Hart, Mallory Dorn

by Jasmine on the Wind

  ***

  Francho's nose was out of joint. The headquarters hall for communal feasting had been hastily enlarged for the banquet but even so there was not enough room for all to be accommodated at the long U-shaped tables and so almost one hundred of the newer knights and untitled younger sons were asked to arrive later to dance and watch the entertainment. Francho was one of these.

  When he was finally admitted to the hall it was already stuffy with the odors of the many-coursed meal, the cloying perfumes of the guests, and the flat smell of a vast number of tallow candles. The Queen, of course, had brought with her all the royal accoutrements of luxury and so the tables were covered in silver damask sprinkled with rose water, the service was of heavy, gleaming wrought silver, and after each course of delicacies—roast peacock, seared hare, venison with leeks, pickled swans' tongues, and spicy curries— golden basins of perfumed water and lace-edged napkins were offered the greasy-fingered diners by scurrying and sweating lackeys. Above their heads from the rudely hewn rafters stirred the silken banners of all the great houses and orders of Spain in a profusion of colorful chevrons, bars, castles, lions, gazelles, casques, coronets, fleurs-de-lys, and crosses; insignias of pride, courage, and the determination to prevail.

  Francho ground his teeth in chagrin when a quick scan of the crowded tables showed him Leonora seated with the Count of Perens—Felipe de Guzman. What did he care for the antics of the Queen's jester or her ugly Nubian dwarf, for the jugglers and their hoops, or the gaudy gypsy dancers festooned with beads who stamped and swirled to the insistent music of tambourines and castanets, or the poet who fought against the boisterous din of chatter and laughter, drawing arpeggios from his minstrel's harp and intoning his passionate verses of welcome to the Queen, "To stand as high, as high to stand, Isabella as Ferdinand..."?

  What did he care about anything except that Leonora was chatting so animatedly into the cool, stiff-lipped insolence of the damnable Perens? There were several ladies at the tables trying to catch his eye, but he did nothing but bite the edge of his thumb and wish the cursed entertainment over with.

  At last from the overhead balcony the recorders and viols struck up a dance. Everyone rose from the tables, which were then carried back out of the way. Isabella, looking especially attractive in a flowing brocade gown and miniver-edged tabard, her chiffon-draped hair crowned only with a small, jeweled tiara, was led forth in the grave and graceful pace by a very solicitous Ferdinand, followed by a number of ladies and gentlemen.

  To Francho's relief he saw Felipe lean toward Leonora and say something to which she smiled only politely, after which the man rose and made for the entry to the hall. Francho's grin was wolfish again. One couldn't drink wine and ale all night and not need to visit a convenience, a circumstance he had been counting on to clear his field. Immediately he pushed his way through the throng to Leonora's side. She was dazzling in an amber velvet gown clasped with a tasseled belt strewn with topazes. Her honey hair was coiled into an openwork amber velvet cap encrusted with seed pearls, leaving bare her graceful neck and smooth, white shoulders. She was delicate and appealing, and her sunny, dimpled smile was drawing gallants from various parts of the room like a fragrant blossom draws bees. But Francho reached her first.

  He offered his arm. "Will you honor me, Doña Leonora?"

  "With much pleasure, Don Francisco." She nodded, and pink crept up her ivory skin as she took his arm.

  The music changed and they joined the lightly stepping dancers in a galliard, moving down the room to the sprightly tempo. Francho swore to her, "I have existed all day on your promise of the first dance, and the bedeviled day seemed like a year." His tender glance spoke volumes as he gazed down at her.

  "Well, it was naught but mere curiosity, sir, that kept me thinking of you. You were my pupil in stepping this dance at Castle Mondejar, remember? And so I was wondering if you had forgotten the measure," she teased him, expecting a playful answer.

  But Francho's sense of humor was wanting that evening. He was so determined to talk to her privately he had no time for playing. "Leonora," he plunged in, "tomorrow night there is a requiem mass. Pretend you are ill and you won't have to attend. At nine of the clock the guard's hut to the left of the small portal in this building's west wall—'tis the same side as the wall over there where hangs the tapestry of Diana the Huntress—that hut will be unoccupied for a short time. Will you meet me there?"

