by Shirl Henke
“And in gratitude you rewarded him with your body,” Benjamin replied.
“Have done, I beg you. Tis finished, Benjamin,” she pleaded.
His shoulders slumped in defeat. “You are right. There is no need to rake up buried coals and burn ourselves anew.” He took her arm and ushered her across the courtyard, beneath the portico to the doors to Isaac's chamber.
“Well?” Judah said as they stepped through the door. “Have you settled matters between you?”
Isaac regarded Benjamin and Miriam with troubled eyes, but held his peace.
“Yes. I am for Italy to find my brother and tell him of his impending fatherhood. He will wed Miriam,” Benjamin said.
Judah leaped up with surprising strength for a man of his years. “I forbid it!”
“I will not marry him, Benjamin,” Miriam said firmly.
“Then you will marry me,” he countered.
“You know I will not,” she said, feeling all three men's eyes burning on her. “I will move to Bordeaux and say I am recently widowed. No one need know the truth.”
Isaac finally broke his silence. “That is a noble plan, Miriam, but most impractical, which Benjamin has doubtlessly already told you. Why will you not wed Benjamin if he is willing?”
“Because she loves my brother,” Benjamin said quietly. “I will bring him back—”
Judah seized Miriam's arm roughly. “If the two of you will not see sense, I will speak with Richard. My daughter will never wed a Christian!”
“Judah, if Benjamin brings Rigo back, tis his child...” Isaac let the words hang for a moment, then added, “He is Aaron's son. He is of our blood in spite of his upbringing. He could convert—”
“He is a half-caste savage without honor. He will never again put his filthy hands on my daughter.” Judah stormed toward the door.
“So his Taino blood is as repugnant to you as is his Christian religion,” Benjamin said cynically. “And what of you, Miriam? You will have to choose.”
She turned to face him then. “You have heard my father, Benjamin. The decision was never in doubt. I cannot wed Rigo.”
“You will have to tell him that yourself,” Benjamin replied grimly, “for I will send him back to face you.”
* * * *
The Plains of Lombardy, December 1524
The villa was sprawling and comfortable, even defensible, as it was situated on a small hill with a lovely meandering river at its base. Fernando Francisco de Avalos, Marques de Pescara, gazed broodingly on the peaceful encampment of his men from a window in the great hall's dining chamber.
“Come, Fernando, the food will grow cold ere you sit and eat,” Bertrice coaxed.
He waved her away dismissively and addressed his young captain. “Soon we will fight again. Francois will not leave Pavia in De Leyva's hands. Bourbon panders to German Lutherans, bribing where he cannot beg. He writes that he brings twelve thousand landsknechts. ”
“The Germans are stout fighters. I care not their religion,” Rigo added dryly. “Tis a fearful cold season to fight a war.”
Pescara scoffed. “Tis a foolish young king, full of himself, who has led his Frenchmen across the Alps to engage us. If only Bourbon is timely, we will defeat him.”
“I hear they are eating their mules, even rats and garbage inside the town,” Rigo said, eyeing the elaborate repast spread on the linen-draped table before him.
Lianne shuddered and made a moue of disgust. Wrap-ing her plump white arms about Rigo's neck, she nipped at his ear and whispered, “Forget the war. Take a brief respite to celebrate now. Only dine here and then dine once more above...” The young redhead whispered something inventively lewd in his ear as her Aunt Bertrice looked on with an amused smile playing about her lips.
“She is right, Fernando. Soon you must leave and endure the rigors of the battlefield. Now let us feast while we may,” the older woman said, as the small, dark general followed her to the table.
Both men had been at war for many years, in the seemingly never ending duel between Carlos of Spain and Francois of France. They knew to take advantage of rare moments when rich food, soft beds and even softer women were proffered.
“As always, my pet, you prove wise,” Pescara said, sitting at the table as Lianne began to feed bits of roasted fowl to Rigo. They drank rich red wine, ate heartily and spoke of strategies to employ against their enemies.
