Paula Reed - [Caribbean]

by Nobodys Saint

  Diego stopped in mid sentence, his brows shooting up in surprise. “¿Perdón?” he asked. Kiss her?

  “S-slowly? ¿Despacio?” she stammered, her smile fading. He nodded, and the way he was staring at her, all she could think about was what it had felt like to have him in her bed, his body on top of hers, his lips…

  The sound of Galeno’s merry laughter in the passageway beyond the open door brought her back to the present. The little scamp had taught her the correct way to say it, hadn’t he? “Speak slowly,” she clarified in English.

  “Ah,” Diego said a little sadly, looking away. “More of my young crewman’s pranks? Es una lástima.” It is a shame.

  She should have known better. She had even asked Galeno why the phrase did not use the word hablar—to speak. He had never cracked a smile as he explained that besar was the form of the word used when making a request.

  Diego was standing so close to her they were nearly touching. The pungent, crisp scent of lemon verbena, laced with something earthier, stirred her senses. His eyes were nearly black, his mouth wide and firm. “But since you have asked,” he whispered. She felt pulled to him as involuntarily as the needle of a compass was pulled north, and then he was fulfilling her unintentional request, kissing her with such thorough, maddening, sweet slowness that she thought she might drown in it.

  I could have this, she thought to herself. Every night and every day for the rest of my life, I could have this.

  Beyond the door came a barrage of Spanish and Galeno’s laughing protest, and Diego quickly pulled away. Aye, she could have him, but at what price? She forced herself to conjure images of her father and Bridget. Oh, aye, if she never returned to Ireland, her sister would one day marry. Surely she would! She was a pretty lass, for all that she was a shrew. But would she look after their da? Would she see to it he remembered to eat? Sometimes, when the drink truly took over, he’d forget for days at a time. And what if her husband beat her? By the saints, Mary Kate would beat Bridget if she were married to her. But a man would be much bigger, and Bridget would need a place to go and someone stronger than a sick old man for protection.

  “¿Dónde está usted, María Catalina?” he asked.

  “Where am I?”

  “You look like you are a thousand miles away.”

  “Farther than that.”

  “Your country?”

  “Sí,” she admitted, “mi patria.”

  *

  After dinner, as soon as Mary Kate had shut the door to her cabin, Diego stormed off in search of his former cabin boy. After scouring the upper deck and galley, he found him in the crews’ quarters, ostensibly watching a card game. Diego had no doubt the real appeal of the game was that he had nearly missed seeing Galeno in the crowded group of men. After a cursory inspection of the game to assure himself that his men were not gambling, he took Galeno by the ear and hauled him to his feet.

  “A word in my cabin!”

  The game fell by the wayside as the men began to speculate on what might have so angered the captain toward the boy who worshipped him. The captain’s behavior seemed to be becoming stranger and stranger.

  In Diego’s cabin, Galeno stood before his captain, his shoulders slumped, while Diego berated him.

  “What were you thinking of? I am not without a sense of humor, Galeno, but this was out of bounds! What have I taught you in all the years you have served me? Have I taught you to play pranks that violate the respect to which a lady is due? Have you learned nothing of chivalry?”

  “I did not think of it that way,” Galeno protested.

  “You tell her that ‘kiss me slowly’ is the way to say ‘speak slowly’ and you do not think that this is disrespectful?”

  “But you had already kissed her, captain!”

  “What? Galeno Rodríguez, have you been spying?”

  “No, sir! No!”

  “Then why would you say such a thing?”

  “But it is true, no? You are in love with each other, no?”

  “No, we are not in love with each other!”

  “But…”

  “But what?”

  Galeno shrugged dejectedly. “You just seem like it when you are together. You look like you are in love.”

  Diego sighed and rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. “Galeno, she is a very nice lady, but that does not mean…”

  “She is also very beautiful.”

  “Yes, but just because she is very nice and very beautiful…”

  “And funny.”

