He sat gazing at the lighted candles on the table.
At last Don Francisco said, "It has been so with us, Maria. We have been one flesh, nay, one soul. I count that the best that life has given
me.
Seiiora de Vargas answered him with her eyes. Then, getting up, she went over to Pedro and kissed him.
"We want only your happiness, my son. If this marriage irks you—"
He shook his head. "No, as the word's used, I love Luisa de Carvajal. We'll be happy as most. We're betrothed. I want to marry her." Seeing the pain in his mother's eyes, he added, "We'll be very happy."
He lighted a bedroom taper from one of the candles on the table, kissed his mother, bowed to Don Francisco, and bade them good night.
They sat for a while troubled. As Sefior de Vargas said, "Time heals wounds, my dear; it cannot rub out scars. He'll carry this one to his death. But, like it or no, scars are the lot of every man."
LXXV/I
Exercising Campeador next day, it was perhaps not altogether accident that Pedro chose the mountains rather than the campina and at last drew rein before the Rosario tavern. Like the ocean, the mind has its obscure, uncharted currents. He had not planned to visit the Rosario, yet here he was; and, being here, he turned for old time's sake into the courtyard.
At once a commotion started. Lubo, the venerable watchdog, whose powerful memory and sense of smell were the same, gave welcoming tongue and tried to renew the gambols of his prime, though in a rheumatic fashion. Other dogs, taking their cue from the chief, barked in aimless politeness. A couple of the ostlers hurried forward with broad grins, while newer hangers-on, who could not claim acquaintance with the great lord, stared and drew closer in hope of a largess. Almost everyone knew who he was, for Pedro's entry into Jaen with the cavalcade of gentlemen and the wondrous Indians had been a public event.
"Ha, Tobal! Ha, Chepito!" he greeted the ostlers. "How is it, lads? It's been a long time since the last time, eh, hombres?"
He tossed a handful of coins among the expectant onlookers, swung from his saddle, and clapped the two grooms on the shoulder, while at the same moment Sancho Lopez appeared in the doorway of the taproom. The innkeeper's bullet head had become grizzled in the past four years, and his paunch had grown rounder, but otherwise he looked shrewd and businesslike as ever. He advanced beaming.
"Captain de Vargas, Your Worship, sir, welcome! Welcome to the Rosario!"
"My old friend!" said Pedro, extending his hand. "Como estd? How goes it, Sancho? By the mass, but it brings back the old days to see you!'
Indeed it brought them back, as did the dark, malodorous taproom into which Lopez ushered him. For an instant he half-expected to see the vivid figure of Catana, tankards in hand and rose in hair, materialize out of the gloom, or to hear the hot drawl of her voice. There was the table where he had first talked with Juan Garcia, and there he had sat bound between the two troopers of the Holy Office. The pelting of memories sobered him, as he followed the innkeeper to a more private corner in the rear beyond the benches of noisy patrons. They stared at his broad shoulders and fine clothes. Then the word passed that this was Captain Pedro de Vargas, and they stared again.
Stretching his legs under a table, he relaxed, and prevailed on the embarrassed Lopez to sit opposite him.
"No excuses, Sancho. We've been friends too long. ... I see that custom's good. Let's have a flagon of your best, and give me the news."
"Nay, that's all on the side of Your Worship. The Rosario hasn't changed, as Your Worship sees. I grow older. Times are bad on account of the late revolts, and the mountains are full of rascals. That's all the news. Your Worship."
A buxom country girl brought wine and made eyes at Pedro, who grinned at her absently, his mind on the past.
"But first," Sancho Lopez went on, "if Your Lordship permits, I would respectfully drink to your betrothal with Her Grace Dona Luisa de Carvajal and humbly wish long life and happiness to Your Lordships."
"Thanks, Sancho." De Vargas leaned back against the partition which formed the corner of the room. "Thanks. So you've heard of it already?"
''Como no! The town's buzzing with it."
"Yes, I suppose it would." Pedro drank, then added: "By the way, Catana Perez would have sent her love if she had known I should be seeing you. You'll be glad to have news of her."
Lopez nodded. "She'll never be forgotten at the Rosario. The country people have a ballad about her and Hernan Soler, and how she went overseas to find Your Worship."
