Captain from Castile

by Samuel Shellabarger; Internet Archive

  "By God, no!"

  ''Que pasa?"

  Pedro clenched his fists. The monstrous absurdity of the thing beggared language.

  ''Why?" he demanded. ''Why? What reason? They must have given a reason. What did they say, in the name of God?"

  "Say?" echoed Perez. "Is it for the Santa Casa to give an account of itself? Senor, no! It isn't in the habit of answering questions; it asks them." And with a touch of gallows humor he added, "I wouldn't advise Your Worship to wait for the question. Come on."

  De Vargas squared himself. The thought of his family behind the walls of the prison shut out every other consideration.

  "I'm going to the Alcalde, to the Bishop. They're Father's friends. They don't know about this. It's a mistake. They'll act at once . . ."

  '"Don't be a fool," put in Perez, forgetting rank. "What mistake? His Honor, the Alcalde, was at the Castle when Don Francisco and the ladies were brought in. Do you think the Bishop could raise a finger against the will of the Santa Casa? I tell you once more, senorito, you have no time to lose."

  His call last night on Ignacio de Lora crossed Pedro's mind. Could that have anything to do with it? Had his connection with the ill-omened business of Garcia brought him and his family under suspicion? Was the Inquisitor taking that way to cover up the bribe he had accepted? The Holy Inquisition! They were impious, ugly thoughts which two days ago would have been impossible.

  "I'll see Father Ignacio himself."

  "Oh?" said Perez. "In that case, I'm a fool for my pains."

  The dry note in the man's voice spoke volumes. Pedro stood shifting from one foot to another in a sweat of indecision. To whom could he turn? Among his father's friends, who would be able to take his part if the highest officials of Jaen were excluded? Had he not better head for the mountains, as Perez counseled, until influence could be brought to bear and public sentiment force a release? Perhaps, indeed, the arrest was only a mistake.

  But the walls of the Castle were thick, and even more insuperable was the fear of the Inquisition. Greater men than Francisco de Vargas —much greater—had disappeared from the friendly world into the cold shadow of the Holy Office, and no one had dared to ask too many questions. The King, perhaps, or a grandee—

  The Marquis de Carvajal!

  On Pedro's anguish, the name flashed like a beacon. Here was the one man in Jaen who might help. He was not an official, but his word had immense weight. He stood at the summit of the social scale in the district. His power would impress even the Inquisitor. Best of all, he had served with Francisco de Vargas in Italy and called him by his first name. That he was Luisa's father did not occur to Pedro at the moment. He was simply the natural refuge in this case.

  "The Marquis de Carvajal!" Pedro exclaimed aloud. "I'll go to him.''

  Perez drew back a step; he said nothing for a moment. Then hesitantly, "Yes, the Marquis—he's a big nobleman. If Your Worship has

  credit with him, perhaps— That's out of my line. Perhaps big noblemen stand by their friends against the Santa Casa. Your Worship knows best. I've got to hustle, or it's a twisted neck for me. Senor Cavalier, go with God."

  He was on the point of hurrying off when Pedro caught his arm.

  "Thanks, friend. I won't forget your kindness."

  "Forget or remember," said the man gruffly. "I did it for Gatana."

  "You'll tell my parents how matters stand?"

  "I'll do that. Adios."

  A great emptiness descended on Pedro when the other was gone. The fellow had at least represented human helpfulness and good will. Now de Vargas found himself in an almost unbearable loneliness, like a swimmer at sea, left to his single efforts.

  With a heavy heart, although painfully alert, he retraced his way uphill through the narrow, winding streets toward the Garvajal Palace. The familiar town had suddenly become alien and hostile. Every passer-by, fumbling towards him in the darkness, every beggar loitering under the overhang of a house, was a possible enemy. The scurr)' of rats in the gutter, the racing of scavenger dogs along the alleyways, the hunting scream of a cat, was enough to set his pulses racing.

  As he approached the palace, his first confidence in turning to the Marquis faded. What if he could not obtain an audience at this hour? What if the great man had retired? Pedro knew him only formally. He was not old or important enough to insist on seeing him. But if that were impossible, where could he hide for the night?

