“There is nothing lacking in her breeding, nor does she have any reason to apologize.” Mateo comes alongside us, holding a letter. He glances at me. “It was behind the ointment jars. Perhaps we should ask Captain Niño how it got there.”
Spinoza’s face turns the color of a pomegranate. “The captain gave me the mail to dispense since I know all the inhabitants. And I discharged that duty. Perhaps . . . well it appears . . . that your letter was mislaid. Accept my apology, Doña Isabel.” He bows slightly. “Even so, I do not believe this small matter worthy of mention. To Captain Niño or . . . Don Diego.”
I tuck the letter into my bodice, then step around him to the next man lying on a bedroll. And while I prepare his bowl, I am only partially aware that Doctor Spinoza hovers nearby, handing me a clean towel, then the ladle, then holding the man’s head while I bring spoonfuls of stew to his lips, for my thoughts are full of Mama and Papa and Seville, and all the possible news from home.
I sit on my bed holding Mama’s letter. Her familiar handwriting comforts me as I read.
Darling Isabel:
There is so much news I hardly know where to begin. We have heard of Admiral Columbus’s return from the Indies, and of his many enemies at court. It is rumored he dresses in the coarse garb of a Franciscan monk, and some mockingly say it is in order to do penance, but for what I know not. I only hope he has not gone mad, as some suppose. But he is, even now, trying to garner support for yet another voyage to the Indies. Señor Villarreal supplies us with such details, still having many friends at court.
And sad news. Prince Juan has died in Salamanca of a mysterious illness, and so soon after taking a bride. The royal physicians were unable to determine the cause, but as you can imagine, speculation runs as rampant as harbor rats. All the cities were strewn with banners and white serge. He was only nineteen, and leaves behind his beautiful bride who, it is rumored, is with child. Queen Isabel is devastated as any mother would be. They say she dresses only in black, and always has Prince Juan’s dog, Bruto, by her side. As a mother, I cannot help but feel her pain. The death of one’s child is a grievous loss.
And more sad news. Seville, too, has sustained a loss, for her great Inquisitor, Fray Alonso, has died. A man of low birth, a water carrier by trade, stabbed the friar in the neck with a dagger. He tried to justify this villainy by saying Alonso had violated his daughter. You can be sure the water carrier received his due punishment at the stake.
The last bit of news is also cheerless. Señor Villarreal has taken a turn for the worse. Surely, it is best that his son, Antonio, and you with him, return home at the first opportunity, for you are both needed to tend his father and manage the estates.
I pray for your swift and safe return.
Your loving Mother
I cannot believe my eyes. Mama has carefully cloaked the details in her letter in case it fell into the wrong hands, that much is clear. But she has also told me I may return home, then provided a reason to do so. I read the letter again to make certain I have not misunderstood. No. There is no misunderstanding.
I am to go home.
I dance wildly around the hut, for my joy is boundless. Home. With Antonio. To see Mama and Papa and Señor Villarreal. To live, once again, in my beloved Seville. Oh, the joy of it!
Then I stop. Captain Niño sails to Castile at week’s end—only two more days. Not enough time to get word to Antonio and have him return to Isabela. And if we miss the sailing who knows how long it will be before another ship comes to the Indies?
My heart pounds with indignation. Just what has Doctor Spinoza’s malfeasance cost me?
“You must sail around the island, to Santo Domingo,” I say, after explaining my situation and relaying the news of Señor Villarreal’s ill health. “It is too late to send for Don Antonio, and we must return home.”
I am seated in the great-room of Casa de Columbus, a sparse area containing only a long wooden table and several cushioned chairs. Beside me sits Don Diego Columbus and Captain Peralonso Niño. I am dressed in silk and brocade, and my hair is neatly braided and studded with pearls for I have learned that men, too often, judge worth by outer appearances, and nothing must impede my mission.
Captain Niño leans forward in his richly carved chair. His face is lined with concern. “Doña Isabel, I understand your plight, but I cannot lead my small fleet on an adventure that will add days, perhaps weeks, to my voyage unless I am ordered to do so by the Governor.”
