Hart, Mallory Dorn

by Jasmine on the Wind

  Dolores stood with a group close to the dais but to one side. Her hand was supported on the burly arm of Medina-Sidonia. She was regaling the Count and Countess of Cabra, Don Juan Garcia de Padilla, master of the military Order of Calatrava, and the Duke's son and heir, Don Felipe, with an account of the furor caused by two of the Queen's favorite ladies who coveted the same chamber, when a subtle murmur of interest swept through the throng. She stopped in mid-sentence as she noticed some heads turning.

  "What is it?" the Countess of Cabra asked, too short to see past several backs to the space that had opened before the dais, but noticing the cessation of conversation between gentlemen who had been talking together on the platform's steps.

  "Nothing," remarked Don Felipe, the Count of Perens, staring with pale eyes at the three men who had just arrived before their monarchs. "Tendilla and his newly recognized bastard."

  No one noticed Dolores's eyes widen or heard her sharp intake of breath, for all gimlet-eyed curiosity was bent upon the young man who stood with such confident grace between Tendilla and Pietro di Lido. She thought that she might faint. She thought she was going to laugh or cry. She finally, at least, remembered to close her mouth.

  He was slim yet muscular, taller than Tendilla but with hair just as dark curling against his neck. Blue eyes flashed like sapphires against a pale olive complexion, his determined chin underlined a strong, sensuous mouth. A short, loose, plum velvet jacket with fur-trimmed hem descended from broad shoulders and had wide armholes that showed a tight gray doublet underneath. Steel greaves pointed up the muscles of his calves. A silver-hilted dagger rode one hip. He carried his plumed cap under his arm, for only grandees were privileged to go hatted in the royal presence.

  "Para todos los santos!" Dolores breathed out softly. So, it was Francho. He had grown into a man, he projected the composed haughtiness of a grandee's son, but it was a face that had never left her thoughts, and after four years or forty she would recognize him at the ends of the earth. Her head swam as she stared at him and she blinked hard to dispel an urge to tears.

  Medina-Sidonia absently took her arm so they could move closer, within earshot of the dais. She glanced up at the Duke's intent profile. The large, heavy-jawed face endeavored to show only ordinary interest, yet he was gripping her arm much too hard, enough to bruise her. The rivalry between Tendilla and Medina-Sidonia for military supremacy had been recounted to her in Madrid, but this was her first real appreciation of its virulence.

  Ferdinand was holding a document just delivered to him by the Grand Constable. He raised his eyes from scanning the report as the three courtiers at the foot of the dais swept low bows. "Ah, you have arrived at an excellent moment, Don Iñigo," the Prince of Aragon and joint ruler of all Christian Spain boomed out. "I have wonderful news here from the foundry at Huesca on our heavy bombards." Still in his early thirties and strongly built, although already carrying a paunch, Ferdinand rose so that his voice would carry to others of his military commanders who stood nearby. "My lords, our cannon will be delivered in April, a full four weeks ahead of schedule. Fifteen new cannon, each a fearful three ells in length and capable of hurling marble shot weighing more than a man." The hawk-nosed face had suffused with a triumphant flush. "A great feat for our foundry! And an even greater surprise for our enemies."

  Amidst the excited chatter that went up around the hall the military lords closest to the throne, Villena, Cordoba, Medina-Sidonia and Cardenas grinned like wolves.

  Tendilla, dressed in black and silver, with a rolled-brim turban trailing its velvet tail down his elegant back, made a half bow, hand on heart. "Most excellent, Your Majesty, such news warms the blood. If it please you, I should like to peruse the reports of the foundry master." He smiled his approving but stiff smile.

  "Certainly, my lord. I shall have them sent to you." The lines on either side of Ferdinand's mouth deepened and then relaxed again. "For once, sirs, we shall come before our objective fully armed and capable of blowing our enemy to their heathen hell should they be stupid enough to oppose us. I am tired of the antique weapons our chronic lack of funds has forced upon us."

  Don Iñigo sought to continue Ferdinand's mood of jubilation. "This year will bring the enemy many unpleasant surprises, Sire. I have a communication from my dependence of Murilliano on our eastern border where until now the levies were light. This summer I am pledged at least two hundred more foot and thirty more horsemen in time for our early offensives."