“A pity you were able to glean so little about the French monarch's mind while in Marseilles,” Fernando said at one point, probing for Rigo's reaction. Ever since he had miraculously rejoined the army, Pescara's young captain had been most reticent about his family, saying only that his brother was returning to the Indies to rejoin their father. Rigo said nothing to indicate his feelings about their being Jews. Knowing the half-caste's deeply ingrained bitterness over his Indian blood and bastardry, Pescara had not pressed him about this additional taint. But there was more—something else had surely happened while he lay gravely wounded in the French city.
“I saw nothing that I have not already told you. The French navy has the port well fortified and supplied. Tis a sinfully rich city and loyal to none but itself. The Marseillaise did not fight for Francois but to keep the plundering Imperials out.”
Pescara shrugged and took another swallow of wine. Of Provencal self-serving he knew more than enough. “You are full well recovered to withstand this winter campaign? Your brother must be an excellent physician. I thought we would not meet again this side of hell.”
Rigo raised his goblet in a salute. “At least twill be warm when we join swords there.”
“You were ever certain of your damnation, were you not, my friend?”
Rigo's expression was shuttered. “Never more so than now. And what of you, you wily rascal?”
Just as Pescara made to reply, the sound of voices arguing erupted in the outer chamber. “Some damnable fight between the Germans and the Spanish,” he muttered as he bid the guard who had knocked to enter.
“A man to see you, General. He has a pass of conduct signed by you—at least I recognized your name on it,” the young soldier said. Pescara's flourished signature was easy to remember even though few of his men could read.
“Send this man in,” he replied, looking over to Rigo, who reclined on a couch with Lianne sitting at his side, popping dried apricots into his mouth.
When Benjamin entered the warm, richly furnished room, his eyes immediately bypassed the dark, wiry little Neapolitan and fastened on his brother. “So this is how you wage war,” he said contemptuously. Something inside him snapped and he unsheathed his sword with a flourish. Raising it over the remains of the feast, he cleaved a swan in two, then skewered one half of it and tossed it toward Rigo and Lianne. “Allow me to carve for you, lady. My brother possesses too great an appetite for mere bits of fruit.”
The greasy meat soiled Lianne's gown and she shoved it onto the floor with an amazed squeak. Holding tightly to Rigo, she cowered, gazing in openmouthed amazement between the two identical faces with their cold blue eyes.
“I know now why you chose to return to Italy rather than cross the uncertain Atlantic,” he added, sheathing his sword with a loud clang.
Rigo did not move. “You have wasted a journey, Benjamin. Tis ended for me with the Torres family. For good.”
Benjamin felt Lianne's eyes on him, even though her arms clutched Rigo tightly. He spared the pretty young redhead but a glance. “I must speak with you alone, Rigo.”
Rigo removed Lianne's clinging arms from his body and stood up.
“Who are you?” she breathed, entranced by the golden version of her dark lover.
“Allow me to introduce the captain's younger brother, Benjamin Torres, from the Indies,” Pescara said to Lianne. So the mystery of Rigo's sojourn in Marseilles had returned to haunt him. Fernando relaxed once the young physician had replaced his sword in its sheath. He took Bertrice's hand and said, “Come, sweetings, and let us leave the brothers their privacy
.” As he ushered the women toward the door he looked from Rigo to Benjamin and said with an arched brow, “I know you share common ancestors—but please, let them not be Cain and Abel.”
Lianne, still agape with curiosity, quit the room with measured slowness. When the door finally closed, Benjamin turned to Rigo and asked bitterly, “The spoils of war?”
“She and her aunt are left alone and unprotected while the men of their family are engaged in the south. We take what is offered us,” Rigo replied. Why are you here Benjamin?
“You take what is offered. That, I suppose, is true enough. She said you did not force her. If I believed for one minute you had, I would kill you with my bare hands.”
Rigo blanched beneath his swarthy complexion. “She?” he asked warily, swearing silently.
“You would do best not to play with me, Rigo. I have crossed the Alps in freezing winter, slept on frozen earth and eaten naught but rancid mutton and moldy cheese for over a fortnight in my search to bring you back to Miriam.”
