Hart, Mallory Dorn

by Jasmine on the Wind

  A silvered, piping hawk wheeled alone in the boundless turquoise sky, swooping occasionally at the puffs of dust raised by peasants driving goats along the road. The bird held Francho's stare for a moment, causing a yearning in his breast to fly away and be that free.

  He slid off the wide, slanting window ledge to subside in a weary heap on the floor. There was no doubt he was a prisoner of this frowning castle. But how could he escape if he couldn't even walk across the floor? Summoning a little energy, he managed to lurch back to the bed, seeking the comfort of the goosedown again, very tired from his small excursion. His disconnected thoughts rolled around in his brain like dice in a box as he waited to gather strength again. He had to take some action, if only to get something to wet his desperately parched throat. With a hostile eye he took in his rich surroundings. Surely they had some water in this place.

  Hoisting himself up on one elbow he croaked wildly, "I want some water, por piedad. Water!" He waited a few moments, then strained to make it louder this time, "Hola, whoever you are, bring some drink. Answer me, someone! Help, help..."

  He heard quick footsteps without, and then the heavy wood door to the chamber squeaked open and a lackey peeked in, looking like a startled goldfish. He glanced at the youth half sitting up in the bed, uttered a flustered "oh!" and withdrew, closing the door swiftly.

  Annoyed, Francho let a few minutes pass and was just about to call out again when the door opened once more and the same servant bowed in a small gentleman, who came smiling and nodding across the carpet to Francho's bed, sniffing at a scented handkerchief. Francho immediately recognized him as the Count of Tendilla's foreign companion, and suddenly his arm tingled as he recalled the painfully strong grip that had closed on it when he had tried to make a break from the Alcalde's gate house. The puzzle of his whereabouts deepened.

  "Well, my boy, I'd say you have much better color this matin. You gave us an awful fright, falling so ill. We knew not whether 'twas your fever or the blow to your head when you fell which kept you senseless so long, but the physician treated both." He held up a finger. "But not by bleeding, you may be sure. Neither the Count nor I favor it. How do you feel now?" the man asked cheerfully. "Do you wish to eat?"

  "Water," Francho croaked. The lackey sprang to produce a ewer and goblet from a stool at the other side of the bed and gave a filled glass to Francho, who drank gratefully. Di Lido then motioned the servant out of the room.

  "Who are you?" Francho demanded, wiping his mouth on his fancy sleeve, revived by the water. There was nothing for it but to take the bull by the horns.

  The elegant eyebrows fluttered upward. "Who am I? A friend, dear lad, a friend. Pietro di Lido, humanist, historian, amateur physician, and Iñigo de Mendoza's sometime confidential secretary. 'Twas on my advice, as soon as your fever broke, that your windows were left unshuttered. I felt you would regain your strength sooner with fresh air and sunlight, a notion I acquired from the ancient Greeks and quite against the offices of these provincial Spanish doctors, of course. And from the looks of you, inherent intelligence has evidently triumphed once more."

  "Where is this place?" Francho asked, suspiciously, discounting di Lido's cordial tone.

  "Well, I could tell you but 'tis not my duty. You have endured a debilitating malady, Francisco. Do not trouble your head with details now. Just rest easy and wait. You will soon learn everything relevant to your situation."

  "Do you intend to hang me?" Francho persisted boldly, although he held his breath for the answer.

  Di Lido gaped at him, noting the slight shadow of fear in the defiant blue eyes. He opened his mouth to respond when a blare of horns, mingled with a rattling and clattering of horses crossing the ancient wooden drawbridge and the cries of hurrying grooms, drew him quickly to the window. He peered down with interest at the magnificently arrayed churchman on a milky white jennet just riding under the portcullis at the head of a large troop of stiff-backed, lance-carrying soldiers. The prelate was flanked by four lesser clerics in the white robes of the Dominican Order and preceded by liveried pages bearing his banner and cross.

