Hart, Mallory Dorn

by Jasmine on the Wind

  My dame is a rose, a wild red rose.

  Red rose bloom perfect and joy to my heart

  But pluck it I cannot to hold to my breast,

  Sharp thorns are the nature that holds us apart.

  Dolores, Dolores, ay, cruel bright flower,

  Bloom sweet for me, lovely, if only an hour—

  Crossing the quiet Second Plaza toward his chamber, Francho yawned and shook his head to clear it of tedium. He hoped Selim had filled a tub for him, and what was better, he hoped Dolores might rub the knots from his neck and back with some oil. He had little time anymore to attend the baths. With the populace close to insurrection over Boabdil's attempt at capitulation and Muza Aben a real threat to the throne, the Sultan sat in his apartments alternately sputtering with rage or depressed; he demanded distractions of every sort, running Mustafa Ata ragged, and requiring Jamal ibn Ghulam's constant attendance. No matter. Francho had not visited Ali and Azahra for almost a month, and although he sent food by Selim and was told they fared well, he was determined to visit them on the morrow and let the distracted Sultan send in vain for him.

  Occupied by his thoughts as he opened his portal he did not see until too late the soldiers that sprang at him from either side of the chamber and gripped his arms.

  "What is this outrage? How do you dare enter my apartment in my absence," he roared, noting with some surprise the orange turbans and sashes that marked the men of the regular army. He shook off their grasping hands. "The Sultan shall hear of this unwarranted trespass."

  The leader of the three scimitar-armed soldiers made a sketchy salaam and handed him a sealed note. "Apologies, sayed, but we have our orders. You will please read the letter."

  Glaring at each of them in turn he broke the seal and scanned the paper. The message was brief: "To he who speaks with a golden voice: if you value your life you will follow my guards immediately and without protest. We have much to discuss. I have taken the liberty of removing your Christian slave woman to attend you here—or to be forfeit in case of your absence." The note was signed tersely, "Reduan." Francho felt the blood drain from his face and a wave of alarm raced through him, but in a second he had got hold of himself; the guards saw nothing but narrowed eyes.

  "You will come with us," the leader ordered and motioned him to the door.

  Numbly he shrugged in the face of their drawn scimitars. And even if he could get away from them, Reduan had Dolores and evidently enough information to warrant torturing her for whatever crumbs more she might divulge. The game seemed to be up.

  He allowed one of the soldiers to toss a hooded mantle over him to conceal his face, and he let them lead him along a little used gallery. The few passersby prudently averted their eyes not to be involved in these tense times; the obviously bribed palace guards along their way did not seem to notice the unauthorized presence of the army regulars. Groping about in the turmoil of his brain Francho decided he would barter his full confession in exchange for Dolores's freedom. He cursed himself for a selfish oaf for having involved her in his hazardous business when he could have left her in safety and perhaps even in ignorance of his very presence once she reached the royal harem.

  They loped down several galleries and through archways, finally passing around the kitchens and into an obscure back court, musty with disuse, rimmed by tall, old storage bins. With a large key the leader unlocked the door of one of these, and in the weak light of the man's small lantern Francho could see there were narrow steps leading down. Francho knew the Alhambra was veined with secret escape hatches built by centuries of Sultans fearful of being trapped in the palace, and this was obviously one of them. A push in the back sent him forward down the long flight of gritty steps, and they silently filed down a close, narrow stone passage, which he presumed led under and beyond the palace gates to debouch somewhere among the mansions of the aristocrats along the hill.

  At last a solid wall blocked their way. The guard fumbled at a stone and sprang the hatch of a hidden door that creaked outward. They emerged through the opening into a large, luxurious salon, and there, alone, sat the commander Reduan, cross-legged at a low, inlaid table. Casually Reduan motioned with his knife for Francho to sit on a cushion opposite him, at the same time with a jerk of his head dismissing the guards.

  Suspicious of the Moor's lack of caution with a man he knew was in a desperate position, Francho remained stiffly standing. "You wished to see me, sayed?" he asked in an even tone, maintaining his role.

