We turned a corner, and the arena came into view. “People would come from near and far to attend the games here,” Will said, speaking loudly enough that all nearby could hear him. “The Roman motto was, ‘Give them bread and circuses,’ but there weren’t nearly enough seats, even in an arena as grand as this one. They distributed tickets, which were collected at the door. The nobles sat below; the poor, up high. There were merchants outside selling food and drink that all were allowed to carry in.”
“Where’d they…see to their business?” Hugh asked, inhaling deeply on his cigarette.
The younger girls dissolved in giggles behind him.
“In massive latrines,” Will said.
“Thank God for that,” Hugh returned with a smile.
“So why not give us a good gladiatorial sparring?” Andrew asked. “Isn’t bullfighting a Spanish tradition?”
“Indeed,” Will said, turning to walk backward so he could speak to the whole group. “But there’s a shortage of men willing to die for another’s entertainment, and with the Romans gone, as well as their slaves…I’m afraid bulls are as close to gladiatorial combat as we can get.”
We smiled with him. The crowd thickened the closer we got, and Antonio led the way. I took hold of both Will’s and Art’s arms, making way for the others. Behind us, Lillian was on Felix’s arm, Nell on Hugh’s, and Vivian on Andrew’s. The detectives guarded our rear flank. Even without the bear with us, I felt protected and safe. More so given my proximity to Will.
I fought to keep my composure. The last thing I needed was my brother or sisters catching on. Hugh was already far too keenly aware of the attraction we felt, his eyes missing nothing. Art, too, even so new to us. But it was like yeast causing dough to rise, what I felt for William, impossible to suppress the more I was with him. The raw, physical draw. I felt as though I’d been awakened from a deep slumber and my very existence depended on sharing every moment with him. Our time together on the Carcassonne wall, our kisses, ran through my head again and again, and I hungered for the chance to steal away with him for but a moment of privacy we could call our own.
I knew I would need to find an opportunity to cut Pierre loose once he returned. Memories of his sweet farewell sent a wave of sorrow and shame through me. But I’d tried, hadn’t I? At least a little…
The merchants outside the arena sold jugs of wine and bread wrapped in paper, and despite the fact that we’d just supped on far finer fare, Hugh and Felix stopped to purchase both. Reaching into a pocket inside his fine new jacket, Will gave tickets to a man at the ancient Roman gate, and we were pressed from all sides as we entered the melee and moved forward. It was so tight there would’ve been no option to turn back, even if we wished it.
We walked through a tunnel that rose twenty feet, and when we were through it, we moved up a stairwell at the edge of a grand oval. The feel of it, with people lining every level, took my breath away. At the center of the sand-covered floor was a French flag, as well as two more. “What are those others?” I asked Will, gesturing toward them.
“The community flags from which the bullfighters hail.”
He turned, and I followed him up the stairs and then down a row to our seats. When we sat down, he turned to me, concern in his eyes. “This can be a bit bloody. Might you be overwhelmed?”
I almost laughed. “William McCabe, do you forget that I was raised on a farm? That is a question for my sisters and Nell.”
His eyes hovered over mine for a moment, and then he smiled. “I would imagine.”
We were seated in male-female order so that none of the women in our troop were unguarded. Additionally, the detectives stood on either end, along the stairs, keeping constant watch. I thought it a bit much at this point. We’d not seen the men who had attacked us in Paris once. Obviously the leader was in deep hiding. I would have suggested releasing the detectives from their duties, but I knew Mr. Morgan and my father would have none of it. It was precisely due to the detectives’ continued involvement that we were still on the tour at all. Without them, our fathers would have demanded we pack it up and head home. Will stood and met Claude’s eye as he guarded the aisle to one side. He motioned my direction, then asked Art, on my other side, to keep an eye on me.
“Honestly, Will, I’m perfectly safe here in the middle of twenty-five thousand people.”
“You might be surprised,” he said. “Please do not let down your guard.” He moved to speak to the others, presumably to warn them of what was to come in the bullfight.