"She's a great lady in New Spain, Sancho, highly honored by the company. Though truly she's a great lady anywhere." De Vargas paused a moment, then added, "The greatest I've known." A dry bitterness crept into his voice. "You see, my friend, one of the biggest jokes in life is that you learn most things too late."
But, though the innkeeper looked at him inquiringly, Pedro did not elaborate. Instead, he launched into an enthusiastic account of New
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Spain: mountains, forests, plains, resources, prospects. "There's the country, viejo."
"I recall, sir, that Senor Garcia talked the same way."
"And he was right. Juan Garcia is right about most things. Yes, there's the country."
"Do you expect to return, Seiior Captain?"
Pedro stared at the bottom of his wine cup, then filled again and drank.
"No. Things to keep me here, you understand—at least in Europe. Family reasons. But curse me if it'll be easy, Sancho! It gets into the blood. You long to fill your lungs with Mexican air. You close your eyes and hear the sound of the sea on western beaches."
"Then is Your Worship staying in Jaen?"'
"By God, hardly! I leave this week for Valladolid on General Cortes's business to the Emperor. . . . His Majesty has but now returned from Flanders. . . . Afterwards, marriage, Sancho. And then I hope for service against the Moors or in Italy. Catch me staying in Jaen!"
"But if you're married, Sefior Captain?"
"It isn't marriage that will stop me. ... By the way, Sancho, you recall our friend de Silva?"
"Do I recall him!"
"Well, he's at court. They say he's climbed into the saddle again. I've a long score to settle with him, homhre.''
Lopez pinched his chin. "I wish Your Worship the best of luck. Theman's a swine."
De Vargas showed mock surprise. "You don't tell me! I seem to remember that once—it was after the attack on Catana in the upper meadow, you recall—you said you knew something about this cavalier which would keep him quiet. Now, if you cared to tell me anything that might help, I'd be thankful."
Sancho's unshaven face had turned inscrutable. It was a moment before he answered.
"No, Your Worship. Did I say anything like that?"
"Yes, you said you knew him when he was younger and that he knew what you knew. Therefore you were safe. Surely you recall."
The other forced a laugh. "It's queer. I know nothing about Diego de Silva. Your Worship may have dreamed it."
"Perhaps," Pedro shrugged. "Well, it makes no difference. This time we'll settle accounts. I heard in Seville that he had been taken by the corsairs on returning from Cuba, that he'd stolen a small ship in
Algiers, killed several of the pirates, and got back safe to Malaga. Everybody was talking about it. I wouldn't have believed he had it in him."
Lopez shook his head. "Maybe. I don't know. But, sefior, be careful."
"No hay cuidado" de Vargas grinned. "It is written: don't teach your grandmother to suck eggs."
Having finished his wine, he was on the point of standing up, when a thought struck him. "Look you, Sancho, have you nothing of Ca-tana's here? Something you could give me for a keepsake? If you had, I'd be indebted to you, friend."
The innkeeper pondered. "No, Your Worship, I fear not. She took the little she had with her."
"Think, Sancho, a knife she used, a dish—anything."
Suddenly Lopez's eyes quickened. "By God, yes, Your W
orship. Her cup, if I can find it."
"Her cup? Fetch it here! God help you if you can't find it!"
"I'll look, sefior."
Pedro waited in suspense until Lopez returned, carrying an object in Iiis hands. It was a pewter tankard. Sancho pointed to some letters scratched on the surface.
"See—her name, they tell me, for I can't read."
Pedro gazed in rapture at the scrawled letters, inverted as some of them were: Catana Perez. He fondled the cup between his hands. Her lips had touched the brim. Could he not imagine when drinking from it—
"But look here, Sancho, she hadn't learned to make the letters then." The picture crossed his mind of Catana laboring over the sheet of bark paper in the Zapotec country worlds away.
"No, sefior, but she had Paco, the muleteer, who is a learned man, cut them for her. She liked ever to have her own cup to herself."
Pedro pressed it against his mouth. "I take my oath that I shall drink my night draught from no other cup as long as I live. Thanks, Sancho! Thanks!"
He dipped into his purse, but the innkeeper put out a hand.
"No, sefior. The thing's a trifle. If it pleases you, I'll take nothing."
