Shadow of Treason

by Tricia N. Goyer

  José looked closer at the young woman, wondering how she could know such things. It was obvious she wasn’t a peasant, even though she dressed like one. Well, they’d have time to swap stories once they made it to safety high in the hills.

  “You are correct. They split them into three groups. Some of the mares and breeding stallions went to a farm near Vienna. The foals went to Kladrub. A third group of breeding stock stayed at Lipizza.”

  “Personally I would pick Vienna. When do we leave?”

  Though she sounded serious, a glance at her smile told him she was being humorous.

  “No, señorita, it is the movement I speak of, not the location. I need you to help me move these horses, but we need to go in two groups—in case one of us gets captured.”

  “But I have never ridden a horse like this. Nor do I feel worthy to protect such creatures.”

  “I am sorry, but that is not what matters.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have no other choice. The job is yours.”

  Petra glanced at José with a smile as she placed her foot in the stirrup and threw her other leg over the horse with ease.

  “Let me guess; you have been tutored in riding too?”

  Petra shrugged her shoulders. “Some.”

  “Watch out,” he warned, cautiously releasing the bridle. “This one is jumpy. It usually takes two years for a young stallion to fully trust his rider. That is why at the riding school only experienced riders are allowed to work with the young horses. It is important for them to get to know and trust each other.”

  Petra ran her fingers through the horse ’s mane. Even in these hard times the stallion was well cared for, and his mane glistened under the sun. “What is his name?”

  “Erro. It’s an old family name.”

  “And it sounds like arrow in English.” She nodded. “I like it. Has this one been trained much?”

  “Enough to know basic commands from its rider.”

  Erro moved awkwardly under her, as if he were getting used to having a rider on his back once again.

  “He is a little clumsy still,” José commented.

  “Yes, but I know your horse can do more.” She peered down at José and allowed the horse to walk her around at his leisure. “I can tell even by the way Calisto feeds in the pasture that he is well trained. It is almost as if his cocky attitude shines through even when he is at rest.”

  “Sí, but it does not matter now. All that matters is getting them to safety.” José walked beside them. “Look at him. He ’s starting to get more comfortable. Tap your heels ever so slightly, and let us see how Erro responds.”

  Petra did, and the horse immediately started into a soft trot. She bounced ever so slightly in the saddle. “Good boy. Good Erro. Look at you.”

  She turned the reins, and the horse turned sharply. With the quick movement, she felt herself sliding in the seat.

  “Easy,” José called behind her. “He is trained well. The slightest nudge will move him in any direction you want to go.”

  Petra turned her head toward José, and she couldn’t help laughing as he approached, excitement glowing from his face like a father watching his baby’s first steps. “Well, I don’t know who will lead whom, but if you have a plan to get these horses up in the hills, count me in.”

  She flipped the reins slightly, and suddenly the stallion bolted upright under her, kicking his front feet high into the air. Before she knew it, the saddle was no longer beneath her, and she flew through the air, letting out a scream.

  She landed first on her hip, then on her back with a thud. Her head smacked the ground, and pain seemed to shoot through her from every direction. She tried to suck in a breath, but nothing happened. Sitting upward, she reached to José for help.

  Instead he ran to the horse, attempting to settle him.

  Pepito and Juan must have heard her cries, because both hobbled toward her.

  A shooting pain filled Petra’s chest, and finally her breath came.

  The two older men kneeled beside her.

  “Look at him,” she managed to spout. “He didn’t even check to see if I was all right.”

  Juan shook his head. “If you spend any time with José, well . . . you must know . . .”

  Before Juan had a chance to finish, José strode over. “What did you do? You scared Erro!” he shouted, leaning down close to her face.

  “I scared him?” Petra managed. “I’m the one on the ground.”

  “The horse should toss you off for giving him such confused signals. What were you thinking?”

  “I did not know I was giving him any signals! You just told me to get on, remember?”

  Without responding, José grabbed the reins, and with angry steps he led Erro to the nearest corral.