  "At night? But my dueña?"

  As they switched hands on a crossover step he quickly and unobtrusively drew a tiny packet from his tight sleeve and pressed it into her hand, with silent thanks to Pietro di Lido's scientific blessings on romance. "The little packet contains a sleeping draught. You can get it into her somehow, empty it in her wine or her food."

  Leonora's eyes went round but she struggled to keep surprise and doubt off her face. "Will it harm her?" she fretted.

  "No, it will only make her sleep like a dead one. And with everyone at the church you can slip from your chamber unobserved. Leonora? Querida? I must speak with you alone, even for a few minutes. Please." And with a lover's desperation he demanded, "You must come."

  For a second her expression remained unsure. Then her brown eyes went soft and she nodded, looking up at him affectingly through her lashes. With a smooth movement she slipped the packet under her tight belt, just as the measure signaled a change of partner. Then the line of women moved forward as the line of men moved back.

  This particular step was performed twice, and then twice more in reverse, so that Francho resigned himself to losing Leonora to two more partners before he retrieved her again at the end of the dance. But he enjoyed dancing. The rhythms challenged him to display the beauty of the music in the grace of his step and bearing. His new partner turned out to be a warmly smiling lady in a butterfly hennin of gold and silver cloth, the Viscountess of something or other, he couldn't remember, but she stepped lightly and was pleasant to share a few words with. The measure signaled change again, the lady tossed her head coyly at his light flattery and moved ahead. He stepped back and bowed to his partner for the next figures.

  A small shock ran through him as he found himself staring into Dolores's appraising gray eyes.

  "Buenos tardes, Don Francisco," she murmured as she laid her hand on his arm. She was a shimmering vision of beauty. Her high-waisted gown was of heavy satin the color of almonds, as was her matching tall, jeweled coif and the net into which her reddish brown hair was thickly twisted and coiled. A flashing gold necklace with an amber drop pointed up the flawless beauty of her bosom. There was even, in fact, a smile curving her wide, lovely mouth. But it held no warmth.

  "My lady." Francho coolly inclined his head, although he felt jolted by her unexpected nearness. Surreptitiously he studied her as they moved, but her perfect and composed profile gave him no clue to her mood with him. Since he was determined to make amends with her, he had a feeling that his safest course was to totally ignore their wordless exchange last night about her card-playing habits and act as if it had never happened. So, there was nothing for it but to plunge in.

  He cleared his throat. "May I presume you received my short letter in Seville, Baroness? I have hoped all these months that my sincere apologies were accepted."

  "If you wish the truth, I thought it the apology of a coward."

  "A coward? I do not take your meaning, doña."

  "You saw fit to give your insults directly into my face. How craven that you could not do the same with your apologies."

  They turned opposite shoulders to each other so his gaze was directly down at her lovely features, although she did not raise her eyes from a point at his shoulder. Somehow, in her ungracious reply, he heard a tiny echo of the Dolores he once knew and he felt more confident. In fact, he felt faintly amused. She was going to extract her measure of blood and he might as well prepare for it. "I was forced to make a written apology because time was lacking to me, yet it was a most heartfelt missive. Besides, I did not
think you would wish to receive me again, Doña Dolores." He was carefully formal with her.

  Again they brushed shoulders, but in opposite direction. The long smudge of lashes rose. She was attempting to keep her glance empty of expression, but for Dolores this was a struggle, and so he caught resentment—or was it exasperation—before she dropped her lids on her luminous eyes.

  "It was not a matter of seeing you again, Don Francisco, it was a matter of hearing directly from you how abominable had been your greeting to me, a friend of so many years. I think in that way, and only that way, can we find a better footing for a courteous acquaintanceship."

  Since he wished for them not to be enemies, he did not mind giving her the deference she exacted. Yet he had the feeling there was more to her demand than just to humble him; that at the least she did not find his company odious, and that at the most, she felt as dangerously drawn to him as he had been to her. The idea was intriguing, in spite of himself.

