The Salt Covenants

by Sylvia Bambola

  I must use what I have. And if God is merciful, He will bless it.

  “Doña Isabel, no chicken is worth this much.” Mateo looks down at the gold florin I have placed in his hand.

  “It is if it helps Antonio get well.”

  Mateo stands at the doorway and glances over my shoulder to where Antonio lays sleeping. “He looks peaceful. And his body does not shake. You say his fever has broken?”

  I smile. “God was gracious. But now Antonio needs more than tea to regain his strength. He needs something his bowels are accustomed to. It must be chicken with its broth. And I will cook some of the barley you brought from Castile, and add a little to the soup.”

  Mateo runs his fingers through his silver hair and glances one last time at Antonio, surprise and awe etching his face. “Then I will get your chicken. But not for a florin if I can help it!”

  As I stir the pot, which hangs from the spit in my firebox, a potpourri of smells—chicken, bay leaves, basil, cloves and cinnamon—swirls around me. It is Mama’s recipe, and except for the dried rose petals for making rose water, I had all the needed spices to follow it exactly. Next to the soup hangs a small pot of cooked barley.

  I have been cooking for hours, ever since Mateo returned with the hen which Don Bartolome sent with his compliments and sincere wishes for Antonio’s recovery. The sight of the squawking chicken so delighted me that when Mateo handed me the gold florin I refused to accept it, and made him keep it, instead.

  Now, I hum and stir and watch the soup bubble. The pots and firebox are hot. So is the air, making me damp with my own sweat, and no breeze to bring relief. But nothing can dampen my joy. All morning Antonio has slept soundly, so soundly, in fact, that I felt the need to check him more than once to make certain all was well. And all was well, for he neither shook nor moaned nor breathed uneasily, nor was his skin any hotter than mine.

  I place the spoon on the stool, then cover the pot. With a small shovel, I begin banking the coals. The soup is finished, and the banked coals will keep it warm until Antonio awakes. As I move the last coal, a voice calls my name, making me drop the shovel and rush inside. And there is Antonio sitting up in bed! How wonderful he looks with hair tangled over his ears and a crooked smile on his face.

  “Well, at last you are awake,” I say, folding my arms across my chest, pretending to be vexed.

  “Have I been sleeping long?”

  “Long enough to develop an appetite.”

  Antonio looks puzzled. “Yes, I am hungry. Famished, actually.”

  I laugh with joy, and watch his puzzlement deepen. “I will bring you soup.” I rush to the tall wooden case and grab a small bowl, then disappear outside where I fill it, mostly with broth, but with a little chicken and a spoonful of barley, too. I must not tax his bowels too severely.

  Back inside, I hand him the bowl, then go to the table where I sit on the bench and watch him eat.

  “This is delicious,” he says between spoonfuls. “I have had none better.” He pauses for a moment, the spoon near his lips. “But I thought you said there were no chickens in Isabela.”

  His words, the way he says them, the very sound of his voice thrills me beyond measure because there were times during the night that I wondered if I would ever hear him speak again. “No, dear one. What I said was ‘we have no chickens except those belonging to our Admiral.’”

  He plunges his spoon into his mouth and barely swallows before adding, “Well, then, how did you manage to get your hands on one? Did you have to steal it?” His face tells me he is teasing. “You have more, I hope?” He holds out his bowl. “I feel like a hollow reed.”

  I grin and take his bowl, go outside and refill it, the same way as last time, making it mostly broth. When I return and hand it to Antonio he says, “Truly, how did you get the chicken?”

  “Don Bartolome gave it to me, with his best wishes for your recovery.”

  “Recovery? Have I been sick?”

  “Yes . . . very.”

  Antonio frowns. “I remember the fire, and trying to put it out.” He looks around the room. “Praise be to God it never reached here. How much of the town was destroyed?”

  “All of Poblado Central.”

  “Then Maria and her family have lost everything.”

  “Yes.”

