‘The floating temples come and go from the Vera Cruz harbour like bees to a hive now,’ her father remarked.
The comment stung like an arrow, but Tula swallowed her pain. ‘More settlers arrive?’
‘Settlers, seekers of gold, religious men, plunderers. Already the Overseer of the settlement asks the Totonac Council for more food. Soon, he will cease to ask and will simply take.’
‘The Spaniards will become Takers?’
‘My heart fears it.’
‘What is to be done?’ Tula asked. The tamale woman had stopped several houses away. She was accepting payment from a young man without looking him in the eye.
‘You spoke with wisdom when you spoke of the land of the Maya,’ said Tula’s father.
‘You would have us move south?’
‘It is the only safe place.’
‘But Anan’s family is here. His mother and father. All his brothers.’
‘Anan would follow Xanca to the ends of the earth.’
Her father spoke truth. He had always spoken truth and had always taken care to express exactly what was in his heart. Tula wished she could say the same about the man she loved. ‘It will be a difficult journey, Father. The jungle is dense. The path is long. We will not have the benefit of a horse.’ Tula closed her eyes, letting the sadness pass over her like a wave. Or the benefit of Benicio.
Tula willed herself not to cry. There was no time for tears. If only we had our own floating temple, Tula thought. Then she realised—they did.
It was there in her small cove, resting beneath the waves, just waiting to be reborn. ‘Father, I have an idea.’
Suddenly, the tamale woman collapsed in a fit of coughs. Her tray of tamales tumbled to the ground and her scarf fell backwards. Tula and her father ran towards her, then stopped as she lifted her head. Dozens of tiny dots marked her face.
Tula remembered Benicio’s warning. ‘Father, we must not go near her, or we shall become sick.’
‘It is the smallpox, is it not?’ her father asked. He did not wait for her to respond. ‘Tula, tell your sisters to gather their things! We leave at daybreak.’
Chapter Forty
Benicio sat in the Overseer’s office, his quill hovering over the page. It had taken him the entire day to gather the implements of communication and now he was at a loss for words. He ran his hand over the rough brown surface of the agave-bark paper, hoping it would accept the Spanish ink. The last ream of real paper available in Vera Cruz had been spoken for by the Spanish priests, who seemed to be arriving in droves now. They needed every leaf of it, apparently, for their hymn books.
Unwilling to give up on his endeavour, Benicio had found a Totonac paper-maker who agreed to give Benicio two clean agave-bark pages in exchange for the complete weeding of his tomatoes—a task that had taken Benicio half the afternoon. Thankfully, he had procured the ink more easily: The Overseer carried a great supply of it hidden behind his desk. In return, he requested only that he be spoken of favourably to Captain Cortés, should Benicio ever encounter the great man again.
Never, thought Benicio, with some satisfaction, though he was most grateful for the ink. He grasped Luisa’s third letter and read it one last time.
Dear Benicio,
I do not know if you receive these letters. Some say that you are dead. Others say that you march with Cortés and that your mission shall result in great riches for Spain. If that is the case, Godspeed you.
Carlos and I have wed. His work in the Casa de Contratación has been more than fruitful. There is so much wealth coming out of the West Indies now—so much gold and treasure—and he collects a small bit of all of it in the form of tax. He has also granted my fondest wish. After all these years, I am to be made a marquesa.
I have given birth to two sons. They came in quick succession, as gifts of God often do. The second reminds me of you, for he spends his days paging through books and his nights pondering the stars. He is beautifully made and has a gentle soul, and I fear he is too good for this cruel world.
Wherever you are, I hope that you have found your peace.
Sincerely,
Luisa
November 8th 1519
Benicio placed the letter on the table and tugged at his beard. The setting sun was sending rosy beams of light through the small window of the room, lighting tiny pieces of dust that swayed in rhythm with Benicio’s breaths. They were so beautiful lit up in that way—those tiny particles of dust. Like flickering stars in some distant part of the sky. Outside, Big Deer gave an encouraging whinny. Benicio put quill to paper and began.
Dear Luisa,
When you left me that day in the Plaza del Triunfo you held my heart in your hands. For years I toiled, trying to deserve you, to please you, to find the treasure you craved. I became a greedy, wretched man. A killer.
You are right that the world is cruel. You have no idea how cruel, Luisa. For a long time I believed that you were the only good thing in it. But I have discovered that there is other goodness. It lingers between tree roots, down deep wells and wrapped up in blankets, invisible from sight. It is humble. It does not wish to be served. It only wishes to love and be loved. It is not vain, it does not crave glory or riches, it wishes to remain...small.
I have found my goodness, Luisa. I am glad that you have found yours. I shall not be returning to Spain, but I will keep my mother and father, you and Carlos and your two boys always inside my heart.