My stomach tightens, and I draw in a long, slow breath to keep myself from speaking rashly. “Sir,” I finally say, “as you well know, our Governor, Don Bartolome, is away seeing to the construction of Santo Domingo. But our host, Don Diego, has been given authority in his absence.” I turn to Don Diego. “Surely, you can grant this concession for one as esteemed as Don Antonio?”
Don Diego folds his hands neatly on his lap as though they are a pair of elegant gloves. “Doctor Spinoza’s error is indeed a grievous one. But as he explained to me earlier, it was only that, an error.” He pauses as if expecting me to raise an objection. But I do not. It is useless to accuse Spinoza of misconduct I cannot prove. Rodrigo is dead, and who is left to say my letter did not fall behind the ointment jars on its own?
“The good doctor violently regrets your letter was mislaid,” Diego continues, “and that this mishap will cost you and your husband the opportunity to sail with Captain Niño. I am grieved as well. But the Crown’s interest must take precedence over the interest of a single individual.”
“Meaning?” I stare boldly at Don Diego.
“Meaning there will be other ships, and that Captain Niño must depart as planned.”
“Meaning it is best Don Antonio stay and assist Don Bartolome in the building of Santo Domingo.” Since Niño’s arrival, rumors have been abundant concerning Admiral Columbus’s difficulties in persuading the Sovereigns to finance another Indies voyage due to their grave concerns over the situation in Isabela. Viewed in that light, Christopher Columbus, in particular, and his brothers, in general, cannot afford to have Santo Domingo fail, for all their future wealth and titles depend upon it. “Am I to assume you consider your family’s interest equal in importance to the Crown’s?” Throughout our discourse Diego has held my gaze, but now he turns away.
“I will not deceive you. It is best for Don Bartolome and for Santo Domingo, both, if Antonio stays. But that is not my only consideration. Due to our own food shortages here in Isabela, Captain Niño has left all the stores he dared, and carries only enough rations for a quick return voyage to Castile. I am told Santo Domingo has no food reserves at all, so it will be impossible to resupply the Captain’s ships if they sail to her port. Therefore, delay is not advisable and could put his vessels and men in jeopardy.”
I do not know if Columbus speaks truth or lies. Antonio did not mention food shortages, but then again he would not for fear of worrying me. And it is well known that food is scarce all over the island. So what can I say? To press the matter will only suggest I am unconcerned for the lives of others. I have lost, and Columbus knows it. Doctor Spinoza’s malfeasance has cost me much. But what I have no way of knowing is just how much more it will cost.
“I do not want to leave you, Doña Isabel,” Mateo says, as we stand in front of Bata’s house.
“You must take this to Antonio.” I thrust my letter into Mateo’s hands.
“He will not be happy I have left you.” Mateo’s brow knots. “And why hurry? Niño leaves tomorrow, and nothing can be done.”
“I know. I know. But couriers are scarce, and those I trust, scarcer still. We may not come across such able guides for some time.” I glance at the two men that linger nearby. Both are Bata’s relatives, tall men past their prime but still evidencing vigor by their bright faces and agile bodies. Bata has sworn me to secrecy, telling me the men plan to flee into the mountains to escape the tribute system. But she has made them promise to first lead Mateo safely to the other side of the island.
&nb
sp; “Don Antonio will send for you by the Feast of Saint Luke. It is only one month more. I believe, given a choice, he would wish me to stay here even if that means being deprived of this news a little longer.”
“I would agree, but only yesterday I learned that Don Diego does not intend to send his caravel back to Santo Domingo for many months. His house here is large and comfortable. Plainly, he is loath to leave until he is certain to find sufficient comfort at Santo Domingo. In light of this pending delay, how will I get to Antonio? Few Tainos still live around Isabela. Who will guide me? Must Antonio wait for months, perhaps a half dozen months before he hears Mama’s news? And Captain Niño indicated he expects to return to Isabela in just a few short months. If he comes and Antonio is not here, we could miss yet another opportunity to sail back to Castile.” I glance again at Bata’s relatives. “You will be in good hands.”
“But who will care for you? Whose good hands have I to leave you in?”