In front of me, a group of young French men were celebrating. Down so low in the arena, they were likely the well-to-do or associated in some fashion with the evening’s bullfighters. They toasted with wine—“À votre santé!”—and drained their cups together.
One hugged his companion and caught my eye. “Mon Dieu!” he said, putting his hand to his heart. “Au ange! Au ange!” He hit his friend on the shoulder and gestured to me, and then his companion did the same to the next, until all five looked back at me in wonder, as if I were truly an angel. A guilty pang went through me at their use of Pierre’s favorite term for me.
“I imagine you cannot go anywhere,” Art said beside me, “without attracting new admirers.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” I said, then looked at the young men before me. “Comment allez-vous?” I asked, one of the few French phrases I knew. How are you?
“Ahh, she spoke to me!” cried one in English, collapsing dramatically.
“Tell me, mon ange,” said the one seated at the center, as Will returned to his seat, “that you do not uh, uh,” he stuttered, searching for the English words, then finished, “lui appartient.”
“He wants to make sure you do not belong to me,” Will translated, his eyes sliding over to meet mine.
Felix laughed and leaned in front of Art, catching the gist of the conversation. “No, no,” he said, waving his hand, as if the idea were preposterous. “C’est ma soeur.” Felix gestured over to Will. “C’est notre guide.”
I needed no translation. His tone was clear enough. I was his sister, and Will nothing more than our guide. In Felix’s mind, there’d be no way that Will would ever be with me. My eyes went to the flags moving ever so slightly in the scant breeze that passed through the arena. Was that what Will feared most? Others looking down on him? Thinking he was unworthy of me because my father was Wallace Kensington? But I wasn’t that girl! I was the daughter of a farmer, my home a ramshackle, run-down dirt-poor farm in Montana.
To think Will unworthy of me was preposterous. A well-traveled, kind, handsome man I once could have only dreamed of, now struggling to be considered my equal…only due to…blood?
I thought of Will’s words of warning. As well as Hugh’s. And Lil’s reaction to my plans to return home. Was it true? Was this trip only the beginning of Wallace Kensington’s plans for me? His means of getting me into the fold, settled, accustomed to luxury and excess, before demanding more of me? Would he truly stand between me and Will at the end of our tour? Well, if he tried, he’d be surprised. A deal was a deal. I’d agreed to this trip in exchange for him helping my parents and sending me back to school. As far as I was concerned, we could part ways amicably, and my life would be my own. Not his to dictate. And if I chose Will…
I turned to watch him. Will and the playful young gentlemen were chatting in French, the men gesturing to the arena. “He says his cousin is one of the bullfighters. He claims he is one of the best.”
“I guess we’ll see the truth of that sooner rather than later, eh?” Andrew said from down the row.
“You doubt his word?” I asked, leaning forward to look over at him.
“I doubt any man’s word, be it cards or bullfights.”
“That’s rather cynical, don’t you think?” I said.
“Not cynical. Wise.”
For a while, we traded idle chatter through Will’s translation. The men shared their jug of wine with us, passing us chipped, clay cups and insistin
g, “Drink, drink!” and we reluctantly accepted. We learned the men were from a neighborhood in the city with a long tradition of training the best bullfighters around. We were invited to a celebration party after the fight, which Will tried to decline, but the men would have none of it. “You, new friends,” said one in rudimentary English. “Come, come!”
Will looked at me, and I shrugged a shoulder. “It is precisely the sort of thing my uncle adores on the tour,” he said. His face fell a little. “Adored,” he amended. “Although not with the caliber of people your traveling companions would endorse.”
“It will be good for them,” I said in a whisper, leaning toward him. I hovered there for a second, simply enjoying his proximity, and he turned his head—just a couple degrees—toward me, clearly appreciating the same. I made myself withdraw before anyone noticed.