  The palace garden occurred to him as a possibility—if the gate was still unlocked. No one would think of searching for him there. And with that came the thought of his recent happiness. A half hour ago he had everything, now nothing.

  He emerged at last on the quiet square in front of the palace. It was shaded from the moonlight by a few plane trees. Rounding them, he stood looking up at the stone facade, massive and formidable, its occasional windows covered with thick bars like the front of a prison. It had nothing in common with the garden behind it but seemed as detached from that place of enchantment as the Gastle itself. Not a light showed; the building was wrapped in a ponderous, austere silence.

  Desperation goading him, Pedro at length summoned courage enough to approach the main door and lift the heavy ring that served as knocker. The crash of it broke the stillness of the night like a musket shot. It seemed to him that it must rouse the neighborhood, and he had the sense of an echo resounding in the hollowness of the palace. But

  nothing stirred. It took still more courage, after waiting a long while, to ply the knocker a second time.

  Continued silence. Then, without warning, a sliding panel of the door jerked open, and he could make out dimly a patch of face and two eyes through the grating.

  "Caramha!'' hissed a voice. "Who are you and what do you want? Vaya una hora de venir! Can't you see that lights are out?"

  "It's a matter of life and death," returned Pedro recklessly. "I must see His Grace."

  ''Whose life and death?"

  "A friend of the Marquis—my father, Francisco de Vargas."

  The porter gave an unconvinced gnint. ''Cdspita! His Magnificence has retired."

  "Just the same, inform him. He'll not thank you if you don't."

  Slowly, doubtfully, the panel closed, and Pedro remained in the moonlit stillness. He did not know whether the man intended to carry his message or not. Somewhere an owl shrilled; a watchman from one of the near-by streets called the hour. Pedro stood with his heart thumping. In due time, the watchman would reach the square, would want to know who it was in front of the Marquis's door. No doubt orders had been sent out for Pedro's arrest. Standing in the glare of the moon, he was perfectly visible.

  The monotonous call came nearer.

  Then unexpectedly bolts were drawn, and a section of the door opened.

  "All right," grumbled a voice. "Come in, but I warn you that His Grace does not care to be disturbed for trifles."

  A dim lamp, held shoulder-high, lighted the servant's bearded features and showed an expanse of stone walls. Pedro followed, as the man led the way through a cavernous hall and then to the right up a curving staircase to the second floor. Here a confusion of corridors branched out.

  "You're Pedro de Vargas, eh?" said the porter, turning into one of these. "Don Francisco has only one son."

  "Yes, Pedro de Vargas."

  He had an impression that a door on the left closed suddenly, as if it had been slightly ajar, and it seemed to him that he heard a low exclamation. But he was too absorbed by the approaching interview to think twice of it.

  His guide stopped finally at the end of the corridor, parted some

  hangings, led him across an antechamber, and announced his name to the candlelit twilight of a large room. Then he withdrew.

  It was a moment before Pedro could distinguish the huge four-poster bedstead in an alcove facing him at the end of the apartment. Some pieces of richly carved furniture, a vague portrait, the oaken mass of a wardrobe against the wall, were details barely noticed as compared with the bust of
the man propped against pillows within the curtains of the bed and visible in the flare of a couple of tall candles.

  The Marquis had drawn a brocaded robe over his shoulders, but he had not yet adjusted his nightcap, which remained at an angle. His eyes, still blinking at the light, his square beard and hooked nose, gave him a solemn, owl-like expression. He did not, however, permit the unexpected to roughen the perfection of his manners.

  "Draw near, young sir," he invited. And when Pedro stopped with a low bow and flutter of excuses outside the alcove, "No—here, if you please. The son of Francisco de Vargas has always the bedside privilege with me. That's better."

  Pedro entered the alcove, bowed low again, and repeated his apologies. Th€ Marquis gave a slight wave of the hand.

  "Do not mention it. I was not asleep, and even if I had been, I am always at your father's service. There is no one whom I more affectionately admire. what is the matter that concerns him? I gathered from my servant that all was not well. It is an honor that you turn to me; it will be thrice an honor if I am privileged to help. Speak quite frankly and be at your ease."

