Louisiana History Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  “I am trying to do that,” she said in heavy irony.

  He released her, giving her a taut smile. “Never mind. Come let us put our heads together like a pair of thieves, and decide how you are to deliver yourself to our enemy.”

  She stared at him as comprehension seeped into her face.

  “You're going to let me help you?”

  “Help me? No, no, my love, how could I be so unfair? It's I who am going to help you.”

  She raised her chin, never taking her gaze from his face. “Why?”

  Why, indeed, Refugio asked himself. The decision had been sudden and instinctive, and caused by fear. He was afraid of what might happen to this woman if she were not with him. He had refused her help before because he wanted to keep her safe. Tom now between a desire to strangle her and the need to close her in his arms and banish the lingering fear behind her eyes, he recognized his defeat and dismissed it. Changing his plans and intentions toward Don Esteban at speed, he smiled.

  “Why not?” he said.

  The explanations did not take long. Within minutes Pilar was standing alone before the front door of Don Esteban's house. It opened to her knock, and a manservant, her stepfather's majordomo, appeared in the opening. The man's eyes widened as he saw her, but he invited her to step inside. From a room not too far away came the clink of silver and glassware and the murmur of familiar voices, as if her stepfather was at his noon meal. No doubt he had been returning home for that purpose.

  She was shown into a salon, a room of some size laid with a Moroccan carpet. The chairs grouped here and there were cushioned in green velvet trimmed with gold cord. At the shuttered window were gathered and poured taffeta draperies, and a chandelier of crystal and bronze hung from the ceiling. The embellishments were rather like lace on an everyday gown, however, for the walls were of plain whitewashed plaster and the floors of unpolished cypress.

  The salon was the main room of a house built, in typical French fashion, much like that of Dona Luisa, with all the rooms opening into each other. Access to most of these other rooms appeared to be gained from this central salon, for a number of doors were set into the walls. Though the front door opened directly onto the street, the house appeared to have a gallery across the back that overlooked the garden. This outdoor area was open, without enclosing walls, and connected with the gardens of the houses on either side.

  Pilar moved to the window. The casement was open for air, and she reached to push the shutters open also, in order to look out. Coming toward the house along the outside street, moving at a slow pace, was a cart piled high with the gray, curling moss known as Capuchin's beard, which grew on the trees along the river and was used for stuffing mattresses. The man on the seat, a hunched and pathetic figure, wailed a thin and quavering song: “Fine moss, soft moss/Moss for bride's beds and accouchements/Moss fit for babies and dear old ones/Buy my moss, fine moss!”

  Footsteps were approaching at a hurried pace. Pilar pulled the shutter gently closed and turned to face the room. She moved to stand beside a chair with a tall back on which was carved the lions and castles of Spain. A tremor of dread ran over her. She put her hand on the chair arm, as if the lion's paw that formed it could give her courage.

  Her stepfather appeared in the doorway, coming to a halt. He still held the napkin from his interrupted meal in his hand. He wiped his mouth with the cloth and handed it to the majordomo, who hovered behind him. Waving the man away in dismissal, he walked forward into the room. His face creased in a harsh frown as he spoke.

  “So it is you. I could not believe it. How did you come to be here?”

  “By ship, as you did.”

  “I am amazed.”

  “Yes, you thought me safely in Spain. Or safely dead.”

  “An unjust charge. How can you think such a thing?”

  He was speaking at random, it seemed, as if trying to collect his wits. “I don't just think it, I know. I heard you order me killed.”

  “You must have misunderstood,” he said, the words pompous, his manner overbearing. “You are my dear dead wife's daughter whom I was attempting to place safely with the nuns during my absence. Your kidnapping by the bandit El Leon must have left you confused in your mind. Where is he, by the way? How did you manage to escape him?”

  “My mind is perfectly clear, I assure you,” she said. “As, for El Leon, I have nothing to say of him. I have come to talk to you about my mother's property which you took as your own.”