“Arias Diaz is here. I will be safe enough.”
“That popinjay? He cares only for gambling, for taking the wealth of others with his dice. I fear Don Antonio has made a bad bargain in hiring him.”
“You must not fret so, Mateo. There is still Maria and the Vivars. Now, go with God. I shall pray for your safety.” With that I kiss his cheek, then watch him gather his bundle of food and clothing, and head for the interior with his guides.
“I am greatly worried, Isabel,” Maria says, entering my hut in a sweat, and coming to where I stand at the table washing clothes in my basin. “Ever since Don Bartolome left, Roldan has not ceased grumbling. He says Don Bartolome cares nothing for the sick. That he has sprinkled them throughout the interior like unwanted chaff. And he complains the storehouse is full, while he and his men starve. And if that were not enough, it is whispered Roldan is outraged over Don Bartolome having flogged his friend, the one who violated the chief ’s wife.”
“Yes, I too was surprised to hear about that. Such punishment has rarely been administered. But if the chief had not been Guarionex, ruler of Vega Real and the Cibao gold fields, I doubt such punishment would have been applied. Plainly, Don Bartolome wants nothing to hinder Guarionex’s cooperation in collecting tribute from his people, nor any obstacles standing between him and the gold fields. I think Roldan knows this, too, and that accounts for his anger.”
Maria clamps my arm and looks so fearful I pull my hands from the water and dry them. “What is it? What is it you have come to tell me?”
“Bata’s relatives say Roldan is on his way back to Isabela.”
I am puzzled for I see no reason for alarm. Recently, Diego Columbus sent Roldan and his men to Cibao to deal with those Tainos refusing to pay their tribute. It is only natural that once the work was done, Roldan would return. “Why should that be a concern?”
“Roldan has openly declared rebellion against the Columbus brothers. Some of the men deserted him, not wanting to become rebels against the Crown, but Bata’s cousin says at least seventy remain loyal to Roldan, and now all are headed here to capture Isabela.”
My head reels. Are Don Diego’s forces strong enough to overcome Roldan’s? Many of them appear sickly and weak, and few profess any love for Diego. Without a word I go to Sebastian’s last remaining trunk. The others were given away or used for barter long ago. I rummage until I find Sebastian’s gilded sword, then pull it out. It feels clumsy in my hands. Two wild slashes in the air convince me it is much too heavy. So I return it to the trunk and rummage again until I find a small sheathed dagger, then place it on the table. “I do not think we have anything to fear. But wisdom demands we be prepared.” I see Maria wringing her hands. “What else? What other news do you have for me?”
“It is Enrique. Bata’s cousin says . . . he says Enrique has joined Roldan.”
Suddenly, I understand that what I see in Maria’s eyes in not fear for herself, but for me. And after reassuring her that all will be well, she leaves, and I go to the table, pick up the dagger, and slip it into my bodice.
Shouts and gunfire wake me from a fitful sleep. Surely, I am dreaming. But the noise continues, making me jump from bed and race to the door of my hut. It is early. Outside, I see nothing but the rising sun. Then suddenly, more shouts and gunfire, all coming from the south, the direction of the church or . . . perhaps Casa de Columbus. Soon I hear these same sounds coming from the north, in the direction of the storehouse. I am trying to determine what all this means when, to my surprise, I see Arias Diaz running towards my hut, sword in hand.
“Dress yourself, Doña Isabel, for we are under attack. It is Roldan and his men; low cast devils, all. They have seized the storehouse and are stealing food and weapons. Some of Don Diego’s forces tried to stop them but are now pinned down. Others barricade themselves behind the walls of Casa de Columbus. Even now Roldan’s thugs surround them. Many lives have been lost. Ours more than theirs. I fear Don Diego’s forces are no match for Roldan.”
“But why must I worry? Certainly I am of no importance to Roldan and his men?” Though I try to sound brave, my voice breaks. If Enrique is with Roldan then I have much to fear.
“You are a Villarreal, and could garner a great ransom. These men are beasts; the lowest of the low, and lack honor.”