  Reduan's cold eyes flickered over him briefly, then returned to the dish of cooked beans he was eating from the point of his knife. "Yes, Jamal ibn Ghulam. Or whatever your name is. I have a proposition to put to you."

  A muscle twitched in Francho's jaw. "A proposition?"

  "Just so. I have had my suspicions of you since that Christian prisoner escaped during the debacle at Albolodny. You have been observed since then but you have been clever. Now you are fortunate that I finally have my proof of your perfidy at a time when my attitude is much softened."

  "I have no idea of what you are accusing me," Francho stated. "But I ask you to remember the Sultan holds my person dear."

  Reduan glanced up sharply, putting down his knife with a clatter. "Don't waste my time and yours with denials, minstrel! I know you for what you are, an infiltrator and a spy. I could easily, secretly dispose of you here and now if I were so minded, or force a confession from you and give Granada another gory execution to rejoice in, and the powerless Abu Abdullah could do nothing to stop it. So spare me your pretense of innocence and allow me to get to the point." He jabbed his finger at a seat opposite him, a surprising invitation in the situation.

  Francho sat down on the indicated cushion and asked warily, "What makes you so certain I am a traitor?"

  "You think I am trying to bluff you into admitting more than I am really sure of?" Reduan asked. "Not necessary. I took a circumstance from here and a circumstance from there—would a performer with delicate hands fight a fire, or inhabit a rich apartment in the Alhambra yet spend much time at a house in the stinking Albayzin, or be unknown to any who came from the city he claims as his birthplace? The incautious Sultan allowed you to be privy to every military move we planned, many of which were shortly and inexplicably subverted by the untimely arrival of Christian forces, a result of obvious connivance."

  "Your pardon, sayed, but you build a deadly accusation on a base of air," Francho retorted. "The facts are I did not need to be a public performer in Malaga, I maintain a concubine I do not treat lavishly, and I dared to damage my hands by burns at Albolodny. Your circumstances mean exactly nothing."

  "Exactly," Reduan agreed, calmly wiping his lips with a damask napkin. He rinsed his hands in a gold basin. "And that is why you sit here tonight and not in a dungeon awaiting execution. For by the time the instrument craftsman Zemel gathered his wits and came to me with a tale which confirmed my suspicions of you, our food stores were already destroyed, our army decimated, and Granada's fate sealed, it seemed. Which immutable situation causes me to let you live." He filled a wine cup and pushed it toward Francho and then poured one for himself. "You are lucky the old man was brought to me and not to Muza Aben. The morning after the depots burned the old craftsman wondered why an ivy bed in his garden was badly trampled and why there were many footprints before the hatch to an ancient conduit there leading beyond the walls. But it was not until yesterday, several months later, when the doddering imbecile discovered the key to this tunnel was missing, that he put the rumor that the arsonists were not traitorous Moors but Spanish together with his discoveries and came to me at once to report it. He had no knowledge at all of the unlucky ibn Rasoul, but he indicated that only you had known of the old tunnel in his garden. You will admit I now had reason to observe you very closely?" Sarcasm twisted the pocked face into a sneer for a brief moment.

  Francho shrugged, admitting nothing. "What is unnatural about a musician frequenting the abode of an instrument maker? Had you another lutanist
on your list of possible traitors Zemel would have known him too."

  Reduan answered with a thin-lipped smile. "You struggle but the hook is through your gills. Allah be praised, just lately I have had another visitor, minstrel. It seems with lack of food in the city the snow gatherers had no incentive or permission to venture forth and risk capture. You lost your line of communication several weeks past, did you not?"

  A muscle jumped in Francho's otherwise stolid face, and Reduan gazed at him with hard-eyed triumph. "When you deal with the avaricious, ibn Ghulam, it is not wise to let them lack the smell of money. For an exorbitant price and promise of pardon—which he will not live long enough to enjoy—a blind beggar spit out an ingenious plan whereby secret messages had been passed from the city to the Christian commanders. He knew the agent only as 'he who speaks with a golden voice' but sensed he was a tall man and that a lad who carried most of the messages had slipped up once and said the name 'Jamal.' You see how it all comes together?"