Rigo let out a whistling breath, feeling an odd sense of disappointment. “I had believed her stronger than most of her sex. She gave me her word not to hurt you by speaking of what passed between us.”
“She kept her word, until your deeds betrayed her. Miriam carries your child, Rigo.” He watched his brother's reaction, or lack of reaction. 'Tis fair amazing. You school your expression just as our sire can his—to reveal nothing at all. What is it, I wonder, that lies within your heart...or do you have one, Rigo?”
“Perhaps tis an inherited defect of the Torres blood not to have one. I know not. Why by all that is holy does she send for me? She bade me go and made it quite clear how she felt about me as a suitor.” I have defiled myself... I will not humiliate my father with my guilt. He flinched, remembering her cold, final words after their passion that warm afternoon. “She should wed you, a man her father approves. I doubt not what he thinks of me,” he added bitterly.
“Tis what Judah thinks of Miriam that is at issue. She would wed no man but go alone to a foreign city and raise her child, pretending to be a widow. Of course her father cannot allow such a dangerous course. She will not have me and I would not see him force her to take that scoundrel DuBay.”
“You were willing to wed her?”
“Yes. But she feared I would come to hate her and your child. Tis you who seduced her and you who have the duty to care for her.”
“Yet the lady does not share your belief. She would have none of me. We would make each other miserable, Benjamin,” he said as he turned to pick up a goblet of wine from the table.
Benjamin yanked Rigo around, spilling wine down his tunic. “You obviously made each other very miserable by producing a child,” he snapped angrily.
Rigo let out a long whistling breath and sank onto one of the Dante chairs, bidding Benjamin to join him across the cluttered table. “God and His Blessed Virgin Mother, I did not set out to seduce her, Benjamin.” He closed his eyes as the extent of this nightmare loomed before him. “We were thrown together and something happened—quite unplanned by either of us.”
“The first time in the summer kitchen when I did not answer her summons, that I might understand, but the second time in the country? Was that not planned either?” Benjamin waited, his throat tight with galling pain.
“I cannot excuse what I did. Least of anyone would I hurt you. Tis poor repayment I give you for saving my life.”
“Forget what I feel! Consider Miriam's plight. You must return to her, Rigo.”
“I can offer her nothing. Look around you.” He gestured to the room. “These are the spoils of war—but tis only illusory. A lavish moment interspersed between weeks of sleeping on rocky earth and rising with the deafening roar of cannon. I live by my sword, Benjamin. I own nothing beyond my armor and my horse. How in God's name can I wed a lady raised in pampered luxury? She must choose another.”
Benjamin's face hardened. “So, you would do as you accuse our sire of doing—plant your seed, then desert your woman and your child.”
At the invidious comparison, Rigo jumped up and began to pace. “That is not fair and well you know it. I cannot provide for them!” he ground out.
“Our father did not desert you. He will welcome you to Española and give you a rich inheritance. You have but to swallow that mountainous Spanish pride and let loose of your hatred to learn the truth of my words.”
Frank incredulity was etched on Rigo's face...and something more. Hope? Dare he hope Benjamin was right about Aaron Torres? For a certainty he knew his brother was wrong about Miriam's feelings. “If Miriam would not live in Española with you, why ever would she agree to do so with me?”
“Why would she forget morality, reason, her heritage—everything that gave meaning to her life? She did so for you. She fell under your spell, Rigo. I sensed it from the first days you spent together. Even when you were near death there was something...” Benjamin searched for words, unable to explain what he knew in his heart to be true. I do love you, Benjamin—but as a friend...not a husband. Her words taunted him. “She loves you, Rigo, as surely as does our father.”
Rigo smiled bitterly. “Twould seem I have little choice left but to put your words to the test. I will wed the lady and take her with me to confront Aaron Torres.”
“Our family will welcome you. But Rigo, you must have a special care for your wife. Miriam will be disowned by Judah Toulon. She cannot wed you under Jewish law.”