  “Yes, she is very funny.” Diego laughed and then added, “And brave.”

  Galeno nodded enthusiastically. “Brave, yes, and she is passionate and loyal and very, very smart.”

  Finally Diego stopped concentrating so hard on denying Galeno’s observations and focused on the boy, instead. He had grown taller in the last few months, evidenced by breeches and sleeves several inches too short. His face was growing leaner, too. How old was he now? Nearly fourteen? And was that a bit of dark fuzz beginning to cast a shadow over the young man’s lip?

  “I think this is not about my feelings for Señorita O’Reilly,” Diego prodded.

  “I am not stupid, Captain. I know I am too young for a woman like Señorita O’Reilly.”

  “So you think I would be a better choice for her?”

  “Yes, Captain! You would be perfect together!”

  “It is more complicated than that, Galeno. We are from different worlds.”

  “Then we will make her a part of ours. She is already learning much Spanish. You must love her, Captain. How could you not?”

  “Sometimes love is not enough.”

  Galeno shook his head in bewilderment. “What more is there?”

  Diego could not answer. What more indeed? Honor? Duty? Country? To be together, he and Mary Kate would compromise them all. Love would be impossible to accept on such terms.

  But it was getting harder to refuse.

  Chapter Twelve

  Cartagena took Mary Kate’s breath away. Bits and pieces of it seemed to float amid lakes and lagoons. Deep blue waters and rich green plants and trees blended together to create an atmosphere of mystery and timelessness. The city itself was constructed at the water’s edge in one of the less heavily forested areas. It was in the process of being surrounded by a great wall, and construction appeared nearly half completed. Where a high hill jutted into the sea, the land had been cut into large steps on which a stone fortress stood guard. It was not as large as El Morro, but there was plenty of room for growth. Beyond the city rose a mountain, topped by a massive church.

  “A monastery?” Mary Kate asked Diego, standing next to him on the ship’s deck. A glance through the spyglass had revealed several buildings on the mountain, not merely one church.

  He nodded. “It is called La Popa.”

  She pointed to one of the fingers of land that protruded into the water. “Another fortress?”

  “Cartagena is often plagued by pirates. Even with the wall and the new Castillo de San Felipe de Barajas,” he pointed to the fortress atop the flat tiers, “many feel we are not adequately defended. Cartagena relies upon the protection of the Virgin of Candelaria. Her image is housed at La Popa, surrounded by a solid gold altar.”

  Mary Kate nodded her understanding. How did the Protestants survive without the Catholics’ close ties to their saints?

  True to his word, even before he sought his friend Don Juan to arrange her ransom, Diego led Mary Kate to the cathedral to meet with a priest who spoke English. In her hands, she held tight to four years of notes bound in her ledger. In her pocket lay her rosary beads. On the way there, she peered around her at narrow, winding streets. Ornate wooden balconies, spilling lush, brilliant hibiscus and bougainvillea, kept the stout plaster buildings on either side from being austere. Windows and doorways were cut in graceful arches. Cartagena was as beautiful as Havana, but far more orderly in the conduct of its citizens. High officials of the Church and Spanish government and military
men replaced the pirates and ne’er-do-wells she had seen at the Cuban port. The women wore gowns of worn cotton or the best silk, depending upon their station, but all were completely covered. No prostitutes with plunging necklines walked the streets here.

  As in Havana, the slave trade was brisk, but Diego had told her that, because of the work of a Jesuit named Pedro Claver, there were strong sentiments against slavery among many in the city. “He has been dead for twenty years,” Diego said, “but his legacy lives on. I wonder how much longer we Spanish will continue to commit sins of cruelty and murder upon these innocent Africans.”

  “You disapprove?” Mary Kate had never given much thought to slavery. She had never seen a black-skinned person in her life until Havana.

  “I met a Negro woman. Rather, she was part Negro. And I got to know her quite well. She was to have become the property of a procurer.”

  “Well, that would be wrong no matter what her color.”