  “Your lack of trust, your lack of gratitude for my care of you, saddens me, but I am not surprised. It's of a piece with your attempt to seduce my man Carlos. You are a willful, irresponsible female, one doomed by the cravings of the flesh. I would wash my hands of you if it were not for the love I bore your mother. As it is, I will take you back into my household out of charity. If I do this, however, you must submit yourself to my wishes and to the discipline I will impose.”

  The words sent a chill along her spine, even though she knew she need not heed them. Her voice steady, tinged with sarcasm, she replied, “You are everything that is good and compassionate, as always, but I don't require a place in your household. I require what is mine.”

  “Ah.” He turned away, circling a table on his short, stout legs before he faced her again. “Did you travel here alone?”

  “I am not a fool.”

  “Who is with you and where are they?”

  “That is no concern of yours. You will give me what I ask, now, this minute, or else I will go to Governor Miro and tell him that you are unfit for the position you hold. The governor, I understand, is an exacting official, one who likes to go by the book. He will not be pleased to learn of your activities before coming here.”

  “He won't listen to you. In the first place, you are a woman, and in the second, you have been disgraced and discredited by your time spent in the company of a notorious bandit. All I need do, is let it be known.”

  There had been a time not too long ago when his assurance, along with his position and the recognition of his enmity, would have been enough to make her retreat. Now she thought of her mother and her aunt and the way they had died, and refused to be intimidated.

  “You may be right, then again, you may not,” she said. “It should be interesting to see, don't you think? But I don't believe you really want to make accusations. You have a weakness, you see, the presence of El Leon's brother in your house.”

  Don Esteban's smile showed too much teeth. “The young man indentured himself to me because of a debt. He changed his mind afterward, so has to be restrained.”

  “What kind of debt? One whose payment is in blood?”

  Her stepfather's smile faded and purple color filtered into his face. “What do you know of it, of the pain and sorrow inflicted on my family by those whoresons, the Carranzas? They must and shall be exterminated, destroyed root and branch. In no other way can I live in peace.”

  “Exterminated,” she repeated. “But not before you have the, pleasure of inflicting pain and humiliation upon them, as you have done with Vicente.”

  “It's a right I have earned. But you are mightily concerned with the younger Carranza brother.”

  From somewhere to the rear of the house there came a dull thud. She ignored it. “Does it seem so?” she said, holding his gaze. “Perhaps it's because I feel to blame for his plight. I assume he is still with you?”

  “Naturally. He is not so experienced in escape as his brother.”

  Nearer at hand, perhaps in the dining room, there was a strangled call followed by a crash. Pilar stepped forward in haste to catch her stepfather's arm, speaking in louder tones. “Never mind Vicente, I want my dowry! How can I live without it? You have left me nothing, no one of my own, no way to live. You have taken everything. I don't require much, just my rightful share. But I will have that, or else I will hound you to the last day you live!”

  He shook her off, his look baleful before he strode toward the door, calling for his majordomo. “Alfon
zo!” he shouted. “What is this disturbance?”

  As no answer came, he swung back to her. “It's El Leon, isn't it? You've joined forces with him. He's come for his brother. That's it, I know it.”

  She must distract him, delay him, if only for a few seconds more. “What do I care for Vicente?” she said. “Or for El Leon, if it comes to that. But I want my gold. Where is it? Where have you hidden it?”

  Don Esteban's face twisted with contempt. “I'll not give you a peso, not a livre or a piaster. We might have dealt well together, you and I, if you had been quiet and obedient, if you had kept your place. You chose instead to defy me. You cast your lot with a bandit and his band of cutthroats and whores. You went with them of your own will. Well, then, stay with them. That's where you belong!”

  A smile curled her lips. “Oh, yes, I went with El Leon. More than that, I sent for him. Now I have no other place, no other choice; you have seen to that. But where do you belong? What place is there on this whole wide earth for a killer of women?”

  Don Esteban cursed her, a virulent sound that was nearly drowned by the sudden clash of arms in the next room. The look in his eyes was savage as he whirled away from her.