  Juan clicked his tongue. “It’s not you he shouts at,” he mumbled. “You are only a substitute.”

  “Well, I would hate to be the person he is mad at.”

  “Me too,” Juan said. “And just think, that person used to be his closest friend.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A lone candle flickered on her bedside table, and Petra wondered how long it would take before the sun rose again. She hadn’t slept more than a few minutes at a time. Her mind raced, trying to take in all that was happening to her and rethink all she knew to be true.

  She thought of José. At one moment he was cheerful and kind, the next he was yelling at her for being tossed off the back of Erro. She wanted to be angry at him, but couldn’t. Mostly she wondered what had caused him so much pain.

  Above José’s shirt collar was a jagged scar on his neck. Whatever happened to him had most likely been life-threatening. Yet he spoke to the horse gently, as Petra had witnessed her father doing with her mother on numerous occasions—with tenderness that only came from a heart of love.

  She rose from the bed and leaned her forehead against the window, looking down into the village below. Beyond the village was the edge of the sea. And though no lights could be seen in the town, the moonlight on the water cast a lovely glow.

  Petra had thought things would be easier once she left Guernica. Even though Edelberto wasn’t here, there were two old, sweet men who seemed to enjoy the distraction of watching over her.

  Yet instead of causing her to forget, this momentary sense of safety caused memories of the past to overwhelm her. They danced about her brain, reminding her of another world, one in which she was surrounded by family, not alone. Not so very alone.

  She looked down at the long nightgown she ’d been given. It reminded her of one of her first memories. Spring had come, and Easter was a time of celebration in her village. Her brothers had been in suits, and Petra wore a new, store-bought dress. Her father’s eyes had sparkled as he lined up his offspring to get a closer look. He nodded with approval, stopping before each one and whispering a secret into their ears.

  His grin broadened as he ’d reached Petra. “My daughter, you are the most beautiful girl in the world. As lovely as the lilies in the field,” he ’d whispered.

  As she grew older, and became uncomfortable with herself, she always thought back to her father’s words. She ’d clung to them every time she felt uncertain. My father thinks I’m the most beautiful girl in the world, she ’d murmur to herself whenever those unsure feelings arose.

  But what did that matter now? Who cared that she was pretty, or that her family had come from a long line of noble people? It mattered not at all. The things that mattered now were if she had enough to fill her stomach and a safe place to rest for the night. And now there were the horses. They were a nice distraction—a way to help her forget all she ’d lost.

  Petra touched the bruise on her thigh and winced, the blue flesh still sore from her tumble. Yet it was a small pain compared to the greater one she carried inside. The more she thought about her father’s kind eyes, the more her head throbbed, and she soon felt sick to her stomach.

  All she wanted was to curl into a ball on thi
s borrowed bed, throw the covers over her head, and never have to remember or hurt again.

  During the summer, the sun was well up in the sky by seven o’clock in the morning. It reached its heat by one or two in the afternoon, but few were on the street during those siesta hours.

  Sophie had never known what it was like to rest during the afternoon siesta. When she painted, her brush didn’t pause just because the clock ticked a certain hour. And since she was an American, no one thought it unusual to find her sitting in the kitchen with a book and a glass of cold well water during the daily siesta.

  From her place near the kitchen, she noticed Cesar sitting outside the front door. He reminded her of an American cowboy with his black moustache curled up at the ends and his black hat pulled low over his eyebrows. He ’d arrived just a few hours ago, along with another man from Madrid. He whittled a piece of wood as he puffed on his hand-rolled cigarette.

  Because of their arrival, Michael didn’t take Sophie to his family home as promised. Nor did he tell her the secret about his family that she ’d wondered about through the night. Instead he spent more time talking with the other men, beyond Sophie ’s range of hearing.

  Months ago Sophie wouldn’t have thought much about Cesar. Now she thought he must be a guard of sorts, making sure no one entered or left the house without his knowledge. And she was certain that the other man from Madrid had something to do with the gold. From the first time she saw the tall, lean Paulo, she knew he was up to no good.

