by Kit Brennan
Oh I can’t bear to remember this. This, and the horror that was to come. But I must go on, must think it through, unearth all the details that may possibly save me.
I fulfilled my mission. And then awoke with a start and a rush of fear in the dark.
There was noise in a corridor, the sound of male voices, yelling, and then in the antechamber, the pounding of feet running closer. I was in Espartero’s bed, in the small private room where we’d ended up. The evening had continued with bursts of voraciousness and then contrition on his part. Perhaps that was his amorous style. If so, it left a lot to be desired. He’d removed me from my gown with hard, impatient fingers; my breasts were raw from his teeth and beard stubble. My insides, too, felt raw and hot, and not from the overactive pleasure that I’d often felt with Diego after many languid or joyous comings-together over a short space of time. No. On that night, from a hurried, repetitive banging against my flesh, while propping himself above me and appearing to be suffering some form of protracted rictus. It reminded me of Thomas, my estranged husband. How could these men believe they enjoyed sex when they suffered so much from it, like a guilty, narcissistic, contorted form of torture? Going deep inside their heads and staying there, the whole time, while their bodies struggle on to bring them the release they long for yet fear intensely. I blame religion, any religion that celebrates guilt and pain—and in the conquering world, is there any that doesn’t?
At any rate, all the striving and excruciation had finally resulted in some sort of spasm, and he’d rolled off me like a man who’d been felled by a plank. Immediately asleep, gracias á dios. I pushed him further off and used his sheet to wipe between my legs, wipe him away. Then I said a little prayer for Diego, sent it winging through the night. Be safe, be well, my darling, somewhere in this enormous palace with its thousands of rooms. Before Espartero had blown out the lamp, I’d tried to ascertain the whereabouts of all my belongings and memorize them. I’d resolved to wait until he was deeply asleep, then creep away. Unfortunately, what with the anxiety and fatigue of the endless banging, I too had fallen asleep.
So there I was, bolt upright at the sound of the shouting voices, pounding feet, and now pounding hands on the door. “Prime minister! It is urgent that we speak with you! Prime Minister Espartero, Your Excellency!”
The silver-maned lion beside me awoke, growling loudly, “What do you want? I told you not to disturb me!”
“We must speak with you; it is of very great importance!”
“One moment!” he roared, and rolled over with a groan, heaving himself to his feet. He stalked to the wardrobe, pulled out a robe, threw it about his body, and went to the door. I knew this only from the sounds. It was so dark I couldn’t see a thing, but he knew where he was and could navigate unerringly. He flung open the door. Outside in the anteroom a dozen men were congregated, carrying torches. I cowered into the covers, peeking out at the sudden light and noise and glancing frantically around for my muff with its hidden pistol.
“An incident, prime minister,” one man said, stepping forwards. “We must have your advice.” My mouth fell open. Surely I recognized—? It was Javier, the bodyguard, the man who’d guarded me at the theatre, night after night. The one I’d questioned in the garden, with the shy smile. He did not look shy at the moment, but flushed with excitement and haste.
“Tell me.” Espartero looked fully in charge once again, even half naked—legs braced, shoulders squared, running a hand through his silver mane.
“We’ve come directly to you, now that the scene has been secured,” Javier continued. “The men were all coming on duty, two dozen of us positioning ourselves throughout the building. Shortly after midnight, I heard a commotion on the stairway. I called up as many as were within earshot and we raced in that direction.”
Oh God, I thought, trembling. I don’t know what has happened. But I know we are undone.
“Two men were running down the staircase with the infantas in their arms. Infanta Isabel was screaming, Infanta Luisa Fernanda still sleeping, and these men would almost have escaped but for the quickness of the guards bringing up the rear.”
“And the infanta, Isabel, where is she?”
“Safe, Your Honour.”
I had crept out of the bed during this exchange, fumbling for my clothing, trying to sense what was what in the darkness of the shadowy room. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely manage, but I persevered.