  "Good, good," Ferdinand nodded, reseating himself.

  "But I beg your indulgence a moment, my lieges," and here Tendilla's suave address included both rulers, for the Queen's attention was also upon him. "With your kind permission it would honor me greatly to present to you my natural son, Francisco de Mendoza." And with his accustomed grace he now made a low bow.

  Isabella's chestnut hair was caught in a gem-sparkled, stiffened gold coif that rose like a halo around her face. Her alert eyes surveyed this favored courtier with more than a hint of curiosity. Answering for both herself and her husband as she often did, she responded, "It is about time we were allowed a glimpse of this offspring certain tongues have been wagging about. We are pleased to receive him. Bring him forward, my good lord."

  Tendilla turned to Francho and gestured for him to approach, and Francho was both surprised and pleased to see the gleam of pride in the Count's dark eyes. He moved forward smoothly, with the litheness of a well-trained gladiator, and sank upon both knees, head bowed. His heart was pounding so loudly he thought all must hear it, but he intended to acquit himself well.

  "We welcome you to our Court, Francisco de Mendoza," Isabella's mellifluous voice sang out from before him, where she sat elevated on her gilt throne. He raised his head and smiled into the mild blue eyes that warmed the ivory oval of the Queen's comely, unlined face.

  "Indeed, we are ever pleased to embrace the issue of the distinguished house of Mendoza," Ferdinand added. "Pray, rise up, young man."

  With a fluid movement Francho rose, and he knew the picture of the two powerful monarchs before him would never be erased from his memory: Ferdinand in his gold-embroidered calf-length tunic sitting relaxed, as if appreciative of this calmer moment in his day, and the glittering Isabella leaning forward to peer with keen interest—or perhaps only because she was somewhat myopic. Their genial attention was focused upon him—upon him who might not have imagined such a circumstance in his wildest inventions, upon him, a cutpurse who would have been dead by the hangman's noose or by beating if a small mark on his back had not brought him to stand in honor before his rulers. A wave of gratitude flooded through him toward everyone in his life who had nurtured him, from the unknown servant who had spirited him away to San Martín Ignacio and Tía Esperanza, and Don Iñigo, now looking on so grave and proud. If the depth of his warm feeling for these friends shone from his eyes and was interpreted by his monarchs as the ardor of loyalty, so much the better.

  He placed one hand to his heart in salute. "Gracious Majesties, it is my fervent prayer that you will accept my pledge of fealty and my promise to be your most humble and loyal vassal as long as I shall live. It will be my duty to serve you faithfully with the help of God and to address myself always to the honor and pride of Christian Spain." He spoke out firmly, his modulated baritone carrying to the ears of those who were watching.

  Isabella looked into the intense blue eyes, studied the startlingly handsome face, and approved. Beauty at her Court pleased her, especially in those who could divert her prettier female subjects from coquetting with their King. "The pride and honor of Spain are built upon such stalwart and courageous gentlemen as you, young sir. We gratefully accept your pledge and extend to you the privileges of our Court," she intoned. The formulas of courtesy being done with, she shifted into a subject close to her heart. "We are informed by your esteemed tutor Maestro di Lido that you have lately completed a most rigorous course of studies and acquitted yourself with excellence. We congratulate you upon this. If we a
re to progress among the nations of Europe we must both refine and add to the gentler aspect of our civilization. The nobility is where the appreciation of knowledge must begin."

  Francho relaxed slightly, one knee bent, a hand resting lightly on the pommel of his dagger. "It pleased me to gratify my instructors, Your Majesty. But I confess I gave equal effort to perfecting my dexterity with weapons, that I might help vanquish the Moorish scourge from our land." As he had hoped, Ferdinand eyed him with greater interest.

  "An admirable ambition," the King rumbled, "for in serving us you will have ample opportunity to indulge your hankering for battle. We have a multitude of gallant caballeros, but not so many that another of their breed is not greatly valued."

  "I am an instrument of your wishes, Gracious Majesties," Francho murmured. "It will be my hoped for goal to excel both on the battlefield and in the pursuit of erudition."