  The Italian smiled with pleasure. "Ah, his worship, the gentle Bishop of Avila. He visits his abbeys in the region and sometimes graces us with his presence. How fortuitous he should arrive at this moment. I must attend the Count and tell him the good news of your condition, and then I must make myself ready to greet the Bishop; he is a great stickler for the formal proprieties." Nodding in agreement with himself, he turned to leave, almost forgetting the boy who still glowered at him.

  "Wait! I want to know where I am and why are you... why am I... what do you intend to do with me?"

  Di Lido could not ignore the boy's distress, which he feared might cause a relapse into brain fever. He glided forward to the bed, hands pressed together as if in prayer, and waggled them up and down. "Dolce, dolce, lad. Oh, the impatience of youth! You are at Castle Mondejar, an ancient family fortress belonging to the Count of Tendilla and Figueroa, a most illustrious member of the great Mendoza family."

  "I see." Francho's voice turned dull. "His Grandness wanted his familiar comforts about him while the hangman puts my neck in the noose."

  "Hangman?" Di Lido tittered in amusement. "God's mercy, boy. Do you count it the normal thing for gallow's bait to be laid up in a princely bed with doctors dancing in attendance and all his comforts seen to with dispatch? Look about you, then; you must realize there is no question of punishment beyond that which you have already endured. In fact, your roguish deed has been quite forgotten."

  Francho clenched his teeth in frustration, still believing he was slated to provide a fatal entertainment, plagued by all this mysterious solicitude from men who but yesterday ordered him beaten and given over to the constable. "Will I be allowed to leave? To go back to Ciudad Real?" he tested.

  "Now, why would you wish to return to that insufferable hole? In any case we are many days away from Ciudad Real, and you will find the atmosphere at Mondejar much more elevating and pleasant."

  "Many days...? Then I am a prisoner here."

  "Oh, forbid, no prisoner at all. But be patient and you will know the hows and wherefores in good time, I pledge you. Now I must take my leave." He patted Francho's knee under the blanket, his small, sharp features warmed with a sincere expression. "Rest now and conserve your strength. I shall send someone in to attend you."

  Francho gave up, too weary to press the man further. From the doorway di Lido eyed him brightly and with sympathy and recited a Latin homily on the rewards of abiding with patience, to which Francho automatically replied in good Latin with the reversal, "He who waits too long to drink, drains the dregs." He did not care that the scholar's brows raised up as he left the chamber and that a delighted smile touched the man's lips.

  ***

  Tendilla's small study, sanctuary from the capacious proportions of Mondejar's public chambers, was a favorite withdrawing room for the Count, where he could study and meditate without distraction, surrounded by objects he enjoyed. One walnut-paneled wall was hung with intricately embellished dress armor and a collection of Toledo and Damascus swords and daggers. Along another a long bench supported use-worn musical instruments: cornettos, lutes, a rebec, and a portable organ. A niche in the wall held the Count's armillary sphere, quadrant, dividers, and triangle and plumb line. And everywhere there were books: stacks of bound and unbound manuscripts piled on table and floor, those on the writing table lying open with notes entered in their margin in a flowing script. The floor was warmed by a rich, patterned wool carpet. A fire in the corner hearth made the room cozy.

  Looking around the well-lit space, the Bishop of Avila noted how well the objects it contained reflected the many-sided personality of its owner, and he was pleased, as always, to be one of the intimates allowed a glimpse into this very private man. It wafted across his mind that the three of them meeting in this sanctum represented the same puissant coalition of secular power, religious faith, and questing philosophy that
had long ago propelled a small remnant of Visigothic Christians out of their mountain strongholds in Asturia to retake in only three centuries almost the whole of their native Iberian peninsula from the Moorish conquerers. It was a conceited thought, but he liked it.

  Now the Count turned from a cupboard from which he had been extracting a coffer, candlelight gleaming off the rich silk of his amber brocade doublet frothed with the white of linen pulled out through the arm and elbow slits in the doublet's tight sleeves. Smiling, the grandee deposited his coffer on the table.

  "If Your Worship is refreshed and rested from the rigors of the journey, would you care to hear of our most amazing discovery?"