And so I understand. It is not surprising, after all, that Arias is here, for the rebels are all lowborn. It is obvious my protector has decided to cast his lot with the nobility, much like he casts his dice. But this time he gambles for his future, a future that either lies with the Crown and aristocracy, and will reap great rewards if he succeeds, or . . . possibly death if he does not.
“Dress quickly,” he says, pushing me inside the hut while he himself remains outside. “You must go to the mountains and hide.”
I hastily gather my clothes and pull them over my chemise. Then I feel under my pillow for the dagger placed there last night. Finding it, I tuck it inside my bodice all the while thinking of Antonio. It has been over a month since Mateo left for Santo Domingo and I have not heard a word. But I am happy Antonio is not here now, for he would be compelled to fight Roldan and his rebels. At least I can take comfort in knowing he is out of harm’s way.
I pray to the Merciful One for strength and courage as I wrap three loaves of cassava bread in cloth and tuck them into a sheepskin pouch. To this, I add papayas and stockfish. Who knows how long I must hide.
But where? Where am I to go?
Arias and I stay close to the huts as we make our way to Poblado Central. There is chaos all around, with men grabbing whatever they can find to steal and carrying it away to some secret place. The air is heavy with the smell of gunpowder and raucous male voices. While pressed against the wall of a hut, I watch Roldan’s men cart away pikes, swords, armor. Others carry flagons of wine which they must have filled from the many barrels in the storehouse. Already men are drunk and lounge by the roadside, while others sit eating stolen food.
Shouts still come from the south, by Columbus’s house, and occasionally, gunfire, but it is clear Isabela is firmly in the hands of the rebels.
As we creep deeper into Poblado Central I smell smoking fireboxes, hear the lowing of cattle, and the chatter of men. We duck into an empty hut where I peek through the shaded window and watch soldiers lead three cows to an empty lot; cows belonging to the Crown and meant for breeding. There they butcher them, then pass the meat among the gathering crowd.
Arias is already sitting on the ground, and when I turn, he indicates for me to do likewise. The hut is empty except for a bedroll leaning against the wall. I unfurl it and spread it across the dirt floor, all the while trying to persuade myself I am safe here in Poblado Central where Enrique will not think to look.
I know not how long we sit, for the church bell no longer chimes. It has been taken to Concepcion de la Vega, near the Cibao gold fields. But I know by the silence outside, and by the position of the sun and by the smell of beef roasting over fireboxes, that several hours have passed.
Finall
y, Arias signals for us to leave, and we rise and go to the door. Laughter and shouting still fill the air but they are far away. We move carefully, staying close to huts and clumps of vegetation as we creep along the most northerly street of Poblado Central, the one edging the lagoon and the refuse dump. We advance one hut at a time, one tree at a time, until we reach Poblado East. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, there appears a roaming band of rebels.
“Halt!” one shouts, running towards us. Clearly, Arias’s drawn sword has alarmed him. The others, at least six more, follow behind, some carrying crossbows, others, firearms or swords. And Arias, seeing himself so outmatched, surrenders without a fight.
We are surrounded now. And after a soldier takes Arias’s sword, he studies him as if deciding what to do. I believe he would have killed him on the spot if a voice had not shouted, “Stop!” I know that voice, and turn to see Enrique Vivar sauntering towards us, a crossbow cocked in one arm.
“These are valuable prisoners,” Enrique says, boldly entering the circle as though in command. “Put this one with the other nobles.” He points to Arias. “And this one, to house arrest.” He does not even point to me but simply juts his chin in my direction.
“You have no authority to arrest me,” I say, my anger rising.
Enrique bellows with laughter. “Do you see any other authority in Isabela? No, Doña Isabel. We are masters here. And we will do what we want, take what we want.”
“And what can you want with me?
“You are a Villarreal.”
At the mention of my name the others appear fearful. One man lowers his weapon, another steps backward, several stare at me with open mouths. But Enrique raises his crossbow and points it at my heart. “You are worth a king’s ransom.” He thumps his chest with his free hand. “And I will be the one to collect it.” Then he leans closer. “Though I do not know why anyone would pay good money for one such as you.”
The Salt Covenants Page 28
