He rolled two maps together into a tight cylinder and tied a piece of twine around them, then reached into his safe for Rodrigo’s wooden box.
“Catch the next transport ashore and deliver these maps. You’ll find the king in his temporary headquarters.” The shorter man looked up into Rodrigo’s eyes. “God be with you.”
“And with you, sir.” Rodrigo couldn’t help wondering what the coming months would bring.
He descended the rope netting at the side of the Santa Teresa, took a spot in the bobbing transport boat and stared toward the city as they drew near the shoreline. To Rodrigo’s experienced eye, the loading of supplies and munitions followed a logical pattern; he watched muscular men lift the massive wooden crates with rope nets and swing them into the holds of the warships. The chaotic part of the operation was the sheer number of young sailors who appeared somewhat bewildered at their surroundings. So many. During his months in the British Isles, gathering intelligence, Rodrigo had noticed the superior numbers of the English fleet, the readiness of their soldiers. Was this a lost cause for Spain?
He shoved those thoughts aside and spotted a man who appeared to be somewhat higher in rank.
“Headquarters is over there,” he replied gruffly to Rodrigo’s inquiry. He waved vaguely toward a couple of large stone buildings.
One was clearly a warehouse with large bays and stacks of materiel piled about. The other might house the port master’s offices—he couldn’t tell for certain. Rodrigo set off in that direction.
Searching out the most important-looking person at each crossroad and at each building led him eventually to a set of offices where uniformed men were bustling about with documents and maps. He clutched his own roll of maps and proceeded.
Raised voices caught his attention. Two men with the bearing of royal equerries stood outside a doorway with their hands clasped behind their backs.
“Farnesio, your concerns are noted but we shall proceed. The costs have been addressed through papal dispensation to levy taxes, the men have received indulgences and are free to sail. The matter is closed.”
“But, your majesty, the new commander … with the loss of Álvaro de Bazán?”
“Medina Sedonia is most capable.” The monarch’s voice grew ominously quiet. “The matter is closed.”
A dark-haired man stormed out of the room. Rodrigo recognized the long face and neatly trimmed beard of the Duke of Parma. His face was suffused with repressed rage, however, and the king’s two servants, along with everyone else in the corridor, averted their eyes and cleared a pathway for him.
“Next!” came the voice of the king. “And do not bother me with those who wish to make a case in favor of that woman. I think not of any Protestant as a relative of my own.”
He referred, of course, to Elizabeth, now the queen of England and formerly his own sister-in-law. She had supported the Dutch Revolt against his country, and only last year had sent Sir Francis Drake to decimate the fleet at Cadiz. Her open support of the Protestant cause went against everything the Spanish king believed and reinforced his own determination—at the urging of Pope Sixtus—to send crusades to assure that the entire earth be populated with believers in the Catholic faith. The current rearming of the Armada and planned invasion of English soil was pure retaliation.
Both servants outside the door quaked at the king’s tone, and three men who had been waiting suddenly seemed to have other missions elsewhere. One of the servants looked at Rodrigo. “You have the privilege to enter, sir.” He asked Rodrigo’s name and announced him.
The king was pacing before a tapestry-covered wall when Rodrigo entered, and he came to a halt near a long table. Every portrait Rodrigo had ever seen showed the man in full dress regalia, complete with white hose and shoes, richly embroidered doublet, and stiffly starched ruff at the neck. Today, the king was more simply clad in a plain black jerkin over light grey doublet and black hose. His only ornamentation was a wide livery collar with the coat of arms of his royal order. His short, sand-colored hair and neatly trimmed beard bore threads of gray.
Rodrigo approached with lowered gaze and a respectful bow.
“Hurry up now—what have you here?” King Phillip demanded, holding out a hand.
Rodrigo raised his eyes only to the level of the monarch’s chest and offered the rolled maps. “From the intelligence mission to Ireland, your majesty.”