  “A pity. But if it pleases you, we will help them rebuild.” A strange look suddenly comes over his face. “Have I been burned? Is that why I am here in bed?” With one hand he pulls up the covers and looks, then slowly replaces them. “What was the nature of my illness?”

  “You had fever, and could not hold down your food.”

  He brings the bowl closer to his mouth, and eats without saying a word. When he is finished, he places it and the spoon on the nearby stool. “Mateo insisted he pack the leather shields. He said many who sail on long voyages sicken and lose control of their bowels. I must thank Mateo for tending me.” He frowns. “It was Mateo who ministered to me, was it not?”

  When I fail to answer, his frown deepens. I cannot bear the look on his face so I turn away, and when I do I hear him laugh.

  “After a husband has been bathed from head to toe by his wife can he have any secrets left? Though it is hardly fair since I have not had the similar pleasure and since you promised there would be no secrets between us.” His gaze is one of tenderness and love, and something else, too, which I can only describe as admiration.

  Without a word, I slip off my skirt, then bodice, then undergarments until at last I stand naked before him. “Now . . . there are no secrets between us.”

  For several minutes he stares silently at me. And strangely enough, I feel no awkwardness.

  “Unloose your hair,” he finally says in a low, throaty voice as he extends his hand. “For you know a bride should have nothing bound when on her nuptial bed.”

  I shake my head. “You are weak. You must rest and regain your strength and then…”

  “Unloose your hair,” he says again, his voice a near whisper, his hand still outstretched.

  And so I loosen my hair, and walk to the bed where I take his hand and allow him to pull me onto the mattress. And when we are in each others arms, I feel his lips on my neck then hear his voice tenderly whisper, “I love you, Isabel. I love you.”

  “Don Bartolome has declared this a day of abstinence,” Antonio says, nibbling the roasted fish I bought from Bata’s cousin this morning. “In honor of Saint Michael, the Archangel, he has banned the eating of meat and eggs and dairy; and of course all grease and fat in order to keep the bodily humors cool and our minds on spiritual matters.” He licks one finger, then sips wine from his goblet. He no longer wears the jewel encrusted rings he wore the first time he came to my door. “I have cautioned him to exercise moderation in his declaration of fasts and penances, but he is bent on forcing all Isabela to observe the three Christian vows of poverty, chastity and obedience.”

  I sit across the table, sharing our noon meal. “We have no meat or eggs or dairy, anyway. And little grease or fat to tempt us. But this privation has not increased my devotion. In fact, I am ashamed to say, it has done nothing to help me remember any of the saint’s days or even our holy day of Rosh Hashanah which has come and gone without a nod from me. Now, I ask you, why is that?”

  “Nothing provokes carnal desires more than being told you may not have something. That is why I worry over Don Bartolome’s severity. If only he was acquainted with the Baghdad Cookery-Book that affirms two of life’s six pleasures are food and scents.” Antonio’s voice is playful.

  “Both overrated pleasures when compared to the pleasure of a wife lying with her husband.”

  Antonio chokes on his fish, then wipes his mouth and grins.

  I blush when I see the merriment in his eyes, for it is apparent that once again I have spoken rashly. “Pity there are no monasteries here in Isabela with all the excellent fish available.” I flake off a piece of codfish with my knife. “It would provide the monks a good livelihood in
salting and drying.”

  “Not to mention endless fighting. Each monastery would surely squabble over these rights, for such a valuable income would hardly be relinquished without a struggle.”

  I laugh and picture a squadron of monks running the banks of the Isabela River while another runs the seashore claiming every foot their own. “With so much money to be had in fish, it is fortunate we have laws forbidding fishmongers to price gouge, at least during Lent.”

  “True . . . for as you know, greed, like lust—which you seem to understand well enough—is one of the seven deadly sins.”

  When Antonio leans over, covering my hand with his, I again notice the scar below his ear, and without thinking, I touch it. “How did you get that?”

  He shrugs, and since I suspect it is from one of his many duels over Doña Maria’s indiscretions, I drop the matter.