  Sophie watched Cesar for a few minutes more, and her stomach churned as she worried about just how she could leave the house if she ever did find anything to tell Walt. Her instructions were to find her way to the closest church with any information she thought worthwhile, but how could she do that if she couldn’t even walk around the house at leisure? Surely, if she made the excuse that she wanted to go for a stroll, Michael would join her or insist on an escort. Things outside the home were far from safe.

  Sophie rose and strode again to Hector’s matador cape, remembering her first day in Madrid and Michael’s comments. All honorable young women have an escort through town, he had said. Now she knew even better why the men of Spain wanted to keep the women accountable—not only for their safety, but perhaps to see to it that the women didn’t innocently come upon what the men hoped would never be found out. For as much as the men spoke of their wives, they also talked of their mistresses and other sordid affairs.

  While the men slumbered, except Cesar, Sophie returned to her room and pulled the Bible from her satchel.

  February 29, 1867 Dear Jeremiah,

  Sometimes when I’m working around the house or shopping at the market, I find myself carrying on a conversation with you in my mind. I think you would be uninterested in the daily events of the market, but if you were here, you would love to visit the mine.

  The mine is not only a place for Mateo to work, it is a place for him to fight. He battles with new technology, although he was the first to welcome the idea. He fights against extended workdays. He fights for his income. He fights the man who desires to take everything from him, claiming a need for a greater profit.

  Some men in the mine are skilled and highly paid. These blasters develop a great amount of experience. They use dynamite and powder. They work in the opening of tunnels and galleries. Mateo hopes someday to rise to this position.

  Mateo is a picador, which in English means hewer. He cuts the coal at the face using a pick. Because the seams are usually inclined, he attacks the coal while lying on his back. He has an assistant who helps with timbering and removing cut coal and waste from the stall, but Mateo rarely talks about the young man.

  Once, he had an assistant that he loved and cared for as much as a younger brother. Assistants start at the ages of ten or eleven, some even younger. Mateo’s first boy died in an accident, and now he refuses to speak of him. In some ways I feel as if there are parts of my husband’s heart as hard to penetrate as the black coal.

  The letter ended there, and Sophie wondered what had kept the woman from continuing to write. Had her husband arrived home? Had she been overwhelmed with emotion?

  The sound of men’s voices filtered to her room, and Sophie quietly opened the door and moved down the hallway. Although they could not see her as she pressed herself against the whitewashed wall, she could hear every word.

  “So, is everything going as planned?” It was the voice of the tall stranger, Paulo.

  “Yes, I’ve heard from my contact, and all is well.” Michael spoke with authority. “The shipment is safe, and I plan to visit Madrid soon. Just a short stop, of course.”

  “Madrid?” the man asked. “Good. Maria Donita asks about you.”

  Michael’s words were interrupted by heavy footsteps. Before Sophie had a chance to turn and hurry back to her room, a large hand caught her arm and pulled her into the room. All eyes were upon her, and a voice boomed near her ear.

  “Is this what you call secure?” It was Cesar’s voice.

  Sophie refused to fight him or even look Cesar’s direction. She refused to wince as his hand gripped on her shoulder.

  Michael turned to her, a look of confusion filling his face. “Sophie, were you . . . spying on us?”

  “What are you talking about?” She tried to hide her trembling hands by pressing them together and against her chest. “I was walking from my room when I heard someone mention Maria.” She couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out, or the tears that followed. “I’ve been afraid to ask you . . . but now it’s confirmed.” Sophie pulled against Cesar’s grasp, but his fingers only tightened.

  Michael stood. “Let go of her.”

  Cesar released his grasp, and Sophie rubbed the sore marks left by his fingers.

  Michael lifted Sophie ’s chin with a soft hand. “Sophie, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to accuse you. What are you talking about? What were you afraid to ask me?”

