Sinbad stretched out leisurely and Elisa leaned forward over the low gate, close enough so that he could have reached out and touched her. Brazenly her eyes locked with his. There was a defiance in her air, Sinbad observed as she stood before him in the subdued moonlight. A defiance and pride very much like Victoria’s, only somehow fiercer.
Her scented hair fell in lush waves over her shoulders as she moved her head; her high breasts rose and fell with her quick, deep breaths. Then, with a taunting deliberateness, she placed her slender hands behind her neck, closed her eyes, and slowly rubbed at taut muscles. After a time her long lashes lifted, and she smiled at the mariner with an unmistakable glint. At nineteen years, Maria Elisa was very much a woman.
“So you are a mariner,” Elisa said suddenly.
Sinbad nodded. “Almost all my life. I made my first voyage when I was sixteen.”
Rubbing at her shoulders, Elisa peered out in the direction of the sea. The dark water was calm, reflecting dully the mist-covered moon. The several dozen fishing boats bobbed gently against the aging wharf.
“Would that I could go to sea,” said the girl in a whisper. “Sail the ocean, spend my life upon the water, see for myself the wondrous cities of the world … ”
“You can,” Sinbad told her.
“No,” Elisa answered. “A woman can’t do these things, but” — she looked at him sharply — “if I were a man! Oh, if I were a man!” And she lifted her gaze toward the stars, hands on her hips, and sighed wistfully.
“There are women who do as they please,” he assured her knowingly. “In fact, once I knew a woman who captained her own ship.”
Elisa glanced at him questioningly. “You’re making fun of me, aren’t you?”
He held up open palms and shook his head. “My word on it, Elisa! From Corsica to Alexandria, she’s seen it all. And her name is known in every port”
“What about you?” she asked.
Sinbad leaned back and smiled a sad smile. There were deep shadows beneath his eyes; his face became drawn and tight and his paled lips parted slightly with his bitter mirth. “I, too, have seen it all,” he acknowledged, heaving a sigh. “From the Sea of India to the Pillars of Hercules. There is little upon the face of the earth I have not greeted.”
Elisa was impressed. “You’ve done much for one so young.”
The mariner shrugged, looking away disconsolately. How many lifetimes of adventure had been crammed into his thirty-two years he could not say; only that he would gladly give it all up here and now for the peaceful life he had planned with the woman he loved.
Sensing his unhappiness, Maria Elisa opened the gate and slipped silently to his side. She drew close to him upon the bench and boldly took his hand into her own.
Sinbad lifted his head and gazed deeply into her eyes — eyes that had begun to burn with tiny fires.
“You seem troubled,” she said, her voice a soft shade higher than a whisper. “Will you not share your thoughts with me?” And slowly she ran her fingernails across his palm and over his wrist.
Sinbad stirred; the girl was a beauty, no question of that, and her overtures more than enticing. Still, too many burdens lay heavily upon his brow to seek a deeper involvement with Manuel de Leon’s eldest daughter.
Undaunted by his aloofness, Elisa pressed in closer, so that her breasts crushed against his arm. She ran her fingers through the thick hair at the nape of his neck, murmuring in his ear: “Is there nothing I can do to ease your sadness?”
Her tongue darted briefly between her rose-tinted lips, and with quickening breath she closed her eyes.
In a moment of passion, Sinbad leaned forward and kissed her, delighted and surprised at the sweetness of her mouth. Like honeyed wine it tasted, while the fragrance of her perfume dizzily captured his imagination.
Her arms tightened around him and then suddenly loosened. Elisa looked at him and drew away with a feline smile. “Papa will go to bed soon,” she whispered. “Wait for me. I’ll come to your room before midnight.” And before the startled sailor could reply, she was up, dress twirling in the breeze, and hurrying through the gate back to the house. With raised brows, Sinbad folded his arms and grinned. Then he shook his head in wonder. Indeed, life was filled with surprises!
The breeze turned chilly as he sat for a while on the bench, pondering his flight from Pansa, when from very far off the first hint of the trumpets came, so distant that at first it sounded like little more than the twitter of tiny birds. But seconds later it was louder and closer, shrill blasts accompanied by the low rumble of a snare drum.