The king accepted the maps and placed them on the table beside him, without so much as a glance. “And what is that?” He pointed at the box cradled in Rodrigo’s left arm.
“Money for the treasury, your majesty. I confess that I took it on a whim, because I had the opportunity, from the offices of the commandant of the Galway army contingent.”
The admission brought a fleeting smile. “Well done.”
The monarch reached for the box and Rodrigo held it forward. Brows knitted sharply over the arch of his nose, the king frowned and studied the box before raising the lid. The contents obviously pleased him. He pulled out the bag Meggie had taken, hefted the weight of it, and absently shoved the box back toward Rodrigo. Loosening the bag’s drawstrings, he peered inside.
“Very good work, young man. On behalf of the kingdom I accept your gift to the war effort.”
The box rested on Rodrigo’s outstretched hands.
“I’ve no interest in that cheap object. Take it away.”
Rodrigo felt a pang at the memory of Meggie’s delight in the carved box. The simple Irish girl had thought the item beautiful. Obviously, the king already owned much finer things. He tucked it out of sight under his arm.
“That will be all.” Phillip dismissed him without a glance and turned to carry the bag of gold to his desk.
Rodrigo backed out of the room and hastily left the building, only to be assaulted once again by the noise and bustle of the thousands of sailors milling about the docks. His liaison officer had promised a short leave of absence if he completed the mission to Ireland and returned alive, and Rodrigo intended to take advantage of that offer. He still had the written orders, carefully sewn into the lining of his shirt so that no matter what happened to him he would not lose the slip of paper.
He thought longingly of Cordoba, that small city where his family still lived a quiet life. Mamá would be baking bread on a morning like this and his little sister, Ermelinda, either playing with her friends or helping in the kitchen. Papá’s work inside the new cathedral at the Mezquita would be taking shape as the Church converted the former Spanish center of Islam to a new and beautiful edifice to Christ. A wave of homesickness gripped him and he looked about for a way to get there. All he saw in any direction were miles of sailors and ships, huge piles of supplies standing in readiness to take to the sea.
In the end, he spoke with the driver of a mule cart who had just unloaded a wagonload of fresh oranges and was preparing to leave. The man could give Rodrigo a ride as far as Badajoz. From there he managed rides with an olive merchant, then with two friars from Monesterio, walking the final twenty miles south through green, hilly country where he followed goat trails much of the way until he saw the pillars of the old Roman bridge. His steps quickened as he followed familiar streets. The summer sun warmed him as he had not been warmed since Ireland and the long sea voyage—home!
Mamá shrieked with delight when she saw him from the side yard where she was draping wet clothing over a line. She dropped a white shawl and ran toward him, taking his face between her hands as tears ran down her face.
“Rigo, Rigo! Mi hijo, Te echaba de menos.”
“I missed you, too, Mamá.” He glanced around. “Where is Ermelinda? And Papá?”
A young woman stepped out from the kitchen, lowering the shawl that covered her hair, revealing a pretty face with high cheekbones and full lips.
“Ermelinda?” He felt his mouth gape.
“Ay, si, our Ermelinda has become woman. You were gone many months, hijo.” Mamá gripped his arm as if he might escape before she could get him i
nto the house.
“And I suppose you will eat all our food, now that you have traveled so far,” the near-stranger piped up. She gave a petulant grin that he recognized. This was definitely the little sister who had teased him about his appetite since they were small.
“Come, come,” Mamá said. “Bring that heavy bundle inside and I will find you some food. Wash your hands first.”
Some things never changed.
He went to his old bedroom and dropped the bag that contained only one change of clothing and the wooden box onto his bed. His favorite bow and quiver of arrows stood in the corner still, but there were signs that the family had needed the space for other things as well. His mother’s sewing basket rested near the door, along with a bolt of cloth which looked newly woven.
In the kitchen he caught undertones of unease in the conversation between his mother and sister.
“What is it?” he asked, dipping his hands into the water bucket that had stood near the door for as long as he could remember.
Mamá’s eyes grew sad.