  Ferdinand raised an eyebrow. "A tall order, methinks, although one already accomplished by your sire, my lord Tendilla. We wish you success in emulating so lofty a gentleman."

  "Most kind, Sire," Tendilla murmured modestly.

  Isabella favored Tendilla with her tranquil smile. "You are fortunate to have discovered this amiable scion, Don Iñigo. He pleases us well."

  Ferdinand's attention had not left Francho. "We shall hope to have you within the ranks of God's champions in this season's campaigns, Francisco de Mendoza. The endeavor heats up. With our new armaments and determination we will show the world our power to finally drive the Moslem from this continent."

  "It is my most fervent wish to distinguish myself in your eyes, my liege." The polished words just flowed of their own accord from Francho's mouth. He was blooming under the approval of both pairs of royal eyes.

  "God have you in His holy keeping until next we meet, young sir." Isabella's measured tone seemed like a benediction. "And see you that no evil befalls your fair promise."

  It was hard to believe, Francho thought, that this calm, intelligent woman of such gracious demeanor was the same implacable ruler who had years ago mercilessly condemned to death both a man and his tiny baby, but he forcibly relaxed the momentary stiffening of his smile and wiped clean his mind of such useless reflection.

  The interview was at an end. Bowing and retreating backward Francho withdrew to the side with Tendilla and di Lido, amidst a soft buzz of conversation.

  "He favors Tendilla in looks," Ferdinand observed to his wife.

  "Yes he does. And no. There is something about the eyes that vaguely recalls someone...."

  "Is the mother known?"

  "Don Iñigo is a man of honor. And a closed mouth. A country gentlewoman, my ladies gossip. Perhaps."

  "I have an idea we shall not be deprived of incidents relating to that young man," Ferdinand muttered. "He has the look of a hotblood."

  Isabella put a beringed hand on his arm. "He reminds me of you, dear husband, when first I laid eyes on the dashing young Infante of Aragon, so tall, so stalwart. Only you were much more handsome. And so you still are."

  Ferdinand merely grunted through the indulgent smile on his lips and then gave his attention to another leather-clad courier who had slipped through the crowd and now strode to the dais, drawing a sealed parchment from his leather pouch.

  ***

  "You spoke well, Francisco."

  "I am happy I did not disgrace you, my lord. My knees were shaking."

  "Then you are a facile dissembler, for you seemed quite calm. A good beginning, my cockerel. Their Majesties have marked you well."

  "I feel like a butterfly just come from a cocoon," Francho grinned, but he had to save his other thoughts for later for they were descended upon by the first of the finely dressed courtiers wishing to pay their respects to the prestigious Tendilla and acquaint themselves with the new member of the Mendoza clan. He was presented to the Count of Cifuentes, the Marquis of Villena, Cardenas, master of the great military Order of Santiago, the young, immensely rich Duke of Infantado, a nephew to Tendilla, the warlike Bishop of Jaen, the King's illegitimate brother who carried the title Duke of Villahermosa, and a number of others. Many were mighty names that he had heard celebrated for valor in the long Moorish campaigns, but disembodied names only until now when the men themselves stood before him courteously acknowledging the introduction.

  He stood easy as he spoke to each one of them, but behind his fine manners he was still stunned to be in such exalted company.

  "Cielo, I do suddenly feel faint," Dolores exclaimed, swaying a bit, certain her face was pale if only from the uncontrollable fluttering of her stomach. "It is much too warm in here. I should like to return to my chamber." She had noticed the Countess of Cabra, preparing to suggest they all go over to the circle around Tendilla. She had no intention of confronting Francho amidst all these people. He might even give her away in his astonishment. Actually the control of the situation was hers for the moment and she enjoyed the feeling. She would pick the time and place for their reunion. Something dramatic, of course....

  "You do look ashen, my dear," Don Enrique agreed, quickly offering his arm. His face had arranged itself into blander lines. "You should lie down. People have lately been taken with bad congestions and perhaps you have been exposed."

  Behind him Dolores was aware of Felipe de Guzman's cold, pale eyes on her. The young nobleman flipped back the fringe of thin blond hair from his eyes with a characteristic gesture of his head. "Yes. It is always better to get off one's feet. If one is ill." The innuendo in his voice infuriated her, but she would give his veiled rudeness no satisfaction. She raised her chin and smiled, although she met his stare with gray eyes gone steely.