Sinbad rose to his feet quickly, his face tense again within the shadows. Unconsciously, his right hand slid to his belt, seeking the twin-edged dagger that had been lost during the storm.
Lights were being lit everywhere. Peering down the road, Sinbad saw dozens of villagers running out of their houses, staring in surprise and joy as the silhouettes of great stallions appeared from the night. Children ran to the road amid cheers from the townsfolk, shouting and gleefully laughing while dogs barked and yapped at their heels.
The front door to the inn flew open; Manuel de Leon’s guests and daughters filed out hurriedly and began to take part in the merrymaking. Maria Victoria stood away from the others, her eyes fixed on the gloomy road. Sinbad quickly came to her side. “What’s going on?” he asked in perplexion.
The girl looked at him as though he were demented. “But surely you know!” she exclaimed.
Sinbad shook his head as the blare of trumpets grew louder, the clatter of hooves filled his ears.
“The war!” said the girl dramatically. “Barcelona’s army is marching to fight. Look!”
Sinbad’s eyes popped at the sight. Riding three abreast at a slow pace came the knights of Christendom. Stout, brave young men, sons of princes and dukes, barons, counts, all dressed in silver and purple breastplates, each adorned with plumed helmets and chain mail, crimson and velvet cloaks swirling behind. They held tall lances proudly within gloved fists; they wore long, gleaming broadswords, thick bejeweled sheaths dangling from their waists. Brass-spiked spurs glittered from their cumbersome boots, and they sat in saddles of the finest leather, holding metal shields emblazoned with the colors and insignias of their fiefdoms.
The forefront of trumpeters and drummers repeated their call. Banners flew high into the night, fluttering in strong winds sweeping down from the sea. There were priests carrying mighty crosses, each carved intricately with the body of their savior, proclaiming boldly that this war was fought in the name of God. The priests wore long black frocks with hoods pulled tightly over their heads. They somberly chanted in unison a prayer for the bold forces of Barcelona to prevail against the heathens on the battlefield.
Marching both alongside and behind the array of mounted knights came the squires and pages, themselves bedecked in the finery and splendor of their respective lords, each with head held high, proudly in service of Church and country. Behind them, under the careful eyes of lesser captains, came the footmen, a rabble of archers and weapons-bearers and messengers, all in a line stretching from one end of the village to the other. Bringing up the rear of the procession came the camp followers — young women, younger boys, beggars and ballad singers, each come to seek adventure and riches that were surely waiting once the despised Moors were beaten and expelled.
The exalted knights never wavered in stride, even as fisherwives and shepherds’ daughters threw flowers and garlands. Men and boys stood with tears in their eyes, looking on with unabashed admiration, How the beat of the drums stirred their hearts, quickened their pulses, and filled them with both respect and gratitude to these noble protectors of the realm! A day such as this was never to be forgotten; children would one day tell their grandsons how they had witnessed with their own eyes the knights of Barcelona riding through Pansa on their way to destroy the dreaded heathens of the south.
The horses strode over the dusty road and across the tiny plaza, where Father Augusto
already had lined up the choir and led them in tuneful songs of praise. Chickens and pigs dodged the clattering hooves, scurrying away from the crowds and the sharp-eyed rabble eager to steal a free meal.
Sinbad, dizzied by this awesome display of pomp and regalia, worked his way closer to the forefront, where Manuel de Leon and other respected members of the community had gathered to greet the noble visitors. A standard bearer smartly slapped the flanks of his mount and, riding to a point in front of the trumpeters and drummers, raised his barred banner higher. At the sight of the colors, the army halted. The standard bearer thrust the staff of his banner into the ground, where the flag slapped gently in the wind. The crowd hushed.
The front knight took off his velvet-plumed helmet and tucked it under his arm. He was young, Sinbad saw, but cold-eyed and stern, a true son of the aristocracy. The knight flexed his jaw and gazed upon the silent crowd. “God’s grace to all of you,” he said, flashing a grim smile to the host of well-wishers.
Two squires at his side held the reins of his nervous horse firmly, while two priests came forward, each making the sign of the cross before the peaceful gathering.
