Hart, Mallory Dorn

by Jasmine on the Wind

  But he repeated the set response in a confident voice, swearing to uphold Church and monarchs, swearing loyalty, obedience, and service of arms, swearing good faith in the upholding of the responsibilities of his patents. He went to his knees again as the Grand Cardinal rose and blessed him, extended a jeweled cross over his head, and then, taking a ten-pointed coronet from a pillow held by a page, passed the crown three times over Francho's head, chanting in Latin. The coronet was returned to the pillow.

  "Rise, my lord Granada-Venegas of Olivenza," Ferdinand rumbled. "Not many have the privilege of bearing two illustrious names during their lifetime. We charge you carry out the noble promise of both, and your monarchs will be well pleased. God preserve you."

  Francho made a low and sweeping bow and then backed away. He felt a terrible urge to disappear, to get out of the too-familiar Audience Hall and far from the curious assemblage. The ceremony continued as he turned and strode toward the door through a path of whispers opening for him. He saw Tendilla and di Lido from the corner of his eye but did not look toward them. He also caught Haro, the Grand Constable, with a face white as the belly of a fish, but that one could wait for another day. The visage of his good friend Pulgar came into his line of sight, grinning in amazement. But he kept his own face closed and intent, and his brief cape billowed out as he hurried through the door, hastening only to be by himself and try to calm the nameless upheaval the ceremony had triggered.

  He thought of the peace of the willow glen where a carefree minstrel had strummed to the fish in the stream and eaten his simple meal; a greensward, alas, now just part of the bitter, scorched earth about Granada. He wanted back the fine, small chamber and garden off a certain gallery here in the Sultan's palace where waited Selim and Dolores. Dolores—

  Grinding his teeth in anger at such useless memories, he paced through the Second Plaza and started across the sparsely populated breadth of the First Plaza, where stood the strange intrusion of a temporary wood-and-stone chapel which had been swiftly erected, and it was then he heard Leonora's panting hail and realized she had been running to catch up with him.

  "Francisco! Wait. Wait for me—please!"

  He waited and she arrived, breathless, holding up her skirts, her pearled headdress catching in its satin sheen the thin reflection of a sun struggling through an overcast. He offered his arm to steady her and she clung to it. The troubled golden brown eyes sought his.

  "Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't my mother tell me?" she cried. "How different everything could have been if only you'd taken me into your confidence."

  "I had taken an oath not to reveal my name. Nor was I confident the queen would even reinstate me. I wanted to save you the torturous suspense I suffered and the disappointment if fortune ran against me. I was trying to shield my sweet innocent lady from ambition raised by suggestion —a laughable tenderness in view of events."

  "Not so laughable as misguided, Francisco. It would have given me the courage to wait for you for two years—five years even..."

  "Is there a set schedule, then? A lady waits one year for a knight, two for a viscount, three for a marquis, and as much as five for a wealthy marquis? And does it add a few months to each allotment if she waits for her heart's beloved instead of a man chosen solely for his rank? Your mother gave you no hint because it was her duty to see you as highly connected as she could arrange. It was only up to you to refuse, or to at least drag your feet."

  Her mouth drooped. The tip of her pert, small nose seemed to redden. Anxiously she pressed closer to him. "Francisco, I beg you not to be cruel. That very night that I told you about my betrothal I realized the depth of my mistake, for when I saw you again my heart almost leaped from my chest, and I knew I had given up love to embrace unhappiness. But it was too late to withdraw, I thought. The contract was being drawn and my promise had been given. I... I was even afraid Don Felipe would seek your life and so I sent you away." Her eyes searched his hopefully for a moment, and then their soft, deep amber depths filled with appealing warmth. "But that is all in the past. What is done is done and obviously irredeemable. I merely wanted to be the first to offer my felicitations on your elevation—my lord."

  She dropped her gaze modestly and made him a deep and deferring curtsey, which displayed not only respect but the lovely round curve of her white bosom pushed to swelling by the low neckline of her fur-edged gown.