  Reduan leaned back and sucked the shreds of his dinner from his teeth. Francho understood there was no evading the icy certainty in those eyes. He squared his shoulders. He had acquitted himself very capably in his mission. Now he would do just as nobly with the certain death that was the consequence of his unmasking. But first he must bargain for Dolores's safety.

  Keeping his eyes steadily on the shrewd commander's face he asked, "You mentioned a proposition? What did you have in mind?"

  "First confirm a little observation of mine. I have watched you salaam. You touch your fingers to your forehead and chest in the usual manner, but on occasion your hand automatically continues to the right before you catch it—in the habit of the Christian gesture of faith. It is a little thing, unnoticed by most eyes unless one were looking for such slips. You are not a Moslem. Perhaps not even a Copt of Arab blood. Who are you?" The demand was quiet but it seemed to ring in Francho's head like an iron gauntlet, and for a second he imagined the man's reaction if he announced that he too was a Venegas. Habit and caution stayed this confession, but a pulse pounded hard in his temples.

  He smiled as he set down the goblet. "Very well, sayed, it is obvious my only choice is to cooperate. I am a Castilian. Don Francisco de Mendoza, knight of the realm."

  Reduan's flat features showed some slight surprise. "Ah! But you make a most convincing Moor, Mendoza. Except for the slip of the hand I was ready to believe you are not only a spy but a filthy betrayer of your own people. I congratulate you on your successes. And I despise you for the harm you have brought upon this beautiful city. All of which is now in the past. You will now become a liaison between the Spanish monarchs and myself." Ignoring Francho's quirked eyebrow, he continued. "We have lost most of our provisions; we cannot beat your forces back from our gates. Let Muza Aben delude himself about help from Africa, I know this will never come about. I have done my best for Granada but I am not a fool. Cynical, an opportunist if you will, but unwilling to die or suffer exile for a lost cause."

  He pushed away from the table and rose, the caustic glint in his eyes the only life in his inflexible face, a glint as cold as the white sapphire in his cockaded turban. "Tonight I shall free you, infidel, to take an urgent warning to the Spanish camp, a deed which will surely earn you the highest gratitude of your rulers. In return you must give me your solemn word as a knight that you will inform them of my help to you and that I now place my hand at their disposal and my sword in vassalage. There is Castilian as well as Moorish blood in my veins, I bear a proud Spanish name. I have served one heritage well, only to have it come to the present chaos. Now, tell them, Reduan Venegas will serve the other. What small recompense I shall ask for my loyalty will be spoken of later. Bring me back their assurances and you may continue to operate unimpeded."

  Taken aback with this shameless defection Francho stared for an unbelieving moment. Then he nodded. "Your message will be clearly delivered, sayed, and you will receive all credit for your aid, my word on it. But further, I would like to deliver the Baroness de la Rocha from Granada by taking her with me."

  "Ah yes, the beautiful Christian lady you snatched from my harem's hospitality, ibn Ghu—ah, Mendoza. I did not take that too kindly, for indeed I knew to whose bed she was finally delivered, but I had more important matters at hand. The woman stays here. She acts as my hostage for your good offices. She will have the protection of my house and she will be treated with every respect and kindness. My word on it. Do not quibble, you have no time."

  Urgency was apparent even in Reduan's colorless voice and so Francho closed his mouth on his protest. "What is the warning you wish me to ride with?" he asked.

  "Your Queen habitually goes late to her private chapel for prayers before she sleeps. Tonight, when the moon sets, an assassin will murder her in cold blood," Reduan stated bluntly.

  ***

  Francho had to wait only a few minutes in a small chamber off Reduan's salon, but the delay caused him to chew the edge of his thumbnail. Soon he heard a tiny tinkle of bells and bracelets and Dolores slipped through the beaded curtain, pale and anxious.