“There was bloodshed—not the princesses’—but several guardsmen were wounded,” Javier went on. “The two men had set the princesses down in a corner and began to fight back. One cried out, ‘We’re on the queen’s business! Make way!’ Infanta Isabel ran screaming down the hallway towards her bedchamber, but Infanta Luisa Fernanda remained, now awake. We were all terrified for her, that she would be hurt.”
“And was she?” Espartero barked impatiently.
“No, prime minister.”
“And the result of all this, man? Get to the point!”
“We have apprehended two men. They are General Manuel de la Concha and General Diego de León. We have them in irons.”
I died. My knees buckled beneath me, and I fell to the floor.
“We await your instructions, Your Honour.” And Javier bowed.
I was whimpering with fear and clasped a hand across my mouth to stop myself from howling.
“Bastards! Those bastards!” Espartero began to bellow. “Traitors! Intriguers and conspirators!”
I had crawled into the wardrobe, curled up and trembling amongst his boots and whips. I could hear other men outside beginning to add their impressions to the mix, angrily but admiringly: “They fought like tigers,” “We were sure we would all be killed!” “But when reinforcements arrived—we have them heavily guarded. They won’t get away.”
“I fought with those cabróns in the war!” Espartero was yelling, “I am their commanding officer! And moreover, their ruler!” He was in a towering rage, and now he was charging back into the room. I barely had enough time to uncurl with a frightened gasp, scramble across the tiled floor, and roll under the bed, pulling the hem of my gown and my boots in after me.
Espartero flung off his robe, hurled himself into riding breeches, and ripped his boots out of the wardrobe. Stamping into them, he asked in a brutal voice, “What is the time?”
“Two in the morning, Your Honour.”
Espartero then shouted, “Death by firing squad! At dawn!”
I clapped my hand over my mouth again to prevent the scream that tore through my heart.
There was a startled murmur of dismay from all of the men still gathered in the anteroom. Javier, too, sounded shaken as he replied, “But Your Excellency, no trial? I mean, this excessive speed. What will the people say?”
“I don’t care!” Espartero snapped, pulling on his shirt and grabbing up the uniform jacket. “Do the unexpected. It’s the only way to govern, the way to keep control. That’ll teach the bastards to intrigue against me!” I could see the hard, shining boots striding out of the room, a horsewhip flicking against them as he went. “Let me see them! Let me show them! I’ll eat their hearts!” The men swirled around him and they were gone, out past the antechamber and on.
My God, get moving! How could I have fallen asleep? Idiot! I rolled back out from under the bed, scrabbling about in the dark, and finally lay my hands on the muff. But as for the firing cap, it was lost and gone. Where are your equal conditions now, Diego? My teeth chattering like a gibbering monkey, my fingers felt as if they were cooked pasta, unable to grasp and lace and button. Somehow I managed most of it and staggered to my feet. He means to destroy them! Where to go, what to do? Where were they? Oh my life, my heart of gold, how to save you!
Somewhere, out there, the sound of gunfire, two or three shots in swift succession. God, no! Now what?
I ran towards the inner office and fumbled around. The torches having gone with the men, it was pitch black again, I could only feel my way and pray that I wa
s moving in the remembered direction. But they were out there; I heard vague rumbles and the occasional raised voice. Had something just happened? Why were they lingering? I couldn’t go that way, not with them still gathered in the outer rooms. Was there another door? I fumbled on, gabbling now a nonsensical language that transformed itself into a children’s rhyme, one I’d hated as a child and now couldn’t get out of my head: “Round and round the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel . . .”
Merde, they were right there in the next room! Javier’s voice continuing stoically, “That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Your Honour. I don’t know who that man is, but I was first alerted to the possibility of unusual activity by questions from an actress I was guarding nightly at the Príncipe.” I stopped breathing, eyes popping in the darkness.
“An actress?”
“Yes, she was asking about how our shifts were organized, whether each of us guarded particular personages, and who was employing us. I was suspicious then.”
