Catch Me in Castile

by Kimberley Troutte

  Santiago actually blushed. “Your offer is generous. Unfortunately, we came up from Salamanca for the day only.”

  The man pressed on. “How do you expect your novia to learn? She needs to watch the Tour with Europeans to learn the nuances. The intrigue. Besides, we will have tostón—roasted suckling pig and judiones—huge white beans. You’ll never taste anything better.”

  “Oh, the last time I had tostón—” Santiago’s eyes glazed over.

  “It sounds like fun,” I said.

  “You want to go?”

  “Sure. I mean, if you do.” My ears were still echoing the “novia” part. “I’m on vacation, remember? You’re the one with responsibilities.” I folded my hands in my lap and waited for a sign. If he had feelings for me, he wouldn’t turn this opportunity down. I waited, biting on my lip.

  He swirled the wine in his glass, his face unreadable. Debating. Weighing something in his mind, but what?

  “Señor, do you have rooms to spare?” Santiago asked.

  “Call me Rodrigo. My brother and I close the lodge in July for vacation, so friends and family can come and stay to watch the Tour together. You will enjoy it.”

  “Very generous. Thank you.” Santiago’s smile was crooked. It was obvious this new predicament had caught him completely off guard.

  “We love company. Although, beware my wife. She’s liable to talk your ear right off. I’ll go now and bring the salad—American style.”

  I was afraid to ask how “American salad” differed from what the Spaniards ate.

  Santiago shook his head in disbelief. “This is the first weekend I’ve had off in a month.”

  I raised my glass. “To fate then.”

  His smile remained crooked. What was going on up there in that beautiful head of his?

  When Rodrigo brought the salad he smiled generously at me and I found a little rosebud alongside my plate.

  “You’ve done it. He’s in love,” Santiago whispered.

  “Don’t know, but maybe he won’t spit in my paella.”

  “Unless he already did.” His dimples deepened.

  “Santiago! You’re incorrigible.”

  He leaned forward. “And you have amazing eyes. Sometimes brown, green, the color of honey. I’ve never seen eyes like yours.”

  Maria had said something about my eyes too. Her comment had not made me giddy nor dried my throat so I could barely swallow my delicious food.

  Along with the bill, Rodrigo shoved a makeshift map into Santiago’s palm. “Here are the directions. No one will be there until tomorrow, so—”

  “No one?” Santiago repeated.

  “You two enjoy. Please feel at home,” Rodrigo said.

  “I can’t believe this. Thank you so much,” I said.

  “It is nothing, bella. Until tomorrow.” He kissed my cheek.

  We walked out into the bright sunlight. I waved to Rodrigo who was still watching as we crossed the street.

  “Come on, there’s more to see before we head up to the lodge.”

  “Another surprise?” Swinging my leg over his bike, I wrapping my arms around him. This day gets better and better.

  “I have to admit, I’m enjoying this bike of yours,” I whispered in his ear.

  He parked the bike. “Gets under your skin doesn’t it?”

  “It plays havoc with my hair, that’s for sure.” I unstrapped my helmet and ran my fingers up my scalp to fluff the flattened strands.

  “I’ll let you drive next time.” He waved the keys before my nose.

  “Ah, no. Thank you. No.”

  “It’s easy. I’ll teach you.”

  “Nope. I’ll only ride this thing with an expert on the front. And you, Mr. National Champion—” I tossed the helmet to him, “—are the only expert I know.”

  He grinned like a schoolboy. “Good.”

  “I still can’t believe you raced, though. Motorcycle racing looks suicidal. What made you want to do that?”

  The dimples disappeared, making me sorry I’d asked.

  “When you feel out of control, when life turns on you…” He cupped my cheek with his hand. “You fight back. It seems reckless, but I didn’t want to die. Riding, fast and furious, was my way of punching death in the face.” He smiled, just a little. “I stole back the control he stole from me. And lived.”

  I pressed my hands to my chest to still the tremor of panic.

  He frowned. “Doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

  I nodded like a bobble-headed doll. “I’ve been out of control.” And strangely enough, my response was to drive fast and furious too. “Before.”