“What village is this?” inquired the knight of the grouped patrons.
“Pansa, your lordship,” replied Manuel de Leon, bowing deeply.
The knight thought briefly and then nodded, as if finally recalling the name. Then he held out a ringed hand and permitted Manuel to kiss it, while the innkeeper fell humbly to his knees.
When the little ceremony was done and Manuel had stood, the knight held out his arms imperiously. “I am Don Carlos de Varga de Asuncion,” he proclaimed. And the villagers oohed and ahhed, although few had ever heard the name. “And for five days now my army has been on the march to reach Navarre.”
Manuel cast down his eyes and said with humility: “Then would your lordship do me the great honor of passing the night within the walls of my humble inn?”
The knight lowered his head in a respectful gesture. “Alas, good landlord, but I cannot. Truly, there is little time for sleep when the hellish forces of our enemies gather near our borders.”
The crowd gasped; no one had dared dream the Moors were so close. Many villagers clasped their hands in prayer, others wept openly.
“But be not disheartened,’’ added the knight hastily. “Barcelona shall not stand idly by in the face of plunder. From Castile has come the word — a new leader has arisen among the believers in Christ. A man who shall carry our armies to victory upon the fields of battle. A man whose followers already number in the many thousands — “
“Who is the man?” cried Pepe the shepherd.
At this, the young knight smiled broadly, a look of satisfaction written into his boyish features. “I know not his true name,” he acknowledged, “But to the people of Castile he is called el Cid.” He leaned forward in his saddle and peered down at the questioning faces. “All of Castile is behind this man, this Cid, who has come to save us. But even one such as he is in need of an army — a brave and stout army of true men who shall not run in face of the Moors. Now, who among you will join me in my cause? Who among you will ride with me to Navarre and greet el Cid?”
For a long moment the crowd remained sullen and quiet, then: “I will come!” shouted the son of Alfonso the fisherman. “And I!” chimed newlywed Pablo the cobbler. And soon no less than thirty men, the cream of Pansa’s manhood, had eagerly volunteered to walk beside the knights of Barcelona to join the holy war. Mothers and wives sobbed, even as Father Augusto tried to give them solace and comfort.
“Who else shall be with me?” called the knight, looking around for further adherents to his cause. A few boys were quick to raise their hands, but Don Carlos scowled and refused. There was little point in taking a boy under the age of ten.
“Has Pansa no more sons to offer?” questioned the knight at Don Carlos’ side. He crossed his arms over his plum-colored breastplate and gazed sternly at the elders.
Manuel opened his palms in a furtive gesture. “We are a tiny village, my lord. We cannot give what we do not have. But those whom you have so graciously permitted to walk beside you shall proudly do your honor. Had I sons of my own, I would gladly send them. But as you see … ” He smiled wanly, shrugging his shoulders, and gestured to the three lovely girls standing together at the side of the road.
Don Carlos let his eyes linger appreciatively over their shapely forms, thinking it truly a pity he could not spend the night. Each girl would insure a most pleasant diversion, he realized, finding himself hard pressed to decide just which one he would favor, should he ever return. It was then that he caught sight of the muscular man beside the girl at the end.
Sinbad knew he had been seen. His heart was beating like a drum; he began to make rash plans for a sudden dash into the night if matters got out of hand.
“You! Yes, you! Come closer!”
At Don Carlos’ beckoning, Sinbad stepped forward. The knight scrutinized him carefully, noting the well-tanned skin, the broad sweep of his shoulders, the cocky, almost arrogant way in which this peasant held himself.
“You seem a healthy specimen,” he said gruffly, posing his body so that his shadow was cast over the standing figure. “Will you not heed my offer to fight?” Sinbad hesitated, and the knight smiled cruelly. “Or are you a coward?”
Manuel de Leon gasped; he had not nursed this sailor back to health just to have him put on a spit by Barcelona’s aristocrats.
“He is ill, my lord,” stammered the innkeeper, stepping between the knight and the unhumbled mariner.
“Ill? Ill, you say?” Don Carlos raised a lofty brow. He looked to his closest companion and snickered. “What sort of illness, eh? What sort of illness that a son of Pansa will not carry God’s flag into glorious combat against the Moorish devils?”