You sly bastard, I gulped.
“Then came the attempted kidnapping of the Infanta Luisa Fernanda at the masked ball, and I knew something was wrong. The actress was intimate with the princess, and she’d continued to ask questions. Another guardsman reported a conversation she’d initiated with him, just last week. I presented this information to my senior officer, and as of tonight, we’d posted extra guards, employing emergency caution during our—”
Espartero’s grating voice: “Stop,” and he returned to the previous point. “Actress, you say. Named Patrizia Olivares? Blonde?”
Oh Jésu!
“No, Rosana Gilbert, also known as Eliza. Dark.”
Triple merde! My hands were fumbling again, arms out in front of me like a despairing blind man about to fall from a cliff. I banged painfully into something hard and barely felt it. Merde, oh fuck! Yipping with panic, and then! A doorknob! Oh God, don’t be locked! I grabbed and twisted, and it opened! A corridor stretched before me. The voices were off to my left. I flung myself down the hall, to my right, running for my life—running where, I had no idea.
I was looking back over my shoulder, fleeing with my skirts yanked up around my thighs and bootlaces trailing dangerously, so I didn’t see him. I crashed into him with full force and went sprawling onto the stone floor, the wind knocked from me. Then I hit my head, hard, and went out like a light.
Pounding, hammering. Splitting pain. And yet, soft underneath. A tickling sensation—Diego? I could feel myself smile, oh thanks be to merciful God and sweet baby Jesus it was all a bad dream. Kiss me again, and again, make this pain go away. I opened my eyes; the ceiling spun and then slowed, and there was a young stranger staring down at me, stroking my hair.
I was up again, crouching, like a spitting cat about to tear his face off, when he held up a hand, “No, no, señorita, it’s me!”
The young man in livery who’d delivered the chocolate. “Do you know the way out?” I gasped, my head on fire and the room spinning sickeningly. I fell over and must have blacked out once more. After an unknown amount of time, I could feel him again solicitously cradling my throbbing orb in his lap. “Will you help me?” I whimpered, eyes closed.
“Of course I will. I would kill to help you,” he said in a passionate voice.
“Stop speaking of killing!” How much time had I lost? “I must sit up.” He assisted, and again I thought I would heave out my insides before calmness prevailed and objects stood still. “How long have we been here? Where is this? I must get away!”
“Perhaps an hour? Or slightly more. My sleeping quarters.”
“Oh no, an hour? Not so long, please, oh please!” Reaching up, pulling out as many of the pins as I could find, I yanked off the wig, taking some clumps of my own hair with it.
The young man looked astounded and his eyes bulged. “I thought it was your own.” He seemed disappointed. “I brought you in here, out of the corridor, and lucky I did. Two guardsmen ran past, searching for you, only moments later.”
Oh merde and triple fuck! “Where can I get rid of this so it will never be discovered?” I begged, giving the wig a shake.
“I will be honoured to take it.” And the poor fool, kneeling beside me on his bed, held out his hand with a gentlemanly gesture.
“I can’t do that, you’d be in terrible danger! If it was ever found on you—well, let’s not think of the consequences!”
“The danger would be worth it if just once a woman as beautiful as you came looking for me,” the silly boob uttered, eyes uplifted with the rapture of a martyr. What is it with Spanish men and danger?
My head was clearing. I was thinking swiftly. “Why are you willing to help me?” I asked.
“These days, no one is who they seem, señorita. We all have our eyes in different directions.”
Fair enough. I thrust the wig at him and he secreted it inside the breast of his liveried uniform. “Lead me out?” I whispered, getting to my feet with only a small wobble of nausea, then retrieving my muff, which had been lying with me on the bed.
He knelt at my feet, gestured for me to raise my skirts. Oh for the love of God! Then I realized and raised them while he did up my bootlaces, so I wouldn’t be as likely to break my neck. A practical young man. Now at least I was clothed and decent, I could hopefully pass unnoticed into the streets. Just get me out.