  Talavera shifted impatiently in his chair. "May the Almighty forgive you, Don Iñigo, you have been talking in riddles for many minutes, and if it is your cruel purpose to whet my curiosity, you have succeeded. Di Lido, have mercy on these old white hairs and settle yourself so that we may finally hear the pronouncement of this prodigious news."

  "First a drop of spiritous wine, Your Worship?" the Italian, flamboyant in a large, crimson hat, offered as he also helped himself. "You may find you require it."

  He smiled as the Bishop, plump and ruddy-faced, waved a jeweled hand. "Proceed, proceed, señores, deliver me from your clutches."

  "Quite simply stated, my lord Bishop," Tendilla responded, arms folded casually, "I have found the missing Venegas child." He saw, with amusement, that Talavera reacted like a chubby cherub whose behind had been pinched. The faded brown eyes popped, the fingers spread wide with astonishment, the huge emerald ring on the prelate's thumb glittered green in the firelight. The rosy mouth worked, and finally the words sputtered out:

  "No! It could not be possible. We had exhausted every effort. We decided finally the babe had been murdered."

  "We were wrong. The boy is very much alive. We stumbled upon him not a fortnight ago."

  "But... I am dumbfounded. It has been—fifteen years. But are you sure? And where is he?"

  "In one of the chambers above," Tendilla replied, leaning back to sit, as was his habit, on the edge of the table. "He had recently an unfortunate accident which gave him a bang on the head and a fever. In fact his slow recovery has worried us, although Pietro tells me he is awake and greatly improved today. You will, I am sure, wish to see him?"

  "Most certainly, most certainly. But you must tell me the details, Iñigo. I am struck with wonder at this incredible happening. Where did you find him?" This time the Bishop speedily accepted the goblet di Lido proffered and took a generous sip.

  Briefly Tendilla recounted the circumstances which had brought the young cutpurse of Ciudad Real into his hands, relishing, now that his own emotions were under control, the incredulity with which Talavera greeted the story. At the end, with his rueful admission that the boy never did tell where he had hidden the stolen purse, they all broke into chuckles.

  "Ah well, 'twas worth the money to find this remnant of the house of Venegas, merciful God give his father peace." Talavera's face, having creased into a broad smile, now became more thoughtful. "But, my lord, how can you be so positive that this youth is truly Juan de Venegas's issue? After all, we must be certain."

  Tendilla patted the leather coffer he had put on the desk. "I have certain proofs here that I pray you to examine to clear your mind of doubt. Beyond this my strongest proof is the lad himself. Not only the close resemblance, but you will immediately recognize the singular scar we remarked on at the time of his baptism. Do you remember?"

  "Yes, yes, ah indeed, I recall it even now. A small cicatrix, like a little dagger?"

  "The curious mark of a dagger. His father believed it foretold of great military exploits for him."

  They were silent for a moment, each involved with his own memories of the tragedy of so long ago. At length Talavera heaved himself up to slowly pace the room, his hand plucking at the huge silver cross which lay on his broad velvet bosom, his brow furrowed. As he came abreast of Tendilla he made a gesture of agitation.

  "Might it not have been more charitable to leave him in peace, ignorant of his birthright? What can we do now for a child of Juan de Venegas? His estates, his grants, his patents have all been forfeited to the Crown. The very name Venegas is still anathema to Isabella, and she is guilty of the sin of pride. She does not forgive easily; her lust for vengeance is strong enough to extend even unto a youth who was a mere babe when she was acclaimed heir to the throne. My heart fears for this boy, who has been martyred on the wheel of his father's stupidity."

  "And yet you loved his father well, good Bishop," Tendilla reminded him.

  "Yes... I did. Before the Devil claimed him he was a generous, reverent man, innocent of guile. And for the sake of this memory and the gentle Jesu I shall take his son to my heart. But I tell you there is no hope of recovering the boy's patrimony. Of this I am certain."

  "No more than I, Your Grace. I am well aware of the Queen's attitude toward the issue of the supposed murderer of her brother. Yet sit down, I beg you. We may still pull more than one chestnut from this vexing fire."

  "Ha! I might have known you would have a clever plan, my dear Iñigo."