  His thumb caressed my cheekbone. “Want to talk about it?”

  I blew out the breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Not in this lifetime.”

  He took a moment longer to read my face. “All right. I want to take you somewhere special.”

  We walked several blocks. Every now and again I’d steal glances at him and he’d smile at me. It felt so…right. Like we’d always walked this way, my fingers curled around his. I couldn’t stop smiling.

  “That’s it up there, the Alcázar,” he said.

  The cream-colored palace with its sharply sloping blue-tiled roof was out of a dream, or off a Hollywood set. A wave of something not so fairytale-ish passed over me. “I’ve seen this palace before.”

  “Disneyland? Walt Disney used this castle for his inspiration.”

  “That’s probably it,” I lied.

  “Come, let us go inside.” Santiago took my hand.

  I hesitated on the stone bridge draping across a deep ravine. Dear God, a moat. A dry, unbelievably deep moat. I swallowed hard as a wave of phobia rolled over me again, just as it had on the balcony.

  Stop this, I screamed at myself. Just because Grandma Grace suddenly developed a fear of elevators while on one—requiring three men to carry her off by her elbows—did not mean I was catching a fear-of-heights. I won’t allow it.

  With half-closed eyes I took halting baby steps, concentrating on Santiago’s broad back until I’d made it across.

  Santiago paid for a guide to take us on a private tour. He and I walked hand-in-hand behind the man, who rattled off historical events and the names of kings and queens who’d ruled Spain.

  I murmured to Santiago, “The only Spanish monarchs I’ve heard about are Queen Isabel and King Ferdinand. Because of Columbus, of course.”

  “Please to follow me,” the guide said. “Careful inside. The steps are narrow.”

  “Steps?” I squeaked. “We’re going inside the tower?”

  Santiago lightly touched my shoulder. “Do you want me to go first?”

  “Can I wait down here?”

  “And miss the amazing view?”

  I gritted my teeth, focused on my feet climbing the stairs and wondered how in the world I was going to live through this one. It wasn’t just the heights. Something worse was triggering my panic button.

  Santiago stepped out of the stairway first and took my hand. “Look at this.”

  Blood drained out of my head. “I don’t think so.” I hid behind his broad back.

  He cocked his head at me. “Don’t you want to see out the window?”

  “Not in a million years. Look, I should probably tell you, today I’ve got a problem with heights.”

  “By problem you mean—?”

  “An uncontrollable, freakish, heart-stopping sort of thing.”

  “That bad?” He stretched his hand to me. “Trust me.”

  I wanted to, with every quivering fiber in my being. “Sorry, can’t.”

  He frowned and his hand dropped to his side. “Maybe after a while.”

  Not likely. My feet were cemented to the tiles. It was just too damned high. And there was no glass in the window. Who could possibly feel safe?

  “Jeez, the wind blowing through there—” I shivered, pointing to the man-sized gaping hole, “—sounds like a woman crying.”

  “They say it is the scream o
f a ghost.” The guide came up behind me.

  My mouth went dry. “This is where she died.”

  His head swung toward me. “You know of the legend?”

  “Huh?” What would I know of Spanish legends? It was a feeling. No, not a feeling really, a thought, crystal clear like a flash—a young woman died here.

  “Of the nursemaid ghost,” the guide continued. “Over five hundred years ago a servant fell to her death out of this tower window. They say she was in charge of Queen Isabel’s grandson and jumped when the prince died.”

  I frowned at the man. “The child’s death was her fault?”

  “No, historians think he died from natural causes. Smallpox, most likely.”

  “You’re kidding! Nursemaids were expected to kill themselves when royal babies died?”

  “From all accounts, she simply jumped,” said the guide. “She had no family of her own and loved the tiny prince very much.”

  “How sad,” I said, still hiding behind Santiago.

  Over his shoulder he said to me, “I think she was pushed.”

  “Murdered? Why?”

  “People were ruthless then. I bet there was a conspiracy to kill the heir to the throne. The nursemaid knew too much.”