“Yet you believe in spite of this she will accept me as husband in a Christian marriage?” Things were happening too swiftly for Rigo to comprehend. His mind spun with dizzying speed.
“Return to Uncle Isaac and let him mediate. He had long years of practice serving under old King Fernando before the Jews were expelled from Spain. He will bring Miriam to you.”
Rigo watched Benjamin's hands. One was gripping the edge of the table tightly and the other was clenched in the thick miniver fur lining his magister's robes. “And what of you, Benjamin?” he asked softly, feeling his brother's pain.
“I will remain here. Twould seem there is to be a great battle soon between your Imperialists and the French. If history will be made at that small city of Pavia, blood will be shed in the doing of it. I care not if it be French, Spanish or German. I am a physician. I will treat the wounded.”
Rigo walked around the table and placed his hand on the chair, afraid to touch his brother and be spurned as he knew he deserved. “So, we trade places. I am for the Indies and you remain in Italy. Be safe, Benjamin, and one day...one day return to Española. ”
The next morning Benjamin watched Rigo ride off with a small escort of men from Pescara. Snow was falling, sprinkling his ebony hair with silvery flecks. Dressed in lightweight leather armor, armed with sword and lance, he looked every inch the deadly mercenary. The final farewell between the brothers had been as chilled as the weather. At last, Papa, you will have your firstborn returned to you. I only pray he deals with you more fairly than he did with me.
“So, I lose a captain and gain a surgeon. Will it be an even trade, Magister?” Pescara asked after a final salute to Rigo.
“I am accounted a good physician,” Benjamin said levelly, his thoughts elsewhere.
“Considering how you mended Rigo's torn body, I can believe that, but the question yet hangs in this blustering air. Do you repent that rash act now that the man you saved rides off to claim the woman you love?”
Benjamin's head turned and he looked into the smaller man's shrewd dark eyes. “How come you to know that I love Miriam?” He paused, then looked down at the frozen earth. “Do I wear my heart on my sleeve for all to mock me?”
“I do not mock, only observe and understand. For every man there is a woman. Perhaps this Miriam was not the one destined for you.” He clasped Benjamin around the shoulders and they turned toward the villa. “Come, and we will soon see what the fates have in store for you, Physician.”
Chapter Ten
“Tis f
earful cold. That is the truth!” Django Janos stomped his booted feet to warm them. The well-worn leather dully reflected the flickering leap of flames from Agata's campfire. He had stopped at the edge of their encampment, drawn by the old phuri dai's cooking. After a day of hard riding, he was starved. The smell of roasting hedgehog made his mouth water.
“I will not break the clay from the meat for another hour,” the squat old hag said, as if reading his thoughts. “Send your sister to me. I must speak with her.”
Django spat on the ground in disgust but held his peace. She was the phuri dai, the wise woman, and as such only old Sandor could overrule her commands, and that only because he had been elected voivode, or chief, by the tribal elders. Her glittering black eyes locked with his for a moment. Then he quickly looked away from the fathomless depths that seemed to drain his strength. “I will send Rani,” he said, quickly swinging back onto his horse.
The old crone's cackling laughter lent speed to his departure. He rode toward the center of the randomly scattered tents and wagons, all closed against the demon's sneezing, as Gypsies called the winter wind. Everywhere campfires leaped gaily as women bundled in layers of woolen clothing stirred heavy iron kettles, cooking the night's meal. The air reeked with wild garlic and rosemary.
Django dismounted near one fire. A small figure huddled before the blaze. Rani looked up at her eldest brother, a towering giant of a man. His approach was greeted by the sound of an animal growling. “Quiet that beast lest I kill it,” he said curtly. Vero again snarled softly from his lair beneath their enclosed wooden wagon.
“That is far more easily said than done, brother dear,” she answered saucily, standing to stare undaunted at his harsh, coarse face. She was a full foot shorter than him. “You seem sour enough. Have you eaten frog's eggs? Or did the fair yield little without me there to filch change from gadje?”
When he raised his hand to strike her, Vero snarled again. “Hush, foolish pet,” she commanded.