Horns blasted, and milling people hurried to their seats. Lovely women dressed in Spanish costume and headdresses processed in two lines to music barely audible over the crowd’s cheering. The women danced, their skirts flowing as they turned one way and then another, arms high in the air. A line of men came in, also in Spanish dress, heads held erect and to one side, hands on their hips. They came down the center of the two lines of women, and they all danced together as the crowd clapped in rhythm. Art moved past us and down the stairs to try to capture the moment on his Kodak.
The clapping was so loud, so precise, that it reverberated in my chest. I grinned at Felix and then smiled at Will, glad we could share a moment such as this. It was grand to be sitting in a two-thousand-year-old structure with twenty-five thousand French. I’d never experienced anything like it. The nearest I’d ever come was the county fair back home in Montana, but that typically brought in a mere thousand people for the rodeo.
A woman on horseback rode around the circumference of the arena, and as she passed, the crowd let out a roar of approval. The result was a wave of sound, filled with such joy and excitement that a shiver ran down my neck and back. It was as if they were one organism, all these people.…
The couples in the center moved into a second dance and, when they were done, filtered out. The crowd began to call in a collective low hum, which escalated to the most deafening sound I had ever experienced when the bullfighter entered the ring. He strode out, a black hat atop his head, a black and red cape at his back. He had on a perfectly white shirt and tight black pants that were tucked into boots. When he reached the center, he lifted one arm and bowed to each quadrant of the arena, eliciting waves of cheers. Then he turned toward a far door and whipped a red banner before him, back and forth.
At once, the crowd became as silent as it had been loud only moments before. They held their collective breath. Then the gates opened, and out ran a black bull. The crowd was on their feet, shouting and raising their hands, as if an enemy had crossed a boundary line. The bull seemed disoriented, running one way and then the other. He was much bigger and much faster than old Mr. Hanneman’s bull from home.
The matador called out to him and waved his red banner like a flag, taunting him. Without pause, the bull turned and ran straight at him. I gasped as he allowed the bull to draw terribly near before whipping the flag away at the very last moment, the red cloth in his hands waving over the fearsome horns and black hide of the passing bull. As he turned, I could see what I’d missed at first—the matador had slid a slender sword through the ridge of the animal’s back. I’d not even seen it in his hand. But blood dripped down either side of the bull as he turned, scraped at the ground with his hoof, warning of another charge, and then went after the matador again as the crowd screamed, “Magicien! Magicien!”
Again the creature was pierced. I recoiled in horror. It was barbaric, this practice. I’d known the bull was to be killed, and I’d seen animals slaughtered many times on the farm. But this wasn’t the quick, respectful death I’d expected. It was slow, drawn out. Torture.
But then a second bull was sent into the arena, and the crowd roared their approval, twice as loud. Felix hooted beside me. “Can you believe this? What a spectacle!”
I shook my head, feeling a little queasy. He wasn’t listening for my response.
“Cora, are you all right?” Will asked in my ear.
I looked up at him, about to ask if he might escort me out for a moment, when the men in front of us rose, arms up, cheering with the crowd about us, and then their cheer spread across the masses. We stood too. The matador had apparently dodged both bulls, one after the other, piercing both. Hidden by the crowds, Will slipped his hand around mine as if sensing my distress. Both bulls ran around the ring, the second arrival chasing the first.
The matador strode toward them, calling out, waving his red flag, and one turned, lowered his head, then tore after him. But the other was acting oddly. Frenzied. Jumping up against the far wall, almost as if he knew what was coming and intended to try to escape. The crowd cried out and pushed back in a visible wave, and men ran out onto the floor to distract the bull, waving at him with sticks, and when he charged at them, they jumped to safety themselves. They were like the rodeo clowns back home—incredible, jumping so high so fast that I wondered if their legs were made of springs. All trying to get the bull back into position to take another run at the matador.
But one man didn’t quite make it. He fell back to the dirt, just missing being crushed by the passing bull. The animal circled around, and the man took another run at the wall, the bull coming perilously close. He jumped up and over, directly below us. The bull ran past, circling and coming to a stop halfway out. Behind him, the matador called to the bull and regally waved his cape, but the bull was staring at the man below us; he was holding his arms up, shouting in victory about his narrow escape, the people behind him doing the same. And they were all waving bits of red.