  “The whole thing left me feeling that the Jesuit was right. Slavery is a vile thing. Spain’s greatest sin.”

  It shocked her to hear him speak ill of his country. So far, his loyalty to Spain had been as fierce as hers to Ireland. “Was she like us?”

  Diego grinned a little. “She was nothing like us. She was English! We are almost there.” He pointed to the imposing structure that was their destination.

  The outside of the cathedral reminded Mary Kate of the fortresses she had seen when they had sailed into the harbor—severe and imposing. Inside, she sucked in her breath at the sight before her. Never in her life had she seen so much gold! And the pulpit was of the purest, smoothest marble! Heavy, leaded-glass windows dimmed the brilliant tropical sunlight pouring through them.

  “Saints preserve us, ‘tis true. You Spaniards are all rich as sin!”

  “This is not ours, María Catalina. It is God’s.”

  “Well, God has a house or two in my village, and a bit of gold besides, but I don’t think there’s so much gold in all of Ireland as there is on that altar.”

  “God has been very good to Spain in Tierra Firme, this new land. We would shame ourselves not to give some back.”

  He broke into a wide grin and beckoned to a priest. The priest was a slight man, swallowed up by his brown robes, whose face bore the many lines of a long life. Mary Kate was pleased to discover that she could understand some of the Spanish between them before Diego asked that they switch to English.

  “Father Tomás, this is Mary Katherine O’Reilly, from Ireland. We rescued her from pirates on the high seas.”

  Father Tomás smiled at her. “You are blessed to have been allowed to share in Diego’s uncommon good fortune.”

  Diego glanced around him. “Not so uncommon, Father.”

  “Quite uncommon, but well earned, my son.” He looked at Mary Kate. “He is a good man, our Diego.”

  “A very good man,” she agreed.

  “Mary Katherine has been living in England for four years, and has been unable to practice her religion. She would like to make her confession, and certainly, she will attend Mass with me.”

  “Welcome home, child,” Father Tomás said. “Will you wait for her, Diego?”

  “She tells me she will be a while.”

  Mary Kate held up her ledger with a sheepish grin. Father Tomás eyed the book, and his brows shot up in puzzlement. “I kept track. It has been four years,” Mary Kate explained.

  “If it is not an imposition, I thought to visit with Juan Gallegos Lucero y Esquibel de Aguilar. I should be back in an hour or so. If she finishes earlier, perhaps some time in prayer would be good for her.” He gave Mary Kate a stern look, one that said, “Do not even think about running away.” Mary Kate blinked back innocently.

  Father Tomás watched the exchange. Unless he was mistaken, he was quite certain that he would be hearing Diego’s confession in short order, and there would be some repetition between that one and Mary Katherine’s.

  Diego stepped from the dark cathedral into the bright sunshine, and Mary Kate and Father Tomás moved farther into the sanctuary. Before entering the confessional, Mary Kate knelt on the tile floor and bowed her head. Softly she whispered her prayer to God, begging Him to make her feel the full sorrow she ought for her sins and imploring the Virgin Mary to help her make a good confession. She needed all the help she could get.

  Once inside the booth, she had to squint down at her notes in the dim light that trickled through vents in the door. Her writing skills were poor at best, reading not much better, but she had done her best to keep a thorough record. Crossing herself, she began.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been four years, three months, and nine days since my last confession. These are my sins—”

  The confessional was hot and confined. The closeness was familiar and comforting, but the heat was alien to a girl who had gone through this ritual in cooler climes. Maybe, if she talked very fast, she could get out of there in something less than an hour.

  “I have taken the Lord’s name in vain approximately nine hundred and twenty-three times.”

  Father Tomás choked. “Nine hundred and twenty-three?”

  “In various forms, and more some days than others. Whenever I could, I didn’t blaspheme at all,” she assured him, “but there were days when I was forced to press all limits.”

  “I see. I think yours is a tale I must hear more fully when we have finished.”