  The Duke inclined his head toward Cabra. "You will excuse us, my lord. We will put off the pleasure of having Tendilla's son presented to us until another time," he declared. An imposing, heavy-jawed presence, Medina-Sidonia turned and with stately dignity led the drooping Dolores from the crowded hall.

  His son, Perens, looked after them, no expression on his face. Then he strolled toward a knot of his friends, leaving Cabra to stand by himself irresolutely while his Countess bore down on Tendilla's group like a ship in full sail, the ample veil draped from her horned hat puffing out behind her.

  ***

  Because they were the newest of the Queen's ladies, the chamber shared by Dolores and Luisa, the Countess of Zafra, was quite removed from the Queen's own apartments. Luisa's big, carved bed, which would soon contain both her and her husband until another chamber was found, was placed against a wall decorated with painted arabesques, while Dolores's bed, hung with green velvet drapes, took up another. As Dolores slipped through the door she was pleased to see that Luisa was elsewhere and that she had the cramped room all to herself. Grabbing up a pillow she flung herself stomach first on her bed, all un- mindful of the delicate coif of stiffened and woven gold braid that was knocked off her top-knotted hair and rolled to the floor.

  She hugged the pillow to her convulsively, uttering little squeaks of happiness, wallowing in the disbelief and joy of finding Francho again and trying to encompass the reality that Francho, her fellow pickpocket, had truly been a lost Mendoza, a byblow of the lofty Count of Tendilla.

  Ay, mi madre, how he had grown tall and handsome. Not to mention broad-shouldered, proud, and rich. To think that the skinny urchin sick with heat and hunger that Tía Esperanza had picked off the floor of the inn, and who had become her childhood friend, hers and Carlos's and Pepi's, a slick rascal in a too-tight tunic and wrinkled hosen, was the present caballero Francisco de Mendoza! What would he say, what would he think when he saw her, herself so transformed? Would he remember with any of the tenderness, which had still not faded for her, of their last meeting in the gloom of the stable when she had given him her virginity?

  Turning over on her back she stared thoughtfully at the stretched green velvet canopy. She had just attained seventeen years, and still the true love that women's hearts seek had eluded her. At Torrejoncillo there had been
men who had wanted her, for one the crippled knight to whom poor Blanca had been promised, for another the poltroon steward representing Medina-Sidonia, not to mention the great Duke himself when he finally decided to deal personally with this stick-in-the-spokes of his plans. And in the half year she had resided with the Court not a few titled gentlemen had slipped her longing poems of their own creation and claimed her jealously at dances, and looked deep and pleadingly into her eyes. But even though their ardor was somewhat furtive, since few wished to take on Medina-Sidonia, it delighted her vanity.

  Still, she had felt no love for any of these, no sweet contractions of the heart like those she remembered from her one experience with her fifteen-year-old lover, no burst of adoration. Granted that was long ago and she had been a naive child; perhaps she had lived through too much travail since and sustained too many shocks and her capacity to love was gone. Perhaps she would never feel her body stir with as much desire for a grown man as it had done, that once, for a youth.

  She squeezed her eyes closed to rid herself of that train of thought. Her goal was to hoard up enough money for a fine marriage dowry and make a secure life with some worthwhile, wealthy gentleman. Love was secondary.

  She thought once again of Francho and pictured him as she had just seen him, standing poised and confident before Their Catholic Majesties, so different from her own tongue-tied introduction to the Queen. A wave of pride for him washed over her. He was a part of her decimated family. He was almost like a brother or a cousin. He was a lost love. And he was here.

  A sudden jab of doubt darkened her gray eyes. What if he should want nothing to do with her? What if he gave her an icy reception, caring nothing for yesterdays? He was born with noble blood, after all, and now he was a young gentleman, polished, elegant. What had he to do with a smudge-faced, red-kneed pickpurse? He might even detest her deception and give her away, for, it suddenly came to her, he was one of the very few who knew the truth of her. Well, she would slap him hard right in his smug face, el picaro! El perro! The miserable scum, she would kick him hard in the gut, she would...