"You'll take ten pieces of gold, Sancho, which is all I have by me. I wish I could fill it to the brim. Nay, friend, it's honor I'm paying to the cup. How could I repay you! Here."
And while Lopez stared at the glittering castellanos, Pedro's eyes were on the pewter mug. He kept gazing at it as he walked out through
the taproom, then put it carefully into his pouch before saying farewell in the courtyard and mounting Campeador.
But he had not ridden far toward town when he drew it out again.
Cat ana Perez, badly lettered. The muleteer was not a very learned man after all. But what did that matter? The cup represented Catana. Nothing glittering about it, nothing elegant, scarred by the rough-and-tumble of daily life, serviceable, durable, without pretense. Simply an honest cup. And yet he fancied that wine would taste sweeter from it than from any other. He fancied—
A swift scuffle of horses' hoofs startled him. He looked up to find himself the center of a ring of troopers. It was at the turn of the road beneath the Castle. Even if he had not been absorbed in the cup, he would probably not have seen them.
At once he thought of the mountain rascals Lopez had spoken of, but he saw immediately that these men were not bandits. They wore white and red baldrics trimmed with gold, the imperial colors. Their equipment looked professional and official.
Resistance was out of the question even if he had been prepared for it. Returning the cup to his pouch, he faced an immensely broad-shouldered young man with a hard mouth and a broken nose who advanced toward him.
"Are you Pedro de Vargas? So-called Captain de Vargas?"
"The same, but no so-called about it."
"Ah? Well, I am Claros de Paz, captain of lances in His Majesty's Guard." The officer drew a sealed document from his belt and tapped it with a gauntleted forefinger. "I have here a warrant for your arrest."
"My arrest!"
"On the charge of high treason against His Caesarean Majesty. . . • Like to see it? Or can you read?"
Pedro, dazed, held out his hand. Yes, there it was written, signed, and sealed. No question of a mistake. He handed the paper back.
"But in God's name why?"
"How should I know? You can ask that question in Valladolid. I carry out orders. . . . Your sword, Sefior de Vargas."
LXXV///
Unarmed and with his bridle reins divided between two troopers, Pedro still gazed dumfounded at the hard-faced young Captain. He could not believe that eluding the agents of the Indian Council with the aid and protection of the Duke of Medina Sidonia constituted high treason, however irregular it might be legally. But there was no use asking questions of Claros de Paz, who obviously could not or would not answer them.
"I regret this duty, senor." the latter went on. "To arrest the son of Don Francisco de Vargas is the last assignment I'd choose. But soldiers don't choose, as you're doubtless aware."
Pedro collected his thoughts. He was favorably impressed by the tough-looking officer, who reminded him of Sandoval.
"Do you happen to be a relative of the renowned knight and captain, Pedro de Paz, who was my father's comrade in Italy?"
The other looked pleased. "His nephew, sir."
"I was brought up on stories of Pedro de Paz. My father has had a mass said for his soul on every anniversary of his death. . . . Look you, Captain, whatever you may think of me, certainly you and these gentlemen"—Pedro bowed to the troopers—"will not deprive Don Francisco de Vargas of the honor of receiving you at our house. You would not put such a discourtesy upon him."
De Paz ruminated and exchanged an undecided glance with the other cavaliers. Finally he jerked his head back. "By God, I'd like to pay my homage to Don Francisco, as we all would. Besides, we've ridden hard today from the Sierra Morena and want a breather. . . . As for you. Captain de Vargas" (Pedro noticed that his military rank had been restored), "I was told by a gentleman high in His Majesty's favor, one Diego de Silva, who said he knew you, that you were a violent pirate and freebooter. But damme if you don't seem a man, sir, with whom I would like to run a course or so and engage in other friendly exchanges. I was ordered to arrest and bring you to Valladolid. The way of it was left to m.e. Do you give me your word of honor that, rescue or no rescue, you will remain my true prisoner until I'm through with this duty?"
"Certes, I will," Pedro answered, "rescue or no rescue. As it happens, I was riding anyway to Valladolid, and I can think of no more agreeable company than you gentlemen."