  "Oh, Francho," she cried softly and ran to him, veils billowing. He clasped her tight, stroking her back to quiet her trembling, and then held her away from him.

  The tilted gray eyes searched his fearfully. "What is happening? Have they found you out? Are we to die?"

  "Listen to me carefully, querida, I have precious little time. You are fine, you are safe. The General Reduan has switched sides. He sees the eventual end to this conflict and offers Their Majesties fealty. He has given me some vital information and I must leave Granada tonight. You will stay here."

  "Here?" Dolores gasped. "With him?"

  "He would not dare to touch you now. His plans are big, and he is aware you are one of the Queen's ladies. You are safer being here in secret than returning to the royal harem, where, if I am discovered, the guards will come looking for you. Reduan will keep you in his women's quarters in comfort until we take the city."

  He could see her throat move as she swallowed. "Will you come back?" she asked in a small voice.

  "Yes. If the Lord will allow."

  Visibly she tried to stop her lips from trembling. "But will I see you when you come back? Francho—I have a terrible feeling that we will not meet in Granada again. That... that we are saying goodbye."

  She would be safer with Reduan from now on, even when he returned, and knowing this struck at his heart too, but he thought it better not to tell her. "Of course we shall see each other, hermanita, I shall return here in time to avoid any suspicion that I was ever missing from the palace. Don't be afraid."

  "I am not afraid. I am—deeply sad."

  He pulled her to him and pressed her head into his shoulder, and the faint scent of jasmine filled his nostrils. He closed his eyes in pain for a brief moment, not knowing what to tell her or to tell himself.

  From without Reduan's toneless voice warned, "You must leave, Mendoza."

  She raised her head to him and he kissed her, hard, tasting salt mingled with the sweetness of her mouth. The memory of the happiness she had brought him whirled up in him, the reluctance to know it was ending plucked at his heart, and in alarm for the acute sense of loss that threatened his composure he put her firmly away from him.

  "Adios, querida mía. Sleep peacefully tonight."

  "God go with you, Don Francisco. Always," she whispered. He turned on his heel to erase the image of her proudly held, stricken, tear-stained face.

  Chapter 28

  The events of that night seemed to Francho in retrospect to have rushed by like the wind, so much was crammed into the few hours between midnight and dawn. Reduan and a small escort rode with him to the same seldom-used gate in the wall that Boabdil's secret peace ambassadors had used. Accustomed to recent spurious comings and goings, the guards obeyed their commander's request and quickly swung open the portal to let the muffled rider through, having been given the passphrase, "Le Galib ille Allah" to readmit him. Francho t
rotted out, trying to keep the noise of his passage at a minimum, and headed his mount down the hill, picking his way slowly through the loose stones that littered the old path down the slope. Finally gaining the level fields, he dug in his spurs and sent the animal into a headlong gallop toward the winking torches on the timber walls of Santa Fe two leagues distant.

  He believed he would make the camp with time to spare before the moon set, if only the angels were watching over Isabella and saw that she did not retire early. With the dry comment that his sources of information were often efficient, Reduan had told him that in lieu of stained glass the window of the simple chapel was covered by a heavy parchment. A candelabra within threw the shadow of the Queen kneeling at her prie-dieu upon the parchment, and anyone lurking outside could see her silhouette clearly. This night, Reduan's uninflected voice had droned on, a crossbow bolt was going to pierce both parchment and Queen before anyone could prevent it, accomplished by an assassin hired by Moslem fanatics.

  Francho bent low and spurred his horse on unmercifully, the muffled hoofbeats on the turf accompanied by the racing of his thoughts. He was riding not only to save the precious life of the Queen of Castile but also the lives of the Alis and Azahras and the other ordinary Moslems he had met and whom he had grown to understand and like. The death of Isabella would be a fatal blow for them, for their eventual conquerors in their grief would rend every Moor in the city limb from limb. His mantle whipping about him, he lay along the horse's neck and urged her on. The Barbary stretched her legs and flew across the wastes of blackened fields and stubbled orchards, only by some miracle avoiding holes and trip-ups.