Sincerely,
Benicio
January 1st 1520
It was already dark when Benicio presented the letter to the Overseer—too late to return to the hammock that awaited him in the garden behind Tula’s house. He guided Big Deer up the small path that led to his old hut. This would be the last night he would spend in the small dwelling. Soon news would arrive in Vera Cruz of his and Rogelio’s desertion, along with the bounty upon their heads.
Benicio wondered if Tula would consider moving to another Totonac town, though he knew he had no right to ask her to make such a sacrifice. Still, it would be difficult to conceal himself for long. He tended to stand out in a crowd.
* * *
The next morning, Benicio galloped to Cempoala, anxious to see the face of his beloved. He guided Big Deer across the plaza to discover a Totonac man bent over in sickness, his face colonised by the terrible pox.
Benicio rushed to Tula’s stone house to find its inhabitants gone. He stared around at the barren rooms, just yesterday bustling with life. They were safe, thank God. They had escaped.
Benicio mounted Big Deer and gave her a kick. There were only two directions in which they would have headed and Benicio made an educated guess as to which.
He road as fast as he could through the jungle, passing the cenote into which he had fallen that day with Tula, the maize field where he had bested her, and in and among the great kapok trees, keeping his eye out for a certain woman whose face was lovelier than moonlight upon the sea.
Surely Anan and Rogelio had gone with them, and Benicio smiled as he imagined Rogelio’s shocking red hair and lumbering frame, marching through the jungle in nothing but his Spanish boots and hose.
Benicio imagined that he, too, appeared rather strange, having traded his golden mask for the Totonac loincloth and cape he now donned, and the two quetzal feathers that he had fastened to his floppy Spanish hat.
He had also secured a full set of arrows for Tula, along with a new atlatl and several weeks’ supply of maize, which he carried along with his own weapons inside the reed basket he had fixed to Big Deer’s new leather saddle. He had shaved his beard again that evening, as well, and though his face had already begun to itch with the new growth he did not scratch it, for his fingers were otherwise occupied with the ring he turned over and over in his hand. He had stolen it from her very mouth onl
y weeks ago. Now he wished to give it back.
* * *
When he finally spotted the group of travellers, they were stopped at the edge of the jungle, overlooking the beach. Benicio instantly spied Tula’s compact figure amidst the foliage. She was on her toes, pointing towards the waters of the cove.
Towards her ghost ship, thought Benicio.
Xanca, Anan and Tula’s father looked on, nodding interestedly. Meanwhile, Pulhko and Rogelio stole a kiss beneath a magnolia tree, florid with new blooms.
There were the people he wished to defend; the people whose love he was determined to earn. And there she was among them—the woman without whom he was nothing.
When she finally spotted him, she let out a gasp, as if it were some great surprise for her to see him emerge from the forest. Had she believed he would not come? Had she any idea of the total and complete grip she had, would always have, upon his heart?
It was all he could do to dismount Big Deer in time for her to leap into his arms. ‘I think you return to Spain,’ she breathed between sobs. ‘I think I not see you again.’
‘Now why did you think that?’ Benicio asked, spinning her around and around until they were both dizzy. He set Tula on the ground.
‘You wear Totonac clothes!’ Tula exclaimed, tears of joy leaking on to her cheeks.
‘I am a Totonac now,’ Benicio said with an exaggerated bow, ‘if you will allow it.’
Tula glanced at Benicio’s bare chest, then reached out and touched Benicio’s freshly shaved cheeks. ‘You are so...’
‘Handsome?’ Benicio offered.
‘Naked,’ said Tula, though the glint in her eyes showed him that she approved. Her father bowed to Benicio and everyone gathered round.
‘Of course we will allow it,’ Tula’s father said.
‘It took you long enough to find us,’ said Rogelio, clapping Benicio on the back. ‘Did you write a letter or a novel?’
‘It took me all of the day just to find a single page to write upon,’ Benicio explained.
‘How you know we are here?’ asked Pulhko.
‘The ship, of course,’ Benicio said.
‘What ship?’ asked Xanca.
‘The ship that is just there,’ said Benicio, pointing to the cove.
‘I try to tell them, but they do not understand,’ said Tula.
‘I have seen it for myself,’ said Benicio to the group. ‘It’s planks can be dried and fashioned together again. They will make a sturdy boat.’
‘It is well!’ said Rogelio. ‘We can float our way to the land of the Maya.’
‘We shall escape the smallpox,’ said Pulhko. ‘We shall survive.’
‘I think you go to Spain,’ Tula repeated, shaking her head in happy disbelief. ‘I think you take the golden mask. Your treasure.’
‘No, no, no,’ Benicio, said, wiping her cheeks. He gripped the ring between his fingers. ‘Do you not see, Tula? You are my treasure.’ Benicio glanced at Rogelio, who nodded encouragingly. ‘Tula, quit pax hui’xin,’ Benicio pronounced, in broken Totonac. Tula, I love you.