  “No, Isabel, it is not from a duel.” His mouth forms a crooked smile. “I received it defending King Fernando. I dislike speaking of it for people always want to make more of the matter than it deserves.”

  “Now you really must tell me for certainly a wife should be allowed the privilege of being proud of her husband.”

  Antonio’s smile widens. “Pride? Another deadly sin, Isabel?”

  I shrug. “What can be done with a character as flawed as mine?”

  “You are not completely flawed. You do have one virtue”

  “And that is?”

  “Your love for me.”

  “My great love for you.”

  “Yes, your great love for me.” Antonio releases my hand, and sips wine from his goblet. “I suppose I must tell for how can I withhold anything from one who loves me so greatly?” He rests his muscular arms on the table. “Do you remember almost two years ago, when King Fernando was attacked by that assassin, Juan de Canamas?”

  “Yes, the news was everywhere.”

  “I was there in Barcelona, and saw it all: the attack, Fernando’s fall, his blood pooling the marble steps of the Palace of Justice. He would have died had he not been wearing the heavy chains of his office. It kept the assassin’s sword from severing his head.”

  “That still does not explain your scar.”

  “I drew the assassin away before he could finish his work.”

  “You fought him?”

  “No. Only distracted him until one of Fernando’s guards came. I was unarmed.”

  Again I touch the large scar below his ear. “Distracted him? By offering him your own neck to sever?” Antonio blushes. It is the first time I have seen him blush, and by it I understand he is uncomfortable with praise, but still I cannot resist bestowing it. “You are a champion. No doubt King Fernando owes you his life.”

  Antonio removes my fingers from his scar and kisses them. “I assure you it was not heroic at all. I did what any man loyal to the Crown would do. And my wound was nothing compared to the king’s. When I was partially healed, the Queen sent me to her castle in Sequovia to complete my recovery. It was a great honor, for Sequovia is where she lived as a girl, and remains her favorite fortress.”

  “We were told you were sent because of overwork, and needed rest.”

  “It was as I wished, for I did not want to cause my family concern. Sequovia was lovely, and all the bridges I travel enroute, were new. Did you know that our Sovereigns are constructing bridges everywhere?” Antonio absently fingers his neck.

  How skillfully he has turned the conversation from his heroic deed. I am about to veer it back when I hear shouts outside our door.

  “The Niña! It is the Niña.”

  Antonio and I rush outside and follow the throng of nobles to the rocky promontory where I see three ships with full sails coming from the north.

  “Look,” someone shouts, as the ships enter the harbor and lower sail. “The middle one flies the Admiral’s ensign and arms.”

  “It is the Niña, all right, for she has no hawseholes in her hull,” says another.

  We all stand quietly, and, I think, are grateful that at long last our Admiral has returned. I send up silent prayers that with his return life in Isabela will finally improve.

  Our silence continues as men are lowered in boats. More silence as the boats cut through foaming waves on their way to shore. Then, as one boat beaches, silence gives way to shouts of alarm. There is our Admiral, in plain view for all to see, lying prone in the boat; still and pale as death.

  And when four men get out and carry him over the dunes toward his house, people in the crowd begin asking “What is wrong? What has happened?” And soon others whisper that Christopher Columbus is gravely ill and even blind. And as the rumors float around our heads, Antonio quietly slips his hand over mine and leads me back to our hut.

  “The Admiral has named Don Bartolome, Governor, in his place,” Antonio says, stepping through the doorway of our house.

  For two days we have listened to gossip swirl across Isabela like locust, devouring our town’s peace. Claims that the Admiral was on his death bed flew alongside other claims that what kept him low was not impending death at all, but a drunken stupor.

  “He has not made Bartolome Governor of the Indies for nothing. He must be gravely ill,” I say, standing at the table cutting hog plums.