  He found it almost funny how deftly she had changed the tenor of her attitude at their last meeting from disdain to sacrifice. Ah, Leonora, little calculating one, your haste is so unbecoming. What struck him was his realization that, for all her failings and his own immature and romantic flights of fancy that had turned a woman into an angel, after all was said she probably did love him, for Perens was still heir to a dukedom, by any measure a cut above marquis, and also to a vast fortune. And what struck him harder was his peculiar lack of feeling anything more than the boost to his ego. Her fawning lifted his spirits. But where was his heart? He did want her, didn't he?

  "Doña Leonora!" They both swung around to see Felipe de Guzman, hand on sword hilt, stalking up to them. The Count of Perens's hail had been so harsh that the guards stationed at the plaza gate glanced furtively from under their iron hats at the stiff trio. "Your behavior enrages me, lady. I do not take kindly to the public insult of having my betrothed leave my side to pursue another man. Return to the ceremonies at once!"

  Francho stepped in front of Leonora, placing himself eye to eye with the fuming Perens. "My regrets for your tender sensibilities, Don Felipe, but do not dare to again command this lady in so cavalier a manner. She is not yet married to you; she owes you no obedience. I strongly suggest you yourself return to the ceremonies."

  Felipe's pale features arranged themselves into the snarl-smile of the baited wolf. "Ha! The new lord Olivenza takes much upon his hero's shoulders today—a name, a title, and a damsel already promised to another man. Best enjoy the gains you already have, Granada-Venegas. Trespassing on my grounds will remove you from them with a blade through your belly. Do you come, doña?"

  Pulgar and de la Cueva had arrived in the plaza hoping to find the new lord Olivenza and bear him back to the ceremonies and the festivities that were to follow. De la Cueva hastily pulled his companion up and they halted a bit away, warily eyeing the scene before them. The players in the tableau stood for a moment like wooden statues against the backdrop of the flamboyant arabesque traceries carved on the red walls and the incongruous, rough-hewn little chapel. A wind smelling of rain blew up, swirling dust about the plaza still bereft of its former throngs of merchants and strollers, riffling the feathers adorning Francho's felt toque, fluttering the chiffon draped over Leonora's headdress, flattening Guzman's doublet against the long muscles in his thighs.

  Leonora looked helplessly from one to the other of the grim men glaring challenge at each other. "Don Felipe..." she began, "I... I don't quite..."

  "You don't quite understand, but I do, doña. You underestimate me. You shall not make me look a fool before the entire Court. To me you are betrothed and to me you shall be wed. After that you are welcome to a long, lonely time to regret the fairweather dance you have led me."

  Other courtiers straying in knots from the long ceremonies in the packed hall to get a breath of air drew close, fascinated.

  Guzman flung out an arm and shoved Leonora back from the space between him and Francho. She managed to gasp out a placating, "Felipe, please, you don't..." but Guzman was smiling thinly at Francho. "Your father was a scabrous, craven traitor, an assassin. No royal proclamation can wash that stink from your name, and no grateful rewards can obscure that you have inherited that same talent—for murder." Two red spots burned on Perens's pallid cheeks.

  "This time we'll finish it, dung," Francho exploded, his rage mixed with a corrosive relief for the deliberate provocation. He yanked at the gold cord and ripped off his cape as Perens leaped back, his weapon half out of its elaborate scabbard. But Francho was having none of
it. Shaitan take the rules of gentlemanly conflict. He wasn't practiced enough yet with the sword; Perens could best him and he didn't feel like dying. He whirled the cape and flung it out violently, and saw it envelop his opponent's head like a huge, flapping bat, staggering him back and stifling his yell of rage. Francho lunged right after it and with a vicious, long-legged kick at the arm that had managed to draw the sword free sent the weapon flying as Perens clawed frantically with his other hand at the tangled cape. It finally came away, but Francho was already on him, caring nothing for the shocked cries of the spectators, who took his rapid and unorthodox action to mean he was going to skewer the man while he was blinded.

  Together they went down with a great animal grunt of breath, the steel across their chests clashing together, rolling over and over on the tiles. Perens recovered quickly and Francho found himself pinned down under a face pulled up into a rictus of hatred and grappling with hands that were straining to meet around his windpipe. But Francho was more prepared to wrestle than he was to duel. Slowly his superior strength forced apart the demoniacal, quivering grip laboring to strangle him. Grabbing some air into his starved lungs he heaved up, bucked Perens over, and flung him to the ground, achieving the superior position and at the same time managing, with a quick twist, to pin one of the bucking man's arms beneath his body. This gave him the vital moment it took for him to draw back his fist, and with a hammering double wallop to the jaw that banged Felipe's head against the ground he pummelled the man into senseless oblivion.