  The figure, almost finished, called for him to take Dolores's fingertips and lead her around in a graceful arc. He did so, then watched her face, for he had to wonder, in spite of her fixed, flinty smile, if the hot fire launched by the touch of their hands that raced down his arm and now burned in his belly had assailed her too. Satan take the wench! She seemed to affect him as swiftly and drastically as a cup of poison. He would be wise not to go near her. But he owed her some courtesy and that was what he would deliver.

  "If it is your wish that I bring you directly my most humble apologies, if that is what it will take to restore our friendship, then such will be my pleasure, doña."

  "As you please, señor. This time the arrangements will be in your hands." Her smile was a little warmer now, even though the profile she turned to him again was still haughty.

  "So soon as the proper opportunity presents itself, my lady," he promised, ignoring the tingle of excitement that the idea sent down his spine. The figure ended and now he went forward and she, back, but first she turned her black-lashed, quicksilver eyes up to look into his for one devastatingly charged last moment.

  ***

  The next morning Isabella insisted that she and her ladies be taken upon a complete inspection tour of the camps both north and south, excepting only the outposts where a revolving complement of commanders and troops acted as buffers against the frequent and fierce Moorish sorties. The tour was to be conducted by her own dear husband and co-ruler himself, and a good many noblemen and members of the Royal Guard came along as escort.

  Isabella knew there were roses in her cheeks; she had not felt so energized in a long time. Her husband was sometimes a rough lover for he did not realize his own strength, but he obviously had missed her much and so what did she care for a few tiny bruises? To judiciously run the affairs of a sovereign state was exhausting. How often her ladies had finally tucked her up at night and offered to read to her to rid her weary head of buzzing problems, when it was not reading but the comfort of her beloved's strong arms she really longed for. Looking about her it amused her to notice, too, that the husbands and lovers who rode along with the tour that day were also unusually cheerful in spite of the early hour. She suspected so long, isolated, and uneventful a campaign had enhanced the charms of even the homeliest wife, and a conspiratorial smile lit her classic features.

  Dolores had dressed very carefully that morning, hoping her face did not show the ravages of too much wine and dancing and only a few hours of sleep. But leaving nothing to chance she had tucked back her auburn hair into a green and silver turbanlike headdress that emphasized the sparkling beauty of her tilted gray eyes, and she had wrapped herself in a new, flowing cloak of silvery fur. Soon after the tour of the camp began she deliberately pulled up her horse so that Leonora's mount finally came jogging abreast of her. Leonora smiled formally, then pointedly transferred her attention to the row of barracks they were passing. Dolores knew why Leonora even bothered to smile. The Duchess of Medina-Sidonia had been in very poor health all summer, and if she conveniently died, rumor had it that the Duke was thinking of marrying his beautiful, questionable Baroness, and in that case would give her a title and precedence to be reckoned with. And in Dolores's opinion Leonora de Zuniga was one of those who felt it best to play the game safe.

  Dolores kept her horse at a walk beside Leonora's mount. "We have a magnificent day for the inspection, don't you agree, Doña Leonora?" she asked blandly to open a conversation.

  "Oh... yes, it's quite brisk."

  "The Queen seems intent upon seeing every stick and stone, I fear, although I would gladly change this saddle for a pillow before the fire. Her Majesty has a remarkable vigor; she led out almost every dance last night until far into the morning, and now she will not let us rest until she has poked into every corner." Dolores stifled a yawn.

  Leonora glanced at her sideways. Mother of God, she thought, this gypsy-faced female is a shallow dish! But she responded, "The Queen feels a great responsibility in this campaign, Baroness, having done as much to secure it as any commander in the field. Surely her avid interest in the results of her tremendous endeavor is understandable."

  Blood of a Saint, thought Dolores, this dimpled little paragon is completely bereft of a sense of humor. "Oh quite—of course. And how does the Infanta this matin? The vapors have left her, I hope?" She had noted that Leonora had had to leave the fiesta early the night before to attend to the Princess and her overgorged stomach.

  "She is recovered, God be thanked, but the doctors enjoined her to keep to her couch in order to regain her strength."

  Dolores smiled as if it mattered to her. The conversation lagged for a moment. Then Dolores remarked casually, "Poor Don Felipe was desolate when you had to leave the dancing so precipitously last night." She drew from her sleeve a flimsy kerchief embroidered with the antelope insignia of the de la Rochas and dabbed at her nose innocently.

