,” she said out loud, and opened the door upon an army ready to march.

  Manolo sat in a chair beside the chapel with Father Bendicio standing near. As she watched, the soldiers knelt in the courtyard as the priest blessed them with success in finding more soldiers like them.

  Her husband knelt beside Antonio, both men in their chain mail and helmets, with swords sheathed. She counted twenty soldiers, men she did not recognize. The men from their own journey stood and watched, too, among them ugly Carlos, with his scarred face and one eye missing, Carlos who took such delight in heads on pikes. She forced herself not to look up at the gate.

  Manolo had told her that fresh troops were riding out, leaving the others behind to guard Las Claves and tend their own wounds from the journey. Only twenty? With difficulty, she tamped down an odd presentiment that there weren’t enough. Don’t be silly, she scolded herself. What do you know of warfare?

  Here stood Santiago. She started forward, but no, he was embracing Manolo, who told him not to be away too long. “Remember, Santiago, there are those here who love you.”

  “Finding an army matters more,” Santiago told him, then turned to his horse.

  He saw Hanneke then. He nodded to her, but came no closer. He swung into the saddle and sat there as his soldiers mounted, his gloves hands resting lightly on the high pommel, completely at home on his big gray.

  He barely knows I am here, Hanneke thought, and blinked her eyes to hold back the tears she knew would only embarrass her and irritate him.

  “Ana?”

  Antonio hurried from the chapel. “I wanted to say goodbye.” He looked closer. “Why the tears?”

  “I thought he might say goodbye to me,” she said. “It would only have taken a moment.”

  “Right now, all he sees is an army,” Antonio said. “There. I have said it.”

  She nodded, adding foolishness to her list of misdemeanors. “I know. I know. Someday when the Almohades are gone and he has land of his own, he will have time for me. Someday.”

  Antonio touched her arm. “I will look after Santiago for you and bring him home safe.”

  “How long will you be gone? One week? Two?”

  He couldn’t meet her eyes. “Several months. We will travel through Leon, Castile and Navarre, finding our army. Maybe even to Aragon in the east.”

  Months. She nodded, unwilling to speak what was in her heart, not to this kind man who had done nothing to deserve bitter words. Better leave them unsaid. “Go with God, Antonio,” she said instead. “Don’t worry about me.”

  The little army rode through the gate as wives and children waved to them, dogs barked, Father Bendicio swung his censer, and the dust rose. After everyone returned to their homes and duties, Hanneke walked through the gate and watched the army until long after they disappeared in the pass.

  She stayed there, alone, until mid-afternoon when Carlos tugged her away, because it was time to close the gates.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  That was August. When Carlos found her crying by the gate, he took her to Manolo, who put her to work. The first command went to Pablo, who was promoted from the kitchen to the patio and handed a scythe. “Don’t kill anyone,” Manolo said. A few rose bushes had near misses, but after a day the grass was manageable once more, and the fountain could be both heard and seen.

  Now it was October. The days fell into a simple pattern of weeding through the morning and pruning rose bushes. The thorns tore at her hands until Hanneke found a pair of old gauntlets in Santiago’s room – she never thought of it as their room – from his younger years.

  She spent many afternoons in the chapel, sitting in the doorway to catch the light and mending old vestments that Father Bendicio claimed dated back to the days of the Visigoths, maybe even the Romans.

  One rainy afternoon, as summer grudgingly yielded to autumn, she tackled Santiago’s room. She worked her way through a mound of clothes, discovering that the deeper she dug, the smaller became the surcoats, tunics, hose and shoes.

  She knew she would never forget the boy-sized tunic covered front and back with rust-colored stains and a gaping rip through the right shoulder. She remembered Father Bendicio’s words about the battle where he ran away, and where Santiago’s childhood ended.

  “If you even had a childhood,” she said out loud as she folded the garment and placed it in the bottom of the Moorish chest with Liria’s dresses. She barely slept that night, thinking of the young boy who had no childhood, and whose father and servant blamed him because of another’s mistake.

  Other matters kept her awake. She dreaded early morning kitchen smells, especially the omnipresent odor of olive oil that came with every meal. Laying that aside, why could she not keep her eyes open after the evening meal? She was too young to be dozing like an old fishmonger at the docks, waiting to clean the evening’s catch. If the kitchen odors drove away her appetite, why did her bodice stretch so tight across her breasts?

  She wanted to talk to Engracia about the mystery of her disappearing monthly flow, but it was a private matter. How long had it been? Since the last time at sea?

  She picked a moment when Pablo was off to the smith, sharpening the garden scythe, and Manolo was reading in his room. She stopped her assault on the purple weeds edging the fountain. Engracia sat close by, embroidering and humming to herself.

  “Engracia, I have a question for you,” she asked, trying to sound casual.

  “Ask, my sister.”

  “I…I…” She could hedge around the matter, but why? It was just the two of them. “I want to throw up every morning, I can’t stay awake at night, my bodice is too tight, and my breasts hurt.”

  Engracia’s eyes widened. She put down her embroidery and patted the space beside her.

  “And?” Engracia coaxed.

  “There is also the matter of my missing monthly flow. It has vanished.”