  Francho got up, first on one knee and then to his feet. He stood for a moment frowning down at the blood leaking from the mouth and nose of a man who would never rest now until he had repaid him this humiliation, not until one of them was dead. People rushed up, some to inspect Felipe's condition and his own friends to lead him off a small distance, one of them furnishing a kerchief and urging him to swab at a small cut under his eye.

  In a swirl and swish of stiff silk Leonora ran up to him and grasped his arm in relief. "Oh, Francisco! Oh, how terrible. You might have killed him and then the queen would have punished you, and I would again be..."

  Breathing heavily still he looked down at her and suddenly felt drained by indifference. Was this the face he had once considered open, appealing? It was as if he could read written on her white brow the vacillating self-interest which would have mourned the death of either one of her cavaliers with equal intensity. Now the chastely fair, dimpled face just seemed empty. With a quiet tone that even surprised him he told her, "Go to Don Felipe, Doña Leonora. He is your betrothed. If he wakes with his head in your lap he will understand that all his suspicions and jealousies are groundless. Go to him, that is where you should be." Gently he removed his hand from her arm.

  "What?" B... but I don't understand," she stuttered, astonished. "I thought you wished me to break my betrothal. You fought Don Felipe for me."

  "Could I allow any man to insult you, doña? Even the one you are to marry?"

  Pique darkened her brown eyes, a willful tightening of the mouth stiffened her features. "I think you have played with my affections, Don Francisco. You have made me certain promises. I will not tolerate such behavior."

  "What affections, my lady? Those that led you to draw a marriage contract with another man?" He knew the lack of color in his voice was bewildering her but he couldn't help it. He really did not wish to hear her answer, he wished to be gone, to draw different air into his lungs, to leave behind this sad, accusing city and its discordant memories. "Fare you well, Doña Leonora," he said stiffly. "God give you happiness, cuz." He turned on his heel and, firmly waving away Pulgar and the others who had drawn apart to allow them a private conversation, he stalked toward the gates of the keyhole arch, rubbing at his swelling knuckles, disliking himself.

  Dolores had not seen the whole of the fight. The hall was so overcrowded and stifling she had only come outside to fan herself for a moment. But she moved quickly forward as soon as she realized who the protagonists were and stationed herself at a distance but where she could see, her fingernails unconsciously biting into her palms, her teeth clamped on her bottom lip. The combatants writhed and rolled and then, with a loud crack of knuckles smashing into bone, it was over and she saw Francho stagger up, his shoulders humped, his chest heaving for breath. She watched his friends pull him away from the supine Perens and then fall back themselves to allow him to receive Leonora de Zuniga's plaudits.

  Her lips trembled and pressed together to see them speaking so intently together, the tall, mussed man with the wind blowing back the damp, black hair from his brow bending over to rejoice with his small and exquisite lady whom the Count of Perens had obviously just lost. Not that she was not happy for him. She had been first shocked and then elated to hear the incredible saga the queen had revealed about Don Francisco de Mendoza who was thenceforth Don Francisco de Granada-Venegas; for all that, he was and had always been Francho to her. What ballad or epic could the minstrel Jamal ibn Ghulam ever sing more astonishing, more romantic than his own story. And now he had won his lady too. She imagined that perhaps Tía Esperanza and Ali and Azahra were looking down from their separate heavens and smiling. For they had loved him, just as she had.

  It was so hard to stand in this haunted, richly tiled plaza, to remember how, not so long ago, he and she had ridden out from here together, master musician and not so humble slave woman, on an outing to the bazaars; lovers, friends, grinning at each other, touching fingertips surreptitiously whenever they could because they had to touch.... A tiny whimper of hurt escaped her but she firmly forced back tears. No more crying. What was over was over.

  She was about to slip back to the Audience Hall when, to her astonishment, she realized that Francho had wheeled away from Leonora and was striding toward the gate with a stiff, angry set to his shoulders, nor did he stop when Zuniga ran a few steps after him and called his name, her face a mask of dismay.