“It’s Papá,” Ermelinda said. “There was an accident at the work site in the Mezquita … a large stone …” She turned away.
“One of the carved lintels,” Mamá said. “It fell and he was pinned.”
Rodrigo felt his world fall away. “Papá is dead?”
“Nearly a year ago. Lo siento, we had no way to get word to you.”
The aroma of the beans and fresh bread suddenly held no appeal. He pushed his way out the door, through the small side yard where the clean laundry flapped much too cheerfully on the line. His head buzzed and his eyes would not focus.
Papá, gone. It was unbelievable. He stumbled down the narrow street, stubbing his toe on a stone that jutted up, reaching out to touch the white walls of nearby shops. Papá. Gone.
In the next lane he caught sight of the spire of the great cathedral above the smaller rooflines. It became his beacon and he headed that direction instinctively. At the steps leading to the wide entry doors he stopped cold. How could God let this happen? He should go inside, light a candle, say prayers for his father’s soul, but he could not summon the will to walk through those doors. He turned his back on the building and sank to the steps, sitting with his head in his hands.
Dimly aware of people around him, including a priest who paused briefly to lay a hand on his shoulder, Rodrigo stared across the square. A fountain bubbled and women came to fill jugs with the water; two young boys crossed in front of him and ran down one of the lanes that branched away from this central part of the city; the bell in the church tower chimed, several times; the midday sun beat on his back then passed behind the cathedral. When the priest came outside again and spoke to him, Rodrigo realized he had been there for hours. He should go home and check on Mamá.
Practicality set in as he slowly made his way back over the same streets. How had Mamá and Ermelinda supported themselves all these months? Where did they get food? Who made repairs to the house for them? It hit him that he was now the man of the family.
The kitchen felt stifling when he walked in. A long row of bread loaves sat on the table and Ermelinda was pulling two more from the oven using a wide wooden paddle. At one end, mama sat with a length of the white cloth he had noticed in his room, stitching two edges of it together.
“Rodrigo,” she said. “Siéntate, debemos hablar.”
He sat, as instructed. Yes, they should talk.
“We are doing all right,” she said. “When you stayed away all afternoon, I knew you would be thinking of Ermelinda and me, but we are all right.”
“We sell our bread,” his sister said. “I bake enough each day to supply the monastery and that new hostelry on the road to Alameda. Mamá, she sews for the nuns and sometimes for the rich woman whose husband owns the big winery.”
“We eat simply and put aside all the coins we can. My son, do not worry about us. You have your duties to the king.”
For a moment the image of Phillip II standing in that command center, planning to invade the British Isles, popped into his head. Then he realized that Mamá knew nothing of this conversation, she meant simply that he was still under obligation to his naval commander, at least until he was released from duty. Tomorrow, he would visit the local commandant and request his discharge based on family need.
Ermelinda covered the new loaves with a cloth. “Now, surely you are hungry,” she said with an impish grin. “Your beans are still here for you.
This time, when he smelled the food on the plate, he remembered how hungry he’d been earlier. Despite the heavy stone of grief that pressed on his heart, he wolfed down the meal his sister set before him. Darkness was setting in when he stepped out to see his mother taking down the laundry from the line. He noticed one of the hinges on the door seemed loose; he would repair it in the morning. He was glad the women had figured out ways to feed themselves but it was still apparent that they could use a man’s touch.
Back in his room he set his bag of belongings on the floor, stripped off his travel-dusty clothing and fell into bed. His body ached with the days of travel but his joy at being home felt dim in comparison to his grief. He fell asleep to the sound of the church bells in the distance.
A shaft of sunlight crossed Rodrigo’s bed, waking him to the realization that he’d slept well beyond his usual hour.
He sat up and saw that his dirty clothing was gone and a basin of fresh water waited on the table near the door. He washed then reached into his bag for something to wear. He brought out the carved wooden box wrapped in his light summer cloak. He set it on the bed, wondering why he had bothered to bring the thing along over all these miles. A vision of Meggie’s face came to him when he looked at the object. Again, a stab of regret that she had become involved in his mission.