  “When that happened to me I ran to Manolo, who told me I was with child. Men are so wise.” Then it dawned. “Sister, when was your last flow? I think I know your ailment.” She giggled.

  “The ship at sea in June. That would make…” She counted on her fingers. “Four months.”

  “Stand up and turn sideways. Pull your gown tight across your middle.”

  Hanneke did, looking down, seeing the bump she was already familiar with, but which could be hidden from others still.

  “Your waist is gone, and it appears that someone has taken up residence inside you,” Engracia said. “I think you had better write to Santiago, if you can find him.” She touched her forehead to Hanneke’s. “I’m happy for you.”

  I am happy, too, she thought that night, comfortable in bed in her all-forgiving camisa, lying in the furrow Santiago had created through the years. If you are too busy with battle to think much about me, no matter. In five months I will have someone to keep me company, no matter how long the war. “Thank you, Santiago,” she whispered into the darkness.

  She woke earlier than usual, even before nausea struck. She tried to return to sleep, but she heard loud voices coming from the great hall. She wrapped a blanket around her and padded downstairs, hopeful. Perhaps Santiago had returned.

  Manolo sat below, still in his nightclothes, Pablo beside him, Pablo who had decided by himself – after securing her permission – that he would include her brother-in-law in his duties. She hesitated on the stairs because two of the villagers stood with them. The local dialect was difficult to decipher, but she heard the word “Fire” more than once. She came closer.

  The villagers hurried away. Manolo nodded to Pablo. “Su
mmon Carlos from the soldiers’ hall.”

  Hanneke came out of the shadows and put her hand on Manolo’s shoulder. He smiled his approval at her presence, something he had done more and more lately. Perhaps he had decided she could be relied upon.

  “Carlos worries me a little,” she admitted, not wanting to say more.

  “He is ugly, to be sure,” Manolo said, “but I trust him as I would Santiago or Antonio. You should, too, sister.”

  “How is that? He watches me too much.”

  “Did you ever think that perhaps Antonio commanded him to watch you, now that he is gone? I know of Santiago’s similar request to Antonio.”

  She hadn’t considered that. The thought warmed her, even though her bare feet were cold.

  “Never fear Carlos. His heart is large.”

  Here he came now, pulling a tunic over his nightshirt, his face a dark cloud of worry. “Trouble, señor?”

  “Let me tell you of my early-morning visitors. You can decide.”

  With a glance at Hanneke, Carlos scratched his chest and sat.

  “Two of my villagers tell me that their newly gathered haystacks burst into flames last night. And you know those two shepherds who only yesterday moved their sheep here from summer pastures?”

  Carlos nodded. “One of them is the brother of my late wife.”

  “They are missing.”

  Carlos crossed himself, but it was no act of contrition, as far as Hanneke could tell. The ugly man looked irate that God Almighty would be so careless of Spanish lives. But that was Carlos. “Señor, I will take a few men, and we will see.”

  “That is what Santiago would have you do,” Manolo said. Hanneke heard the relief.

  Carlos exchanged a wry look with Hanneke. “Dama, he’d probably have my hide by now, because I wasn’t already in the saddle.”

  “Go with God,” she said, feeling more charitable toward him.

  “If He can keep up.”

  After Carlos left on a run, Hanneke turned to go upstairs, her feet cold. Manolo held out his hand again, and she took it.

  “Engracia tells me I am to be an uncle.”

  Hanneke nodded, too shy to speak, and hurried upstairs to change.

  Manolo still sat in the great hall when she returned. He motioned her closer. “My dear, count the men gathering in the courtyard. If there are not at least ten, tell Carlos to add more.”

  She pulled her cloak tighter against the chill of wind trying to decide if it was autumn or winter. She looked first at the heads over the gate, as she always did, whether she wanted to or not. She squinted in the weak light, then looked again, wondering what was different. She remembered her task and counted ten riders; no need for more. Still, something was wrong.

  “Carlos, please wait a moment.”

  “Dama, what?” he asked, trying to sound patient when she knew he was eager to be away.

  “Look over the gate.”

  He looked where she pointed. He dismounted slowly, as if a weight had suddenly dropped on his shoulders. The mounted men groaned, but he cut them off with an oath. “We will wait here until the sun rises.”

  He stood close to Hanneke. For the first time, she welcomed his practical, profane presence. He stared into the dark space. As the sun rose, she saw twin streams of fresh blood dripping down the arch. She moved closer to Carlos.

  “Dios mio,” he said softly.

  The four nearly skeletal heads were gone. In their place were two fresh heads that looked down on them through sightless eyes, and not across the plains.

  His voice was small for a man so big. “We have found our shepherds.”

  They left, after the heads were removed and placed carefully in burlap. Hanneke stood at the gate, listening. There it came – wailing and screams from two houses. She walked slowly into the great hall to give Manolo the rest of the message, which meant a need for paper and pen and a letter to Santiago, once Manolo had control of himself.

  Manolo directed his letter to the Knights of Calatrava. “I know he went there first. Perhaps they know his intentions. We can hope.” He finished his message, sprinkled it with sand, then handed her the paper. “There is room at the bottom for your own news. I know you can write.”