  Relief at this gracious welcome made Pedro's eyes smart. For the first time in the last hour, life seemed normal. He was once more the son of an eminent gentleman, and no longer helpless or friendless.

  As form required, he sank to one knee, though the Marquis made a gesture of protest.

  "Vuestra Merced is too good, too generous! God reward Your Grace! When my father hears of Your Grace's kindness, he will express his thanks better than I can. Vuestra Merced, the trouble is this."

  Confidently, he now told what had happened and poured forth his bewilderment. Naturally the Marquis, knowing his father, would realize that this arrest was all a preposterous blunder. No one was a more devoted son of the Church than Francisco de Vargas—a fact of public knowledge. That he should be accused of heresy made neither rhyme nor reason. But it was not his father who concerned Pedro at the moment so much as Doiia Maria and his sister. The shock to them might be serious, especially to a young girl like Mercedes, who had always

  been frail. He did not know what to do, implored the Marquis's counsel.

  The light of the candles turned one side of Pedro's hair to red flame, and Carvajal, who was an amateur of art, reflected that a portrait painter would have been pleased with the effect—that Venetian fellow, Titian, for example, whose work he had admired in Italy. Aesthetically interested, he looked more owl-like and benevolent than ever. When Pedro had finished his plea, he half-expected the warmhearted nobleman to rise from bed, summon his lackeys to dress him, and set out at once to effect the release of the prisoners, or at any rate to make his influence felt.

  There was a long pause, during which Carvajal fingered his beard.

  "My dear boy," he said at last, "believe me, you have my complete sympathy. I am more than touched by your distress. It grieves me too that Don Francisco and Dona Maria, together with your charming sister, should be temporarily detained. Tomorrow I have pressing affairs, but next day it will really give me pleasure to make inquiries. Meanwhile, as you say, it is probably a mistake which will clear itself in a short time."

  He sipped his words as if they were honey.

  "Vuestra Merced — '' Pedro gasped.

  Carvajal flowed on. "If it were a case before the civil courts, I might be more helpful; I might even be able to do something. But the Holy Office is a different matter. What right has a layman to intervene in spiritual affairs? As good Catholics, we must have utter confidence in our Mother, the Church, and render her complete obedience at whatever personal sacrifice." The Marquis raised a forefimger in admonition. "The Holy Office is charged with defending the purity of the Faith; it must protect the fold from taint. Perhaps something in your parents' lives—"

  "Your Grace knows them! How could there be anything!"

  Carvajal shook his head. "Ah, my son, you are perhaps blinded by natural affection. I say there may be something in your parents' lives or in yours, for that matter, or even in mine, of which we are unconscious, but which would not escape the keen eyes of our Holy Mother. In that case, we must bare our backs to the scourge and humbly beg for correction to the salvation of our souls. Yes, my son, even if that correction meant the destruction of our base and fleshly bodies."

  It was plain that the Marquis enjoyed his own sermon. He spoke in a solemn cadence and turned his eyes up at the crucifix which hung facing him between the curtains at the end of the bed.

  "Thus, with complete assurance, we may entrust this affair to the

  saintly Inquisitor of Jaen, Father Ignacio de Lora, a man who beatifies our city with his presence."

  Mocking echoes stirred in Pedro's mind: "Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty," accompanied by the clink of gold. He felt a growing tautness along the spine.

  "If there is no guilt," concluded the Marquis, "your parents will go free. If there has been sin, you should rejoice at the expiation. Far better a temporal than an eternal punishment; far better—"

  "How many go free?" Pedro demanded. "Does Your Grace know of any, guilty or not—"

  ''That, my son," interrupted Carvajal with the utmost gentleness, "is a rebellious, nay, an impious question. It reflects on the integrity of the Church. No doubt everyone, if closely examined, is guilt)'- of sin and deserves some punishment. The reverend fathers are too conscious of their mission not to do all they can for the souls of those who come under their notice. But it has happened, I believe, that more than one has been discharged free from blame. I hope that this will be true of your parents."

  Pedro's hope had turned to lead, but a growing ferment of anger sustained him. He got to his feet.