“There was a man,” he said. “You tripped on him. He’s lying dead.”
“What! My God!” I shook him by his liveried shoulders. “Show me!”
He took my hand, peered round the door out into the corridor, and we began to run, back to the hallway where I must have fallen. There, lying in a pool of his own blood, now congealing, lay dark, strong Pedro Coria. Unmistakably. Long hands upturned and grasping the air, mustache bristling. Glass eye still open, staring at nothing. What was he doing here? Always, wherever I turn, there is Coria. Now, no more Coria.
“Go, go!” I urged the youth.
We ran on, down a set of stairs. My head was beating a staccato of questions: Diego, my reckless stallion, my beloved, where are you, what’s happening to you? Out through an enormous, shadowy kitchen to a darkened back door. The boy found the key, turned it in the lock, and swung the door open. The night beckoned, full of menace. I could see the hulking presence of the royal palace, huge in its aloof grandeur, looming above us. No one in sight. I turned back and gave the young man a kiss on the cheek. “Gracias por tutto. Get rid of the wig—burn it immediately!”
“I will do what I need to do, you can be sure, dear señorita.”
A thought struck me and I stared at him, horrified. “You’ll keep it as evidence! You’re going to give me away!”
“Never! I would never do such a thing.” He looked appalled at the thought. “It’s just that . . . I wanted to keep it. To remember you by.”
I grabbed his shoulder and hissed into his face, “Don’t you dare, you stupid boy. Remember this, instead.” And I kissed him on the lips, with full force and grateful thanks. “Burn it!” My last image was of the dazed look in his eyes. A conspirator in training, happy to sacrifice his life for a kiss. I ran.
Light was beginning to leak into the sky as I fled down the street outside the palace, clutching the pistol concealed in the muff. I tried to be as inconspicuous as a woman could be while running, panting, and holding a stitch in her side. I fixed a smile on my face as if everything’s fine, I’m just in a bit of a hurry, children to feed, husbands to placate. When really the terrified refrain pounded on: What to do? Where to go? What’s the time, if light is appearing? Not yet dawn, the sun’s not up, therefore surely not yet! Death at dawn! How can this be prevented? I started gibbering again, brain banging around inside my poor half-fractured skull.
Rounding the corner onto the Plaza de Palacio, I came up short. People were milling everywhere; a huge crowd had gathered. What were they looking for? What had they heard? I immediately feared the worst—was this a military contingent? Sent to quell the populace? Rifles, bayonet
s? Desperate men?
I grabbed the shoulder of the nearest person and asked, “What is happening?”
“I don’t know, doña. Someone said conspiracy. The army is out, be careful for yourself.”
“If there were to be reprisals, executions . . . ?”
He turned appalled eyes to mine. “Such things will never happen again. And never here.”
“Then where?”
“Somewhere else!” He rushed away. I asked others, weeping and trying to dash the tears from my eyes, but they shook their heads or shook me off with brusque voices: “Not here, doña!” and “We don’t know anything.”
“Then why are you all standing around! What are you expecting?” I shrieked, and they ran away from me, covering their heads and faces in fear of being recognized.
I didn’t know what else to do, so I ran the few blocks to the Príncipe—perhaps Ventura was there. Maybe he’d know where the prime minister would have taken the prisoners. But surely, I tried to reassure myself, Espartero would surely have reconsidered, after the heat of the moment. He couldn’t possibly go ahead and shoot the generals in cold blood, with no questions asked—no trial, no possibility of reclamation. It wasn’t human! Then I remembered the rictus-distorted face above me, only hours before. I grabbed up my skirts and ran on, panting and sobbing.
The stage doorman stormed from his booth and attempted to stop me, but I hurtled past, not listening. “Ventura!” I called, “Ventura, are you here? Please! Help me!”
In the principal dressing room, I found him. And his brother. The playwright was sitting, head bowed. Father Miguel stood, as usual, in the shadows.