  I smiled at him. “Conspiracy? I thought only Americans talk like that.”

  “Conspiracies can occur outside the United States, Erin.”

  “Are you getting huffy with me?” I had the urge to ruffle his hair. “Besides—” I turned to the guide, “—didn’t you say the child died of natural causes?”

  “That’s the story passed down through history, but who knows?” The guide shrugged.

  “The nursemaid was murdered. Why else would her spirit haunt the tower?” Santiago asked.

  I squinted at him. “You believe in ghosts?”

  “You don’t? Hey, come over here and look out the window.”

  I stepped backwards. “No, thank you. I’m not interested in becoming road pizza.”

  He opened his arms to me. “You won’t fall. I promise.”

  His offer sounded too good to pass up. I crept into his arms, my face burrowed into his chest.

  “Not that way. Turn around.” He physically turned me, holding me snuggly against him, my back to his chest. I kept my eyes shut, concentrating on breathing slowly, calmly, while visualizing pretty pink sunsets and blue-green lagoons.

  “Can you see through your eyelids? Open them up,” he coaxed.

  I opened one eye. The whole world was below the window. A bustling city, a river, meadows, rocks, lots of rocks.

  “See? Not so bad,” he said softly.

  Little did he know my heart was trying to beat its way out of my chest. How could I possibly tell him I’d dreamed of a place like this many, many times? In my nightmares I plummeted to my death.

  A prickly, electric sensation began at the base of my tailbone and fingered its way up to my scalp. An orange-sized lump of hot panic burned my throat. I couldn’t breathe. I held the scream inside my chest where it scraped to get out. Terror bucked through me like a wild thing out of control. Something horrible clung to the edge of my consciousness, just out of my reach.

  “Stay away from the window,” a voice screeched on the wind.

  Everything rolled all around me. My stomach lurched.

  Oh God.

  “Erin, are you all right? You’re pale.” Santiago tried to move me away from the window. I was frozen in place, gripping his arm as if my life depended on it.

  “Step back, before it is too late!” The voice was screaming at me.

  “I can’t.” My knees wobbled.

  “That’s right. Lean on me. I’ve got you,” Santiago was saying in a soothing voice.

  “Erin, Erin, run!” The ghost’s scream was a nail scraping my brain.

  “Stop it, please,” I begged.

  “Stop what?” Santiago asked.

  “Oh God!” I cried. “I’m dying.”

  I turned my face toward him, but the spinning in my head was so strong I couldn’t focus. Shooting yellow and red lights whizzed past my eyes. I sailed into a black, whirling hole full of muffled voices and shrill ringing sounds. Feeling myself go limp, I fleetingly thought about how much it would hurt when my body hit the ground.

  From a tunnel far, far away, someone yelled. “I remember this. Look!”

  Chapter Nine

  Spring of 1494, Alcázar, Segovia

  Serena strolls with Clara through the palace rose gardens, enjoying the warmth of the sun after an unseasonably cold winter.

  “Aunt Beatriz is determined to make a fine lady-in-waiting of me,” Clara says. “Even if the waiting part bores me to tears. I had to feign belly illness to sneak away.”

  “The marquesa is bound to find you out. Perhaps we should go back so you may continue your lessons.”

  “And miss this lovely celebration? Never.” Clara pulls a hard roll out of the folds of her satin gown. “Cook said it is your birthday.”

  “Aya, Clara. You’ve got honey on your gown.” Serena uses the apron of her own plain dress to swipe at the stain.

  “Why fuss? It is just a gown.”

  Serena’s gaze drops to the dirt beneath her worn shoes. Clara had many gowns. All beautiful.

  Taking Serena’s elbow, Clara pulls her toward the shade of a lacy oak. “This looks like a fine spot to begin the festivities.”

  “Hmmm. Why do I think you are using me as an excuse to forego your training?” Serena shakes a finger at her.

  Clara pouts. “That is not fair.”

  “What was it this time? Letter penning?”