  “The Admiral is neither dying nor drunk. The doctor says he has gout.” Antonio walks to the table and standing behind me, slips his arms around my waist. “But it is true that Admiral Columbus cannot see, for his eyes bleed. The doctor has covered them with salve and bandages.” Antonio reaches for a plum. “Even in ill health he shows concern for what is happening in Isabela. He has officially commissioned Fray Pane to study the religious practices of the Tainos, to more easily convert them, and also, I believe, to discover the means of establishing a better friendship between our people.

  “He has also addressed the food shortage. With our crops failing and Tainos burning their fields, Columbus has ordered some of the livestock butchered and distributed among those salaried by the Crown.”

  Antonio pulls me closer. “God knows I want to have children with you, Isabel. But with all the problems plaguing our settlement, is it wise? Am I selfish in wanting to put you through all that childbirth entails?”

  I put down my knife and wipe my hands. “I do not fear childbirth. I only fear that once you have satisfied your obligation by providing Sebastian an heir, you will grow weary of this harsh and terrible place, and want to return to the gaiety and opulence of court life, and . . . leave me behind.”

  Antonio throws back his head and laughs.

  “What is so amusing?” I push him away. “Can you not understand that a mind is an instrument of torment? And that my mind torments me daily with this very thought?”

  “Then let your mind be at rest,” he says, in a teasing whisper. “You are my heart. Can a man leave his heart behind, and live?”

  Antonio opens his pouch of salt and places it on the table. He is silent while I open mine. We sit across from each other. Mateo stands nearby, serving as witness. I have told Antonio this is unnecessary. Even so, he insists there be a salt covenant between us. I know it is only because of my confession yesterday.

  Antonio removes a pinch of salt from his sheepskin pouch, and I remove a pinch from mine. Then, with a nod of his head, my husband places his pinch in my sack, and I place mine in his. That done, we tie our pouches and shake them. It takes but a minute to seal the covenant by which we promise each other a lifetime of love and fidelity. And though I believe Antonio has only done this to ease my doubts, in some inexplicable way I know my heart and his have been permanently fused together.

  “Gonzolo has finished our hut,” Maria says, pulling me out of my house. “Come see his handiwork. Oh, what furniture he made!”

  I ask no questions—not wanting to spoil what she clearly means to be a surprise—and allow her to tow me through the streets in silence. Poblado Central bustles with activity. New dwellings are everywhere. But among them are some charred remains of former dwellin
gs that have been abandoned by the disenchanted. Still, life has taken root once again as evidenced by the potpourri of voices, the smell of food cooking over fireboxes, the freshly washed clothes hanging on poles to dry.

  “And your sons?” I say, almost panting, for Maria is moving at a fast pace. “Are their huts finished, too?”

  “Yes, Juan and Luis have worked day and night. Their huts are large, and look more like Taino dwellings than ours, and decorated inside with all manner of weavings by their wives. But at my insistence—for I still fear these women will turn my sons into savages and make them sleep on those strange hammocks—they have built proper beds, and shelves and tables, too. Now all is in readiness. And high time, for both wives are with child.” Maria has finally slowed and turns toward me, I think to see my pleasure when telling me the good news.

  I smile, and squeeze her hand. “God has been good to you and your family. I pray He will continue to bless you all.”

  “Yes, God has been good. Only . . . I wish Enrique would separate himself from those rogues he has befriended. Whenever we see him, he talks of nothing but seizing land for himself. He says, ‘Why should only the wealthy be landowners? Why not peasants also? Cannot peasants better themselves here in the Indies?’

  “He has brought himself low with talk against the Admiral, and threats to overthrow him. This is treason, Isabel. Treason! And if that were not enough, it is rumored he illegally searches for gold in the Vega Real, forcing Tainos to dig and pan the placer fields, then keeping what is found. So now he is a thief as well! Stealing what belongs to the Crown and to our Admiral. How brazen he has become. And cruel. Oh, what stories Bata tells! If only half are true Enrique will surely burn in hell. I am so worried, Isabel, I hardly sleep nights.”

  I know not what to say, for I, too, have heard these stories, and know it is only a matter of time before the Holy One brings down judgment upon Enrique’s head, for such cruelty and thievery cannot go long unanswered.