  She picked up the quill, not certain how to say it. Manolo laughed at her. “So shy about something men and women have been doing since Adam and Eve! I would give much to see his face when he gets your message.”

  Before many minutes passed, a single rider raced toward the pass, message in his pouch. Rain began before he was out of sight. Hanneke stood at the entrance of the great hall and watched the rain sluice away fresh blood from empty spikes.

  Carlos and his men returned in late afternoon, when purple and yellow clouds filled the sky.

  “We saw nothing, señor,” he said to Manolo, who had not left the great hall all day. “We will post a good guard. No fears. You can sleep in peace.”

  Who could sleep? Engracia cried and sobbed until Manolo ordered Juana to calm her, no matter what. Hanneke lay in bed, wondering if the Almohades would sneak up silently, or scream their terrifying, warbling war cry. Please, Santiago, return to us, became her prayer, hour after hour.

  Carlos and his men rode out again with the dawn, to no success. Pablo said the cook and serving women told him it was a cat and mouse game. Engracia cried louder at this news, until even Manolo seemed to weary of her tears, rolling his eyes and shaking his head.

  The game of cat and mouse continued one week, two weeks. One night, four fires blazed just far enough away to make a swift answering raid impossible. Another night, it was a flock of sheep, slaughtered between sundown and sunrise. Each afternoon, Carlos and his men returned grim and silent.

  Every morning, disquiet dragged her from bed faster than nausea. Every morning she found Manolo sitting in the great hall, looking like a man who had spent the night with his eyes wide open, staring into the darkness. Every morning, she sat by him in silence. She knew he found her presence comforting, even if he said nothing.

  One morning she woke with her usual start, certain she heard voices. She threw a blanket around her shoulders and ran downstairs, desperate to see Santiago.

  Antonio sat with Manolo this time. He stood up, tired eyes lively, his hands held out to her. She reached for him, and he grasped her shoulders.

  She looked beyond him, disappointed. “Santiago?”

  “Manolo’s letter reached us far to the north.”

  “He did not come?” Maybe she wasn’t hearing him correctly.

  “No, lady.” He gave her that familiar half smile. “Remember, he is busy finding an army.” He turned to Manolo. “Which we will have here by spring, God willing.”

  “I wish it were sooner,” Manolo said in a low voice.

  Antonio glanced at Hanneke, and Manolo waved away any concerns. “Ana know everything,” he said. “In fact, she has turned into my rock.”

  “I am not surprised,” Antonio said. He looked from one to the other, then nodded when Pablo brought in bread and cheese. He took a hunk of each. “Tell me what is going on.”

  Between the two of them, Hanneke and Manolo told him of death, and fire, and sudden raids. “Carlos looks and looks, but he finds nothing. They are toying with us, El Ghalib and his men,” Manolo finished. “What can we do?”

  “Carlos is a good man and reliable,” Antonio said, “but I know the land where our fortresses end, and before the cities of the Almohades begin. I will ride and listen.”

  Hanneke clutched his arm. “What will happen to you?”

  “Nothing.” He shrugged. “I am from beyond the frontier, as you know. My Arabic is as good as El Ghalib’s. I know what I look like, thanks to a raiding party on my village when my mother was caught outside city walls.”

  What could she say to that? “I will worry about you,” seemed so feeble
.

  “No one has ever worried about me,” he said, surprising her. “Yes, worry about me. I like that.”

  She laughed, in spite of deep misgiving. “I will! After all, you have loaned me Carlos, when you cannot be here to watch over me for Santiago.”

  “It’s a fair trade.” He looked at Manolo, who had listened to this whole exchange with amusement. “I will be gone within the hour. Get dressed, Ana. Aren’t your feet cold?”

  She hurried upstairs and dressed, her mind in a jumble. She ran downstairs, disappointed to see only Manolo. “He’s gone already?” she asked.

  “Only to the kitchen.”

  She remembered she was a matron and walked with some dignity to the kitchen. Antonio sat at the cook’s table, cheese in one hand, as he drained a goblet of wine. He was dressed in a dirty robe, with an equally tattered scarf around his head. The cook piled food into a sack.

  “Here I go,” Antonio said. “I’ll inquire here and there, see what I can learn.” He regarded her. “For an early riser, you look uncommonly fine, dama. Something has changed. Care to tell me?”

  Shy, she avoided his eyes. “Surely Santiago told you. I wrote it in the letter.”

  “He said nothing. What was he to tell me?”

  She wondered why her husband had said nothing to his trusted friend about her baby. There you go, Hanneke, she scolded herself. Santiago is too busy, even for good news.

  “I am with child,” she said in a low voice.

  “I thought there was something about you,” he said with no hesitation. “This is good news.”

  “He never said anything?”

  He regarded her thoughtfully. “We go from village to village, urging men to join us, promising them land of their own. I have seen Santiago so tired at night that he falls asleep with his spoon halfway to his mouth.”

  “He tells me things will be different, when the Almohades are pushed back,” she said. “You know, when he has leisure time.”

  “Now there are two of you for me to protect, eh?”