  He did not reach the door. He was met by the sharp tip of a sword as Refugio rounded the frame of the opening in a smooth glide with his weapon in his hand.

  “What a pity to interrupt this charming meeting,” the bandit leader said, his gray eyes chill, “but I have an interest in any question of gold.”

  The blood drained from Don Esteban's face as he stared down at the sword point nudging under his chin. He held himself as stiffly erect as his paunchy body would permit. “How did you—”

  “Easily. Annoying, isn't it, to be taken by surprise.”

  “I'll have somebody's ears for it!”

  “Not,” Refugio said succinctly, “if I cut your throat first.”

  Don Esteban swallowed visibly. “It isn't your way to kill an unarmed man, or I've heard that's your boast.”

  “You should never depend on gossip.” The sword tip did not waver.

  “If — If it's Vicente you want, take him and get out!”

  “I have your permission? How gracious, but I have him already. My men are even now striking his chains and tying up your stalwart hirelings. What I want is the woman behind you, and your gold.”

  “I knew the bitch was with you, I knew it!”

  The sword point sank: into the fleshy neck of the don until a bright red drop welled. “What was the title you gave her? I don't believe I heard correctly.”

  “The — lady,” the don said with a hoarse gasp.

  “And the gold?” Refugio prodded him gently.

  “I — If you want it, you'll have to let me show you where I have it hidden.”

  Refugio withdrew the sword point a short distance. “I have been waiting with hopeful patience for nothing else. But I'd advise you to move carefully. It would be a pity if there were an accident.”

  Sweat had appeared on Don Esteban's face, gathering at his hairline and caking in the powder that had sifted from his wig onto his skin. He wiped at it as he turned, leaving a white smear across his forehead. He stumbled in the direction of a side door leading out of the room with Refugio stepping softly beside him. Pilar followed close behind them.

  They moved into a bedchamber at the rear of the house, the don's own if the size and richness of the furnishings were any indication. The older man pointed toward a massive armoire of French design. Refugio, indicated with a brief jerk of his head that he was to open it. Don Esteban took a key from his waistcoat pocket and put it in the lock. Drawing the tall doors, he bent to delve inside. With a grunt of effort he lifted out a small brass-bound chest with a dangling lock. He staggered as he turned, then flicked a malevolent glance at Pilar.

  “Look out!” she cried.

  Don Esteban cursed and heaved the chest at Pilar.

  Refugio reached to drag her aside, but she was already leaping back out of the way. The chest crashed to the floor at her feet, overturning with a dull rattle. She stumbled, off balance from Refugio's grasp.

  In that instant Don Esteban thrust his hand into the armoire and snatched out a sword. The steel of the blade rang as he whipped it from its scabbard.

  Refugio sprang in front of Pilar, engaging the sword of the other man with a clang that vibrated through them both and brought echoes from the corners of the room. Their weapons slashed and rang in a flurry of blows as Don Esteban sought to profit from his moment of surprise. There was no advantage to be gained. Refugio's guard was impenetrable. Don Esteban wrenched himself back out of reach. The two men circled, stepping warily.

  Refugio studied his opponent's eyes, his own narrowed and intent. Don Esteban's lips were drawn back in a grimace of effort and malice. Pilar, judging her moment, bent down and dragged the gold chest out of the way. Standing well back, her hands clenched into fists before her, she watched with sick hatred for swordplay in her heart.

  Don Esteban was no untried young man such as Philip Guevara. He had experience on his side and a thousand tricks learned from the Italian masters who had their salas de armas in Madrid. In addition, he was cunning and unscrupulous. The languid pace and rich food of the Bourbon court had taken its toll, however, making him corpulent and short of wind.

  Refugio had the advantage of reach because of his height, and also of the kind of strength gained by hard physical exertion. There was no doubt that his skill was equal to the other man's, if not superior. Regardless, it had been no great length of time since he was dangerously ill from his chest injury. Despite his heroics during the tournament in Havana, Pilar was afraid that a prolonged contest would tax his stamina. Protests, warnings, rose up inside her, but she stifled them. He did not need that kind of tax upon his concentration. All she could do was pray for a swift conclusion.