  The Count absently balanced his little dagger off one fingertip. "No, not yet a detailed plan, Your Grace, but an idea, a speculation that might benefit us all."

  Di Lido, lounging in a chair, eyes half-closed, punctuated his patron's words here and there with a silent but emphatic nod. Tendilla cleared his throat. His black eyes glittered, and two spots of color showed on the fine, high cheekbones.

  "It is clear that our war with the Moors is rapidly gaining momentum and that the near future will see an ever more bitter and bloody battle to push the Moslems entirely out of Granada and out of Spain. However, although there is no doubt in my mind that the forces of Their Catholic Majesties will eventually prevail, I realize it will be at a fearful cost." He pushed off from the table and began to pace up and down the chamber, hands clasped behind his back.

  "But when we do have Granada in our hands, Granada, so lush a Garden of Eden, the repository of many of civilization's greatest art treasures and scientific wonders— I mean to use every power I can muster to keep this magnificent prize from being ransacked by the governorship of the avaricious Medina-Sidonia, or the vengeful Cadiz. My purpose is to undermine their candidacy for the position, no matter how their great feats of valor in the field may impress the Crown."

  "Not to be compared to the brilliance and bravery of the victor of Alcala, my lord," di Lido reminded him.

  Tendilla waved away the compliment and continued, fixing the prelate with his piercing gaze. "If you suspect, Your Grace, that I am determined to be named, myself, first Christian Governor of Granada, so far in the future as the conquest may now seem, you are right. And, to administer along with me in the post of spiritual leader of the new territories, I would require a man of temperance and reason and justice, filled with Christ's boundless mercy for those to whom all wisdom was not given. A shepherd such as you, Father."

  Although the Bishop's faded eyes were keenly focused on his host, his smile was rueful. "I thank you for words, my son. I shall but give them back to you. How few of the nobility follow, as you do, the precepts of Our Dear Jesu, to neither rob nor rape nor murder, to deal fairly with fellow human beings, to wield power with love and God in their hearts. Not many, Almighty save us, not many." He sighed deeply. "Not even among my fellow religious."

  The Count circled Talavera's chair. "Then must we not actively prepare our campaign, using every subtlety we can command to place ourselves in a position to offer the most remarkable service in the struggle for Granada?" he asked intently.

  "Indeed. But by what method do we proceed?" Talavera was confident the brilliant Tendilla had already decided this.

  "Having worked hand in glove with me for many years, good Bishop, you are aware that often I am able to obtain, sub rosa, military and political information that has proved of great value to Ferdinand and Isabella. It is th
is unusual service, if spectacularly continued, which could ensure for me the governorship of Granada, along with the influence to have you appointed to the See." He paused to pour a bit more of the strong wine into his goblet.

  "Yes, yes. Go on, Iñigo..."

  "It is my hope to develop a fully reliable source of information emanating from the heart of the Kingdom of Granada, from the very Alhambra with the Sultan himself, as close to the seat of decision as possible, so that there is no enemy move contemplated that Their Majesties will not know, beforehand, through me." A touch of arrogance had colored the clipped, dry tone.

  "Aha!" The Bishop echoed Tendilla's decisive tone, though not quite as calmly. "But señor, you are seeking a miracle of duplicity. The Moors have so heavy a penchant for lying and betrayal it makes our intriguers seem babes by comparison. To dupe them, where will you find so wily, resourceful, courageous, intelligent, and selfless an agent, who would also be bribe-proof and completely trustworthy? The sword of deception cuts with two edges. We could as well be undone by false information."

  The Count folded his length into the high-backed chair behind the desk, expression concentrated into examining his own thinking as he spoke. "We have now a miraculous opportunity, see you. We have in our camp a boy, a person young enough to be completely trained and indoctrinated, a person who has already demonstrated a certain intrepidity by daring to steal my purse. He is a Venegas. His early education was with the brothers, and di Lido tells me he quotes Latin proverbs. God willing, he is not stupid. I believe, with work, we could shape him into the perfect instrument by which all of our plans may be realized."