And with that Benicio dropped to his knee in the verdant jungle, swept off his feathered hat and asked Tula of Cempoala, the most wonderful woman in all the world, if she would do him the honour of becoming his wife.
* * * * *
If you enjoyed this story, you won’t want to miss this other great read from Greta Gilbert
ENSLAVED BY THE DESERT TRADER.
And for something short and sexy make sure you pick up Greta Gilbert’s UNDONE! eBook
MASTERED BY HER SLAVE.
Keep reading for an excerpt from CAPTIVE OF THE VIKING by Juliet Landon.
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Captive of the Viking
by Juliet Landon
Chapter One
The year 993—Jorvik, now known as York
Even at that early hour of the day, a dense pall of smoke lay over the thatched rooftops of Jorvik like a grey blanket filtering upwards into the haze of dawn. The furnace was already roaring from the blacksmith’s workshop, from the glassmakers and potters, the bakers and the moneyer, whose task was no less exacting than the swordsmith’s. The Lady Fearn and her young maid, Haesel, kept to the path on the outer edge of the city and soon came to the river from where, for safety, the merchants’ ships had been moored upriver well away from the main wharves and the warehouses. They rocked gently on the brown water as the ferryman pulled his boat into the bank just as the two women reached it.
‘Morning, lady,’ he called. ‘You not taking the bridge, then?’
The bridge over the River Ouse was close by the wharves, now deserted in readiness for a fleet of Viking longships that had been reported entering the Humber Estuary two days ago. The merchant ships would be an obvious target. Fearn chose not to answer him. ‘Can you take us across, Gaut?’ she said. ‘We’re bound for Clementhorpe.’
Last evening, she and Haesel had put the last few stitches into a pile of linen smocks for the invalids at the little nunnery where frail and elderly townsfolk were nursed through their illnesses by twelve devoted Benedictine nuns. As the foster daughter of Earl Thored of Northumbria, Fearn did not intend an imminent Viking raid to prevent her acts of charity.
* * *
The nunnery at Clementhorpe was little more than a cluster of thatched huts, animal sheds, a larger infirmary and a church with a shingled roof situated on the very edge of Jorvik. The dense woodland sheltered pigs beyond the plots where two cows and their calves grazed, where an orchard, herb garden and neat rows of vegetables were tended by soft-spoken women in serviceable long kirtles of undyed wool. Their noble birth counted for very little here, all of them being known as ‘sister’ except Mother Bridget, the founder of the nunnery.
‘Welcome, my dears,’ she said, taking the bundles from them. ‘This is so kind of you. I hope, my lady, the Earl doesn’t mind your coming here so often.’ Her voice held an Irish lilt that set all her words to music.
Fearn smiled at her concern. Earl Thored had been baptised as a Christian, but found it difficult to shake off the advantages offered by his former paganism, believing that to call on the services of several well-tried-and-tested gods was of great help in times of emergency. The priest had done what he could to explain the meaning of sin, but so far without an unqualified success. ‘He doesn’t mi
nd at all, Mother,’ Fearn said, following the nun into the warm interior of one of the larger houses. A fire glowed in a central hearth and two nuns stood over by one wall, working at a large upright loom taut with white woollen threads, their hands working in unison, lifting, beating, passing the shuttle. ‘He has other things on his mind,’ she added. ‘Messengers are reporting to him day and night since the Danes were sighted.’
‘He’s sure they’re Danes, then? Not Norse?’ She indicated cushioned stools and went to a bench from where she poured buttermilk into three earthenware beakers. Handing one to Fearn, she could not help but look directly at Fearn’s beautiful features: the thick black curls escaping from the white veil and gold circlet, at the black eyelashes and brows that framed her most unusual feature, her eyes, one of which was a deep mossy green, the other as blue as a bluebell. She would have been uncommonly lovely even without this strangeness, but with it, her beauty was like a magnet that held the gaze of anyone who looked on her.
Mother Bridget had hoped she would come this morning, having spent the night in prayer for her safety. One look at the woman would put her in mortal danger, for the Vikings, Danes and Norse, were renowned for their unbridled ferocity towards women. Fearn and Haesel would stand no chance against them.
‘Sure to be Danish,’ Fearn said after a sip of the cool liquid. ‘Swein Forkbeard’s men. Coming for another pay-off. He’ll not damage Jorvik again when more than half the city is made up of his own people, will he? I doubt they’ll be doing much raiding this time, Mother.’
The Reverend Mother put her beaker to one side, only her years of discipline preventing her from showing her fear. She had, after all, lived close to fear for most of her life. ‘Fearn,’ she said, as emphatically as her musical voice would allow. ‘Listen to me.’
The Spaniard's Innocent Maiden Page 24