Sinbad flinched. This fellow grated his nerves. Were circumstances a bit different, and he would not have to face an entire army intent on retribution, he would teach Don Carlos de Varga de Asuncion a well-deserved lesson or two.
Maria Victoria quickly stepped forward to Sinbad’s side. Not to be outdone, Maria Elisa was right on her heels. “Forgive him, my lord!” cried Victoria with a curtsy and a smile for the incensed knight. “He is our cousin, nearly drowned in the terrible storm of this past week. Seawater has filled his lungs and left him dazed; I doubt he can even recall his own name … ”
“This is so,” chimed Elisa, her eyes flashing at Don Carlos. “If you like, I can explain the matter to you in private.”
Although her words were plain, her undertone was unmistakable, and Don Carlos stirred in his exquisitely carved saddle.
Vanessa also rushed from her place to stand beside Sinbad and her sisters. With a face as innocent as a rainbow, she pleaded with the displeased knight. “Do what you will with us, sire,” she panted, “but ask not of our poor, sick cousin more than he can give.”
With a dark scowl and a mistrust for the three sharp-witted women, Don Carlos pondered what he should do. Sinbad stood tense and angry, trying to subdue his growing rage. But on this occasion, he realized, silence was by far the better part of valor; Manuel de Leon’s daughters had acted wisely and properly, although just why they would want to shield him like this was a puzzlement. Still, fortune was on his side so far, and it was better to play stupid if he must, letting these knights pass the village in peace.
At length, Don Carlos turned back to the agitated inn-keeper. “You vouch for this man’s infirmity?” he asked.
Manuel mopped a sweaty brow and nodded vehemently. “I do, my lord. The girls have spoken nothing but truth.”
For a time Don Carlos seemed to waver; he leaned forward again, straining to look Sinbad in the eye. “So you don’t even know your name, eh?” he chortled mockingly.
Amidst the darkness, Maria Victoria reached out and squeezed Sinbad’s hand, her eyes imploring him not to say a word, lest it make matters worse. Sinbad swallowed his anger and stood mute. The knight fondled his sword, p
retending to draw it from its scabbard. Then he glanced to his friends and winked. “A pity such a man must stay here among the women, wouldn’t you say?”
The bold knights of Barcelona snickered among themselves. Don Carlos sighed and shook his head. “Very well,” he relented. “We need not debate the matter. Time presses, Castile is waiting.” He glanced down at the priests and made an imperial gesture, at which point the revered fathers gave a quick benediction. They blessed Pansa for the gift of her finest sons and extolled the armies of both Barcelona and Navarre to unite without jealousy behind El Cid, so that together they might enjoy great success against the enemy.
The people of the village stood silent and grim, remembering other leaders and other wars, each time praying that this would be the last. Finally, when the ceremony was done, Father Augusto said his own blessings for Don Carlos de Varga de Asuncion and his army and waited while mothers and fathers kissed their children good-bye. As the tearful crowd waved farewell, the young men of Pansa eagerly received weapons and took up places beside the footmen.
“Take care, good proprietor,” said Don Carlos to Manuel, his eyes still on the girls. “And beware! Keep your daughters safe from those such as Suliman!”
“Suliman?” gasped Manuel, his mouth dropping. “Suliman is near?”
The knight nodded severely. “Protect yourselves, good villagers. The bandit is in the hills, waiting. You cannot be too careful.”
“But will not Barcelona protect us as she has always done?” cried the anguished wife of Pablo the cobbler, whose husband stood beaming with his new shiny sword.
“Barcelona must fight upon the fields of battle,” replied Don Carlos. “We have no forces to spare.”
“But how are we to protect ourselves, when you have taken our sons and husbands?”
“Dear woman, you are beside yourself,” rebuked the knight. “Prayer is the answer. Seek your salvation in prayer.”
The young woman cast down her eyes in shame and said no more. And with that, Don Carlos gave the signal; the standard bearer swept up his banner and raised it high. Trumpets blasted; the snare drums began their roll.
The Thief of Kalimar; Captain Sinbad; Cinnabar Page 47