  Francho was making for the palace gates, which meant he was coming directly toward her but without seeing her. In fact, as she stood accidentally rooted in his path in a borrowed gray brocade gown, her auburn hair swept into a green satin Turkish coif, he was suddenly upon her. Her chin went up automatically to help her sustain the impact of looking again into those familiar, intense, devouring blue eyes.

  Francho stopped short, his consciousness finally registering Dolores. In silence they stared at each other. Perhaps it was for a year Francho stared into the wide, luminous, tilted gray eyes that spoke so much so silently. And perhaps his own eyes spoke silently too. All sound, all sight, all the world disappeared around them. They gazed at each other in pain. He saw her lips part. He felt his heart constrict, his throat close up, he wanted to say, "I miss you." He wanted to say "I love you." But whispers of words he had said to others seemed to rattle in his head, lies, broken promises, evasions, they wanted to choke him and he had to escape.

  In a hoarse, hurting growl that was his only caress for that cinnamon-flower face whose dreams he had often watched over and yearned to share in the morning light, he grated, "There is no honor in me. God keep you always, hermanita." He slipped around her and in a stride that was almost a run disappeared through the arched gate.

  She stood there still and erect for a moment, staring straight ahead, not really seeing them lift Perens from the ground. Then her bosom raised in the first free, deep breath she had drawn in weeks. She did not smile, but the pulse was beating hard at the base of her tear-choked throat. Nothing was over yet.

  PART THREE: Andalusia

  Chapter 32

  There was crying in Granada when the sun was going down,

  Some calling on the Trinity, some calling on Mahoun;

  Here passed away the Koran, therein the Cross was borne,

  And here was heard the Christian bell, and there the Moorish horn.

  Down from Alhambra's minarets were all the crescentsflung

  And arms thereon of Aragon they with Castile's display.

  One K
ing comes in triumph, one weeping goes away.

  Farewell, farewell, Granada, thou city without peer...

  It was hot going across the high little meadow between the two great peaks, and Dolores was sorry now she had chosen to wear so heavy a gown. But it was one of her best, worn in honor of the reunion with her brothers. Ahead of her, Pepi's big, black mule seemed to know the route by memory, and her own mount placidly followed along.

  Pepi called back, pointing, "Do you s-see that outcrop there and the one opposite? L-lookouts are posted on them. B-But they won't b-bother us. Even their s-scabby eyes can t-tell it's me."

  The pretty, flower-dotted upland meadow narrowed as they reached the outcrops, and Dolores could see they would have to ride through a very tight passage leading to the heights again, and she wondered if her poor horse could take another sharp ascent in the heat. "I must say for Carlos he has chosen a good retreat," she declared, patting her forehead with a lace-edged kerchief as she urged her mount up to Pepi's. "Only an eagle could find him. It is like a jail without bars," she sniffed.

  "Forty-two blackguards with p-prices on their heads, with their women and children, you want them to live in the sewers of the city like rats? Here they eat and s-sleep easy. Sí, it's c-cold and lonely in the w-winter." He shrugged his narrow shoulders. "I w-would m-miss my noisy little taproom, b-but then, the constable is not scouring the countryside looking to hang me—"

  "Ho! Pepi! Who is it you bring with you?" a deep, disembodied voice yelled, making a menacing echo that bounced and rebounded off the rocks.

  "Who knows? The king's constable, maybe," Pepi yelled back, shaking his fist up at the outcrop. "You see the great army behind us, sloptail?" Out of the side of his mouth he hissed at Dolores, "S-see why I m-made you l-leave your escort in Boleita?"

  "Ride in," another deep voice approved from the opposite overhang.

  Their mounts plodded up the stony defile, rounded several sharp switchbacks, and after the last one trotted out onto a level and broad clearing before a rock slope pierced by natural caves which rose along a rugged little trail like the coops in a birdhouse. Some of the alerted brigands waited in the clearing to see what had brought their outside contact up the mountain in the middle of the month; they shouted out rough greetings to Pepi and got back as good. Dolores had to smile at the raisin-eyed, stub-nosed Pepi; he was Papa el Mono all over again, but with the fortunate addition of a sense of humor. She was really happy to be seeing her brothers once more. None of them had welcomed the fate that had forced their parting.