He sat down beside the box, suddenly feeling the weight of his dual grief sapping his energy. He picked up the box and opened the lid, half hoping the king had missed a gold coin or two. Foolish wish—the coins had been in a sack inside the box and the monarch would certainly have noticed any extra.
Inside the lid he noticed, for the first time, some light carving. Letters. V-I-R-T-U. Goodness. Virtue. Why would that be written on the box? He shrugged—no es importante, he thought. He tipped the box upside down and shook a few grains of sand onto the floor. Cleaned up a little, it would be a nice gift for Mamá, a place for her to keep her additional sewing supplies. He ran a finger around the inner edges of the box—perhaps with a little sanding …
As his finger traversed the fourth side, completing the circuit, a jolt shocked him. He screamed and dropped the box, jumping away from the bed. What on earth—?
His door opened slightly. “Rigo? Everything is all right?”
“Si, mamá. Sorry—I am not dressed.”
The door closed again and he stared at the box on the bed. Edging toward it, almost sneaking up on it, he reached out and gave a tentative touch. Nothing happened. He laid the palm of his right hand on the lid. The wood warmed slightly and the ugly dark brown finish lightened a little. Rodrigo’s breath came in quick gasps.
He glanced at the door but it remained firmly closed.
The box sat benignly on the bed.
Rodrigo never took his eyes off the strange object as he picked up his fresh clothing. He slipped his shirt over his head and pulled on workaday pants and jerkin. Running his fingers through his damp hair he neatened it and smoothed his narrow beard. A deep breath.
He sat again on the bed and picked up the box. Carefully raising the lid he saw nothing out of the ordinary. The letters carved into the top were its only inner ornamentation. Taking a look carefully for the first time at the outside of the box, he saw that it had been crudely carved in a pattern of diagonal lines in two directions. At some of the intersections where the design formed an X someone had added small polished stones, held in place by metal prongs. As his hands traced the design, the wood turned lighter in color, and after a few minutes the stones began to b
righten as well. He felt his forehead wrinkle as he puzzled over it.
Certainly in artistic objects, mostly held by the Church, he had seen much finer workmanship. But there was something special about this one, something that caused it to react to his touch. He needed to learn more. He could not give this item to his mother until he understood what had just happened. He slipped the box back into his travel bag and finished dressing.
In the kitchen Ermelinda was already at work, kneading a huge mound of dough. A plate with two boiled eggs and fresh fruit waited for him.
“Lazy, as always, mi hermano,” she teased. “While the women slave away.”
He tried for a casual tone as he responded, but his thoughts were already on the day ahead. Finishing his breakfast quickly he walked to the main room of the house, the salon, where he found his mother sewing another garment. At his inquiry she pointed out his father’s tool box.
Done with the repair of the kitchen door hinge in a short time, he asked what other little items needed fixing. Both women were happy to supply lists.
Before the sun reached its midday point he had made a new broom handle and replaced a broken one, repaired a leaky bucket, cleaned and moved the outdoor privy, and carried a day’s supply of water from the city well at the fountain near the cathedral. Even Ermelinda had to apologize for calling him lazy that morning. His excess energy was becoming noticeable and he took a moment alone in the side yard to wonder at the cause.
Last night he had been so tired he could do no more than drop into bed; now he was buzzing about the place like a half-crazed animal, and still he felt as if he could go all day at this pace. He had to get out, away from the inquisitive eyes of his family.
“Hijo, you have been so helpful,” his mother said, eyeing the full barrel of water when she walked outside.
He kissed her cheek. “You work too hard, Mamá. I should be here all the time.”
Her smile warmed his heart.
“In fact, I am going to my commandant’s office today, to request my discharge from service. Our family has need of me, more so than the king does.” He didn’t wait for her response but set off in the direction of the city center.
The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) Page 10