  "Indeed?" Leonora's glance was cold.

  "But you needn't trouble about it, we had a long, long chat and I convinced him that you couldn't help your absence, and soon he was in fine fettle once more."

  Leonora's color rose. "Most solicitous of you, Baroness, but I assure you Don Felipe needs no explanations of my behavior. I pray you leave my own affairs to me."

  "Oh tut, perhaps I was presumptuous, but after all, he is the son of my dear friend the Duke, and I could not bear to see his face so gloomy. And I did you a good turn in speaking for you; Don Felipe was laboring under the impression you had—ah—another interest, and you know he stands above competition. But you see, I jested him out of it and we had a pleasant time—he is an excellent dancer— and now you need not worry that he is angry."

  Leonora's face was stiff, haughty, her nostrils flared out with silent anger. "I do not worry about Don Felipe or anyone else, I assure you."

  "Well, I would if I were you, if you care for his company." Dolores's smile was pure venom. "My Lord Perens brooks only so much injury to his pride and then he will look elsewhere for praise. But, since you indicate that you are not that interested in him, he will have even more need of my—ah—sisterly comforting. It puts the Duke in good humor to see his son happy; and I am infinitely interested in the Duke's good humor...."

  "You go to great pains to imply that Don Felipe is also attractive to you, in spite that you are—ah—a dear friend of the father."

  "Ah yes, well that is because there is no spice in stealing coppers from a blind woman. It's too easy...."

  Pleased with the glimpse of distress she had raised in Leonora's eyes, Dolores smiled and nodded archly, then wheeled her horse out of line and trotted further forward in the train, the silvery fur of her cloak ruffled in the wind. Now, she thought smugly, that should confuse the little milksop's aim a bit. And she was hugely pleased with herself.

  No sooner had she ridden away than Francho cantered up to Leonora. His charger was covered to the fetlocks with a velvet rig embroidered in the castle-and-bar device of the Mendozas crossed by the jagged red bar of the bast
ard. The hard, steely gleam of a cuirass showed under Francho's open cape, and he sported steel greaves and gauntlets and elaborate, gilded spurs on his boots.

  He peered into her face, and for the first time Leonora noticed that his eyes, usually amused, could go cold and hard, and that the mouth that spoke such poetic and eloquent flattery could also square into a rigid, uncompromising line.

  "What did she say to you?"

  "Who? The Baroness de la Rocha? Why—why nothing."

  "Does nothing always bring such a droop to your lips? Such lines to your brow? What happened?"

  Leonora immediately rearranged her face and smiled sweetly at him. "Why nothing of import, Francisco. She merely made a remark on the Infanta's early departure from the celebration—a remark I considered very unkind, and I told her so."

  "Oh. Was that all?" Francho's voice was gruff.

  "Indeed it was. I have no interest in making chatter with her, I do not care for her type." Leonora's eyebrow arched. "But do you know her? I mean, more than just being merely presented? And why are you so anxious about what she may have said to me?"

  Francho felt foolish to have let the sight of Dolores talking to Leonora undo him. He mustn't let himself suffer the fear that every time Dolores addressed a word to Leonora she was venting a spite on him. "I know little of her, we have spoken maybe ten words together. It was only because you appeared so disturbed that I wondered what had passed. I cannot tolerate the least unhappiness to touch you, don't you know that, doña?" Now the sapphire blue eyes had softened into the tenderness they usually showered upon her.

  But perversely Leonora remarked, "I must say she is a beauty, certainly. But gaudy. She is much acclaimed by the troubadours of the Court, and Medina-Sidonia showers her with expensive luxuries."

  Francho was anxious to drop the subject of Dolores, and so, leaning over, he made a detailed accounting into his love's pretty ear of how much more exquisite were her own charms. And in fact, her creamy ivory face framed by blowing wisplets of honey hair escaped from her russet coif-and-wimple, her smiling cheeks stung a pretty pink from cold, was more complimented by the clear, hard daylight than Dolores's exotic allure. Francho set his mind to dwell upon how good Leonora's small, pretty mouth would taste to kiss in the fresh, cold air, would all the spying humanity around them simply vanish.