  “Far worse. Embroidery.” Clara grimaces. “Aunt Beatriz says it teaches poise, patience and beauty. Holy Madre, I’d rather poke out my eye with a needle than have to add another stitch to her pillow.”

  Serena cannot help herself. She laughs aloud.

  “What handsome gentleman cares if I make a pretty stitch? It is my pretty figure that will catch his eye. Is it not?” Clara says as she sashays around the tree.

  “You ask me? I know little about being a lady.”

  “This is the truth. Your manners are greatly lacking. Will you eat your gift, or not?”

  Serena spreads her dress out behind her and motions for Clara to sit beside her in the soft, cool grass. Breaking the sweet roll in half, they eat it, licking the honey from their fingers.

  “Aya, Serena, Cook must really care for you. She never remembers my birthday.”

  Serena’s voice is soft when she says, “This is the first time I can remember anyone marking the day.” In her memory she sees parties with presents, laughter, and song. And feels the sorrow. When the other girls at the Convent of Santa Ana celebrated with each other, she was never included.

  Clara wipes her hands on the grass and twists her long cream-colored braid around her finger. “So, fourteen years ago today Serena Muñoz was born in a smelly fishing village.” She points the end of her braid at Serena. “You are a long way from home, amiga.”

  Serena shakes her head so hard her raven curls fall forward to partially cover her gray eyes. “I do not have a home.” She sighs. “I wish I had a mother to kiss my cheek on this day.”

  “Why do you pine for a mother who gave you that scar? You are better off here.”

  Serena palms the ugly mark cutting a jagged course down her cheek. “Not true, at least not the way you mean. Mother Catarina told me the story, do you wish to hear it?”

  “Tell me, it will keep me all the longer from needlepoint.”

  “A neighbor lady gathering berries heard a baby’s cries coming from my family’s underground cellar. She was terrified to go into the yard. Black death had killed half the residents in my fishing village. The lady thought no one had survived in the Muñoz house. Was it truly a baby, or a spirit’s cries? Being a woman of good heart, she could not bear to leave. With trembling hands, she lifted the cellar door and found me screaming with hunger and fright. The woman almost fled when she saw the gash
on my cheek and my hair matted with dried blood, but she had no daughters of her own and longed to keep me.

  “Her husband would not allow me to stay in their home. Everyone wondered how I had escaped from a house where the bodies of my family were still strewn across the mattresses and floors. The plague had attacked like a wolf in the night. How had I survived?”

  Clara leans forward in awe. “You never told me this story.”

  “The villagers thought I was cursed and sought to be rid of me. Death had left its claw mark upon my countenance, had it not? Would it return to collect me and all those nearby? As it so happened, a nun from the Convent of Santa Ana came to see the miracle with her own two eyes.”

  Serena stops to take a breath. The memory is hard to relive, even when it is only the stories the sisters told she recalls.

  “So?” Clara nudges Serena’s shoulder. “What miracle?”

  “Sister Agnes arrived moments before the villagers set my house aflame. She saw my mother’s swollen arm draped over the window ledge. When the sister’s gaze traveled from the window and across the yard to the underground cellar, she knew at once what had occurred.

  “My mother knew the villagers would never rescue a baby from a death house. The villagers would set fire to the house with me still inside. In her final moments of agony, my mother threw me out the window. She used her last drop of life to save mine.”

  Clara dabs at the corners of her eyes with her kerchief. “That is perhaps the sweetest story I have ever heard. But then, how did you come to live here, at the palace?”

  “My guardian, Lord rest her soul, arranged it with your aunt. The Marquesa de Moya was kind enough to take me in.”

  “To my good fortune. Without you I would never taste a pastry like the one we just shared.” Clara licks the sweetness still clinging to her lips.

  Serena smiles. “It was good. I shall have to thank Cook for her thoughtfulness.”

  “Mmm, do. Perhaps she’ll give you another.” Clara stands up quickly. “Mira, do you see what I see?”

  Serena pushes her hair back and follows her friend’s pointing finger. A young man is riding his charcoal horse across the bridge toward the Alcázar with the confidence and speed of a warrior.