"Then there's no more to be said," returned de Paz. "Give the captain back his sword and reins, and we'll wait on his illustrious father. . . . Damm.e but I'm glad of this! I've been wanting the chance to talk with one of Hernan Cortes's cavaliers. Damme, sir, I envy you the action you've seen in New Spain. And for the life of me, I can't understand this pother about the Cuban fellow, Velasquez."
Pedro, gathering his reins again, set Campeador prancing.
"I'll tell you the truth of it. . . . But, good Senor de Paz, tell me what you know about this arrest of mine. On my honor, I'm like a man in a bad dream."
The other shook his head. "And on my honor, I know nothing except that they say His Majesty is in a towering rage against you. Also I'm glad not to be in your shoes, sefior, for the Emperor is not often angry."
"Did not a messenger from the Duke of Medina Sidonia arrive with a letter for His Majesty?"
"Faith, I wouldn't know, sir. . . . But, que diablo, what's this?"
"This" was a cavalcade issuing from the city gates, which the little troop was now approaching. In front rode Don Francisco in complete armor and lance in hand. Behind him rode two ensigns, one carrying the banner of Jaen, the other the de Vargas pennon. Some thirty lances followed.
When word from the city gate had reached the Alcalde that a band of men-at-arms were inquiring for Pedro and were holding the mountain road, he had taken prompt action. Whether they were friends or enemies, he made ready to give them an appropriate welcome.
"Ha!" said de Paz, snapping down his vizor. "Gentlemen, fix lances! Sefior de Vargas, remember your word."
"A moment," Pedro intervened. "I'll ride forward and explain matters. Have no fear of my word."
Upon recognizing his son, the Alcalde raised vizor and hand with a loud "halt!"
"Many thanks, Sefior my Father," said Pedro, riding up. "But these gentlemen are cavaliers of His Majesty, led by Captain de Paz, nephew of Don Pedro, who wishes to pay you his respects." He added as casually as possible, "I am his prisoner on the parole of rescue or no rescue. The charge is high treason."
The old gentleman's face now looked blank in its turn. "But what—"
"I know nothing about it, sir. I suspect it's a stroke of Diego de Silva's. Maybe the messenger whom Don Juan Alonso and I sent from Seville, reporting that I had treasure in charge f
or His Majesty and that I would be shortly in Valladolid, did not arrive."
"Treason!" the Alcalde repeated. "That charge has never been coupled with our name. But"—he made an effort—"we must receive our guests. The kinsman of my old comrade is welcome." And he rode back with Pedro to the imperial troop.
Elaborate and profuse were the courtesies on either side. The newcomers gazed with veneration on the old knight, who in return dis-
played the stilted magnificence of chivalric Spain. Casques were doffed, fiery compliments exchanged. Don Francisco knew the families of the gentlemen-at-arms and paid honor to each. He put himself and his house at their service. He found that Claros de Paz greatly resembled his famous uncle in appearance, and he had no doubt that he resembled him even more in spirit. On his side, Captain de Paz maintained that he did not know whether he should grieve more at the nature of his errand or feel delight that the occasion permitted him to throw himself at the feet of Don Francisco de Vargas, whose name was a guiding star to all cavaliers.
Then the united companies rode back to the Alcalde's house on the Plaza Santa Maria, where there were renewed welcomes, compliments, and a great bustling to provide the guests with an impromptu repast.
Don Francisco and Doiia Maria did not allow consternation to interrupt the duties of hospitality, but Sefiora de Vargas, pale of face and with haunted eyes, wrung her hands between times.
"What will they do to him, husband? What does the charge mean?"
"It's a heavy charge, wife, and one not lightly made. God knows what lies behind it. But I have no doubt he will be cleared. Pluck up heart, my dear. Only we must let no grass grow under our feet. See that my saddlebags are packed, for I'm riding with Pedro."
"My lord, you cannot—crippled as your knee is. It's a hundred leagues to Valladolid."
"And if it were a thousand, I'd ride. If I was sound enough to escape into Italy, do you think I'll coddle myself now when our name's attainted and our son's in need? Come, wife, dispatch. See to my bags. Excuse me to our guests for a moment. I have notes to write. Our good friend, Carvajal, will want to come with us. I must get off messages to the Duke, to other friends. Pedro's trial will not take long. He must be helped at once if help is to be of use."
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