  She glanced at the other men. She realized that in order to save her skin she was going to have to ask the question that had been burning inside her.

  “In Madrid.” She sucked in a breath. “At your funeral, I overheard two women talking. . . . They said that Maria was pregnant . . . with your child. Michael, is it true? Are you in love with her? Do you have a child?”

  She watched as the color drained from Michael’s face. Then the silence of the room was interrupted by Paulo’s laughter.

  “Woman problems? Oh, dear friend, it seems they cannot escape you. . . .” Paulo turned to Cesar and patted his shoulder. “She is not a spy, but a woman scorned. Yet . . . I do not know which is worse.” He laughed again.

  “Sophie, can we talk about this in private?” Michael’s green eyes focused on hers.

  She took a step back and pulled her face from his touch. “Answer me, Michael,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

  “I was seeing Maria for a while, before you arrived in Spain. A month before you came, I broke things off. We were not lovers. But you are correct; Maria was with child. She had a son just two weeks ago, but he is not mine.”

  Sophie cocked her head.

  “That is the truth,” he hurriedly said. “She carried the child of a banker, and they are married now. If you don’t believe me, then we can see them when we go to Madrid. I’ll introduce you to Emilio, her husband.”

  Michael turned to Paulo. “You are right. Woman troubles. Would you excuse us for a moment?”

  Taking her hand, he led her out the back door to the patio. After shutting the door behind himself, he turned to her. “I’m sorry, Divina. So sorry you had to find out this way. I wish I had done things differently while we were apart.”

  “Michael, did you think I didn’t know that you were involved with someone here? A woman always knows these things. I could read between the lines in your letters.”

  The lies spilled out of Sophie, and she felt her heart pounding. She hadn’t known, of course. If she had, she surely wouldn’t have come—but she couldn’t tell him that.
She refused to let him know the depth of the pain he brought upon her.

  “I suspected it,” she continued, crossing her arms tight to her chest, “but I ignored the signs because I knew you’d have to make a choice once I arrived.”

  “Divina. If I hurt you . . .” He placed a hand on her cheek.

  She stepped farther from his touch. “You think you hurt me?

  Well, you can’t. Because I made the decision not to hurt a long time ago.”

  “Sofía . . . this wasn’t how this day was supposed to turn out.

  I . . . I went to town and found some things for you. I know how hard it is for you to face everything that’s happening when you don’t have a chance to express yourself with your paints.”

  He turned her toward the overgrown garden, and for the first time she noticed an easel and canvas set up under an overgrown olive tree, just beyond the patio.

  She opened her mouth and felt her heart do a double beat within her chest. Then she turned back to Michael and wondered if what he said about Maria was the truth—and if all the things he ’d done that had hurt her had actually been intended to protect her, just as he said.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  As she lay in bed that night, Sophie remembered the first time she really looked at art from the eyes of an artist. When she was a child, she thought that if a scene or a person looked “real,” then the artist had done his job. Good art consisted of pictures she could understand—Monet’s idyllic garden scenes or Leonardo da Vinci’s portraits.

  As she began to study art, and became a painter herself, Sophie ’s perspective changed. It was a change as vivid as looking at a single red poppy in comparison to a field of poppies. The art hadn’t changed, but she ’d gotten closer and noticed more of the intimate details.

  The same was true of Spain, of the war, and of Michael especially. He hadn’t changed, but she had. Because of her assignment, she took in every detail and found him to be more real and complex than she ’d previously thought. He was kind and respectful to the men he interacted with, and they in turn asked him for advice. He wasn’t raised solely in Spain, but she could tell he felt like one of Spain’s sons. And the way he treated her lately . . . his tenderness and care reminded her of all she had longed for when she first came to Spain. Yet when his mind focused on other matters, it was easy for him to push her off to the side. It seemed he could only deal with one of his loves at once—either Spain or her. With each day her eyes of understanding deepened. And in a way, Sophie felt she knew Michael better than before.