  "Your Grace's advice then—?"

  "Is to rely on God, my dear boy, and on the justice of the Holy Office. I shall do all in my power, all in my power."

  De Vargas controlled himself, though his voice thickened. "What would Vuestra Merced suggest for tonight? Our house has been occupied. If I turn to an inn, I'll be arrested. I have no place to go."

  In view of the fine promises, he could at least expect that the Marquis would offer him shelter for the night. Because of that, he had to keep his temper.

  "No place to go?" Carvajal repeated. "My son, you have one place above all to go. You should proceed at once to the Castle and give yourself up. It will tend to show your innocence; it will be an act of filial lovalty to your father. You should support your parents in their hour of trial."

  Undoubtedly there was weight to this advice. Perhaps, indeed, surrender was the best course. But an alarm began sounding in Pedro's head. Give himself up? Deprive his family of the only voice left to take their part outside of prison? He wanted to think that over.

  "It's a late hour," he hesitated. "Would Your Grace generously allow me to remain here until morning? I shall then decide—" But at the look of astonishment on Garvajal's face, his words faded out.

  "Young man, what you ask is impossible. It would expose me to the gravest charges. You should know that anyone who shelters a person sought by the Inquisition is considered equally guilty. Allow me to point out that it is indelicate to make a request which I must, of course, refuse."

  Indelicate! A smother of heat submerged de Vargas. He thought of poor Manuel Perez, who had risked his neck to save him, while this stuffed effigy of a grandee, his father's avowed friend, declined the most trifling help! But he mastered himself.

  "I shall then take my leave, Your Grace. Vuestra Merced has been exceedingly kind."

  The irony made no dent on the Marquis's self-satisfaction.

  "You are quite welcome. It is a pleasure to advise the son of an old friend. If there is any service I can render, please call on me. And present my affectionate regards to Don Francisco and Dofia Maria. No doubt they will soon be at liberty. I take it you are now going to the Castle—the best plan."

  Pedro did not enlighten him. He felt that another minute of that honeyed voice would lead to murder. With a stiff bow and a half-smothe
red buenas noches, he turned out of the alcove.

  "Buenos noches, my dear boy," answered the Marquis, raising his eyebrows at such abruptness. "If you will wait in the anteroom, a servant will attend you to the door. Farewell."

  He pulled the tassel of a bellrope languidly; a remote tinkle sounded. Then, being drowsy, he snuffed the bedside candles himself and relaxed on the pillows. He was conscious of having graciously fulfilled the duties of his position.

  But Pedro did not wait in the anteroom. He could find his own way downstairs, por Dios; and with long strides, jerky from anger, he followed the dark corridor towards the entrance hall. If he had been less headlong, he might have heard a light step hurrying in front of him, as if someone had left the anteroom just as he entered it; but he had nearly reached the hall landing when he was startled by a touch on his sleeve.

  "Sefior de Vargas," whispered a voice. "Senor, one moment."

  Even in the darkness, he recognized Luisa de Garvajal and the perfume of her dress.

  She led him across the threshold of a room to the side, which was vaguely lighted by a single taper. Evidently the place, a sort of antechamber belonging to a guest suite, was not used at present.

  "I had been saying good night to my father when you came," she whispered. "I heard you give your name to the servant."

  She still wore the dress of brocaded silver and the jeweled net over her hair, but to Pedro it seemed a very long time since they had met in the garden. His anger with the Marquis was suddenly forgotten.

  "I had to know why you were here," she went on; "I listened in the anteroom. Ay Dios, how awful! What are you going to do?"

  "I don't know," he answered dully.

  Footsteps approached along the corridor. She pushed the door to and stood with fixed eyes and one hand at her throat as the lackey answered his master's bell. Then, a minute later, the servant, discovering that the light in the Marquis's room was out, returned grumbling along the gallery.

  She drew a breath when he had passed. What if he had caught the glimmer of the candle in her hand! The new self which had awakened in the garden, the new pulse beat of independence, struggled against the habit of her doll-like training. What if anyone should find out that she was here in a room with Pedro de Vargas! She turned faint at the thought.