  “Oh, I’ll tell you all, Father, but I’ve quite a list. I wrote it all down as best I could, so I’d be sure not to leave anything out. If it makes you feel better, I added an extra fifty on the taking the Lord’s name in vain, just in case I missed some.”

  Father Tomás’s lips twitched, and he fought to keep his amusement out of his voice. “Well, then, we must get back to your list.”

  “Aye. If my father sent me to live with my grandfather, and I disobeyed my grandfather, is that the same as dishonoring my father?”

  “It is nearly the same.”

  “I was afraid of that. Well, I dishonored my grandfather three thousand eight hundred and forty-one times. But for the record, the man has no honor.”

  “Did you say three thousand?”

  “That’s both direct and indirect disobedience, plus calling him names. Should I have also counted when I only called him a name in my head or in my room, all alone?”

  “No, I do not think we need to include those times. They are venial sins.”

  “Thank goodness, for I hadn’t written any of those down. Let me see, what’s next…”

  Father Tomás pulled at his robes. These confessionals were often quite hot and stuffy, and it looked like he would be there a while.

  *

  Three of Diego’s crewmen followed Enrique Sánchez into the relative dark of the cathedral. They had debated briefly whether they should come here first or go straight to the Palacio de la Inquisición, but Enrique’s cooler head and authority had prevailed. It was not for mere seamen to decide whether this was a matter for the Inquisition. They would speak to a priest first.

  A young man in the robes of a neophyte approached them. “Good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon. Is a senior priest in?”

  “Father Tomás is here, but he is busy. Perhaps you can come back?”

  One of the men tapped Enrique on the shoulder. “I have carried these suspicions with me long enough! If we cannot speak to a priest, then it is a sign that we should have gone to the Palacio de la Inquisición!”

  At the mention of the Holy Office, the novice’s face paled. “B-but the bishop is in. Perhaps you should speak to him.” With quick, unfaltering steps, he led the men out of the sanctuary and through the stone hallways to the bishop’s office.

  *

  Don Juan took one look at Diego’s face and said, “Another woman?”

  One side of Diego’s mouth tugged upward. “It is good to see you again, too.”

  “Sit down, Diego.” Juan Gallegos Lucero y Esquib
el de Aguilar invited him in and gestured toward the chair across the desk from his. His office was large and well appointed with mahogany furniture and richly died wool rugs. It suited its occupant perfectly. Juan Gallegos was a man well into his fifties, but there was a robust vitality about him. The strands of silver that shot through his thick, dark hair lent him an air of dignity, and his expensive clothing hung perfectly on his fit form.

  He gave his aid curt instructions to bring refreshments, then sat in his own chair and studied Diego. “How is your family?”

  Juan and Diego’s father had been friends before Juan had left Spain, so Diego spoke of him first. “Father’s business is good, certainly. He just purchased a new building—much bigger. My brother Andrés is a big help, and Rico is—well, he is Rico.” Juan laughed, and Diego continued. “Pablo is well. The bishop feels he should not serve so close to home, though.”

  “If they send him away, it would make your parents most unhappy.”

  “That is putting it mildly.”

  “Perhaps you were able to visit Francisco?” Juan asked, referring to his son, whose life Diego had once saved.

  “I am sorry, Don Juan. I did not have a chance to see him. My mother says his wife is looking well. It should not be too much longer.”

  “What should not be too much longer?”

  “You do not know?” Diego beamed. “Then I do have news for you. You will be a grandfather!”

  Juan leaned back in his chair and laughed. “That is news! You must convince my son to settle here the next time you are in Spain, my friend.”

  “I will try. He loves Spain, though.”

  “We all love Spain, but Tierra Firme is good, too, no? So tell me about this woman.”

  Diego shook his head. “It is not what you think.”

  “You are not going to ask me to free another pirate so you can give up another woman that you love?”

  “I am here to ask you to arrange ransom for an Irishwoman who had been captured by pirates whom I, in turn, defeated.”