  The two men feinted and parried, testing each other's striking ability, will, and resistance. Their feet scuffled back and forth on the rough boards of the floor. Their breathing g grew deep. The muscles of their arms stood out in ridges under their coat sleeves while their wrists remained as pliant and supple as striking snakes.

  Don Esteban tried a wily stratagem. Refugio parried it in seconde, laughing.

  “That one has a beard on it,” he said. “Try another, and while you're constructing it, tell me this: What made you move against my brother? He had been in Seville for months. Why turn on him after all that time?”

  “He's a Carranza, which is reason enough. Besides, I had been watching him, saving him for the time when I might need a hostage.”

  “Holding my brother was supposed to prevent me from championing Pilar's cause?”

  “I may have erred.” The don's voice was breathless. “Besides, I suspected I had been duped by Pilar; she went with you so willingly, you see. Vicente was the most likely go-between, according to Pilar's duenna, my sister. For that he had to pay.”

  “You did err,” Refugio said, and mounted an attack that drove the other man, panting, desperately parrying, from one end of the room to the other.

  The bedchamber was long and narrow, with French doors opening out onto the back gallery. Don Esteban, with his back to the doors, wrenched up short with a defense that made Refugio skip back three quick steps. The two faced each other with sweat beading their faces. Refugio's breathing was fast, while Don Esteban's had a wheezing sound.

  In the lull, there came the sound of quick footsteps from the direction of the salon. Vicente came bursting into the room. He was thin and dressed in rags. On the left cheek of his distraught face was the red scar of a brand, a letter G, for guerra, one usually reserved for captives during war.

  “Refugio!” he cried. “Stop them! They have beaten Alfonzo insensible, and now they are tearing the house apart!”

  The distraction was brief, but Don Esteban abandoned honor to seize upon it. The handle of the French door was behind them. He shoved it down and whirled through the opening. Refugio caught the do
or before the other man could slam it shut. They pushed back and forth, then Refugio gave a shove that sent the don stumbling back.

  As Refugio snatched at the door, Vicente caught his shoulder. “Let him go! He's an old man, and the killing can't go on forever!”

  Refugio stared at his brother with blank surprise on his features, then he jerked his arm free. “I am not the killer, but it will end when Don Esteban is dead.”

  “Or when you are,” his young brother answered.

  “Don't be so retiring, my sibling. There will still be you to carry the name.”

  “Not if I'm a priest,” Vicente said, but the words were spoken to empty air. Refugio leaped through the doorway with the ease of escaping smoke. The thud of his footsteps sounded, then he was gone.

  Pilar touched the younger Carranza brother's arm. “Tell the others to stop. The gold they are after is in there, on the floor. You can take charge of it.”

  “I? But whose is it? What do they want with it?”

  “Never mind,” she said, already moving out the door. “Just keep it close to you, no matter what happens.”

  It was fear that drove her, that made her follow the two fighting men. Though the pitiless, ringing blows of the swords and the thought of the razor-sharp points sinking into flesh made her cringe inside, she had to be there. She could not bear not to be there.

  She sprinted across the garden behind the house, which was planted with flowers and neat rows of vegetables. She searched the open area with her eyes, seeking among the ranks of houses and shops for some sign of men running or fighting. There was nothing.

  Then came the scream. It reverberated from the house just down from where Pilar stood, on her right. She swung in that direction, stumbling a little as she began to run.

  The back entrance door stood open, swaying on its hinges. She pushed inside and became aware of the chiming of blades even as she crossed a bedchamber and stepped into a salon much like that in Don Esteban's house. A woman stood in the middle of the floor with her hands clamped to her pale face. Pilar recognized in her plump and well-dressed figure the wife of the colony official whom she had seen earlier in her walk down Chartres. The woman's eyes were wide and glazed with her fear. She was staring at the entrance to the tiny private chapel that was attached to the house.