Oh no, I thought, looking back and up to see our whole sector mimicking those in front. My eyes went back to the bull even as I grabbed hold of Will’s arm in terror. The bull was already in motion, churning toward us, and this time, he jumped up so high, he landed on the top of the front wall. Everyone erupted into screams and shouts, dividing as if the bull were Moses and the crowd the Red Sea. His belly was stuck, his legs flailing, but he was clearly going to make it over. And when he did, he’d likely gore as many of his screaming tormenters as possible.
“Come on,” Will said, forcing me to stand as the crowd pressed back toward us. “Keep your feet!” he shouted at me, looking over me to the rest of our group, all of whom were already scrambling to stay ahead of the crowd that was pouring toward the exits in panic. “Keep your feet! Stay together!” he called to the others.
I could see what he feared most. The crowd trampling us. Others were already falling, disappearing beneath. “This way!” shouted our new friends, pulling at us, taking our arms, rushing us onward toward the opposite exit. A thick mass of people pressed past. I could not see the detectives or Felix or my sisters. Had they made it through the exit already?
Will put an arm around my shoulders, his fingers digging in as if nothing could pry me from his grasp. He put up his forearm like a battering ram, bumping into those ahead of us as people pushed us from behind. Yves was there then, on my other side for a moment, but then a woman stumbled, and he stopped to aid her. Will and I could not stop. We were carried with the tide of humanity, pressing terribly close through the tunnel, our feet moving in fast, mad inches as our bodies crushed together.
“Hold on, Cora,” Will grunted to me. I no longer feared falling as more entered the tunnel. I feared suffocating. I could practically lift my feet and be carried.
But then the crowd was splitting, like a fissure in the earth, wrenching me away from Will. He held on so tightly I winced. “Will!”
“Cora!” he cried, clenching his teeth. But he finally released me, knowing he couldn’t keep hold of me without hurting me. There was no choice in the matter. We were simply flotsam on two raging rivers, now breaking apart, a wave rising between us.
Wi
lliam
Over and over, the moment he knew he could no longer hold on to Cora looped through Will’s mind. Then the moment he’d lost sight of her. He knew he should be looking for the rest of his party, but he couldn’t—not until he found Cora.
“William!” Antonio said, emerging from the dark crowd, the youngest girls on either of his arms.
“Oh, good,” Will said, his eyes drifting over them for a second. “Have you seen the others?”
“Andrew and Vivian were right behind us. They’re somewhere near. What of Cora? Hugh and Felix?”
Feeling strangled, Will shrugged and turned in a slow circle, hoping the moon would rise and he’d be able to see more faces.…
Felix arrived, helping a limping Yves along. Five minutes later, Andrew and Vivian, Hugh, and Claude reached them. But still there was no Cora.
People were congregating, drinking and laughing, as others streamed down the streets, heading home or out to bistros and bars. Will ran his hand through his hair as he frantically searched faces. “C’mon, Cora,” he muttered. “Where are you?” Art arrived, then set off again when he learned Cora was still missing.
Will refused to think she might have been taken, kidnapped. They’d left their attackers behind them in Paris, right? But even letting the question run through his mind made his heart pause for a moment, then pound painfully in his chest.
“Yves, are you up to watching over the women?”
Yves nodded, looking a little weak, but Will knew he carried a pistol underneath his jacket. Will looked to the men. “Andrew, Hugh, you two head right and see if you see Cora. I’ll go with Felix and Claude to the left. She has to be here someplace.”
They hurried along, searching every face they could in the dark, slowly making their way around the gray arches of the arena. Will’s heart sank when they met up with Andrew and Hugh coming from the other direction and they slowly shook their heads.
“All right,” Will said, refusing to lose hope. “Maybe she’s back with the others already. Let’s split up again, take another look. Call her name as you go. Maybe she’s just standing a bit out of view….”
Grave Consequences (Grand Tour Series #2) Page 12
