by John Healey
Rather than offending or alienating her, the admission of his condition as a bastard only increased his attractiveness, a sensation she felt then and there without dissimulation. And yet she could not explain it.
‘What you confess to …’ she said, ‘I am grateful for it. Is the Duke appraised of your tale?’
‘He has been appraised of it since the first day we met.’
They sat in silence listening to the creaking wheels of the carriage.
‘I would like to give you something,’ he said.
‘There is no need for that.’
‘It would please me to do so. It is a small thing.’
From the folds of his robe he took out the small envelope his mother had given him back in Sendai. He opened it and poured some of the Biwa seeds into his hand to keep for himself. Then he handed the envelope to Guada.
‘These are seeds for a fruit tree I have yet to see here. My mother gave them to me. It would give me great pleasure if you might plant them. In Japanese, the fruit is called a Biwa. It grows to be the size of a lemon but looks like a peach and is pleasant to the taste and has medicinal properties and a beautiful blossom.’
She took the envelope. He enjoyed seeing it in her hand.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
Their encounter was interrupted by the return of Doña Inmaculada to the carriage. Giving in to maternal instinct upon seeing the two youths together unchaperoned, she felt an urge to intervene. Shiro bid Guada adieu with a curt bow and left to make room for her mother. Rapidly freeing and remounting his horse, he caught up once again to the Duke, who, even on dry ground, looked every bit the Admiral of the High Seas.
‘How fares the stubborn little Princess?’ the Duke asked.
‘Well,’ Shiro replied. ‘Better.’
‘Her mother has been endeavoring to soften my attitude, but until the girl apologizes for her rudeness, I shall pay her little heed no matter how much it pains me.’
‘In my heart I am sure she shall see the error of her ways,’ Shiro said.
‘I suspect the provenance of your certainty derives from another part of your anatomy. But tell me,’ he added, not averse to changing the topic, ‘what will become of you once you rejoin your people in Sevilla?’
‘I shall do my best to blend in, to keep my eyes on Hasekura Tsunenaga from afar, and to see more of your country. We will travel soon to Madrid, where Hasekura Tsunenaga plans to meet with your King and finally take the Christian sacrament of Baptism in his presence.’
‘But are his beliefs more genuine than yours?’
‘In truth I do not know, but I would not rule it out. He is close to the Spanish priest Father Sotelo and it was Hasekura Tsunenaga who insisted we Samurai make our conversion upon landing in New Spain.’
‘I’ve no desire to interfere with your responsibilities, but I would like to keep you close to me, first in Sevilla where your skill at translation will be crucial to me, but in Madrid, as well, at court, where I shall be able to make your stay more comfortable and amusing. It will please me to do so.’
And so, as the afternoon began to cede its place to evening, as the high cliffs of Arcos de la Frontera loomed in the distance, the white village, its trees soon to be pruned, the fields they rode between plowed or covered with new grass, they conversed in their saddles, a couple as odd and unlikely as the one described by Cervantes in his still unfinished work.
– XX –
In which the Samurais arrive in Sevilla
Shiro’s absence from Sanlúcar de Barrameda had barely been noted. His Samurai brethren were too distracted adjusting to the easygoing rhythms of Andalusian society while doing their best to maintain discipline. Whenever Hasekura Tsunenaga realized that Date Masamune’s bastard nephew was still missing, it was a source of satisfaction. Even Father Sotelo, who admired the young Samurai with stirrings of unholy lust, was too occupied, putting his master plan into effect. When not conferring with and counseling Hasekura Tsunenaga, he was busy composing and dispatching letters to Madrid and Rome, promoting the delegation as if it were his own. He pled for audiences and patronage and was busy finagling to obtain a sliver of the Holy Cross to take back to Japan, where it would be enclosed within a golden crucifix that he imagined adorning the main altar of the cathedral he hoped to build and preside over. Then, following the towns lined along the river, they began the short journey north toward Sevilla.
Julian had only just arrived there. Bored, prickly, and resentful, he had returned to the mansion bequeathed to him and Guada upon their marriage. As he was unable to argue for the somber and limited reception for the Japanese Delegation he had planned to present on the day Marta Vélez abandoned him, others had prevailed. Their concept for the event was considerably more generous and festive.
On the appointed day, the streets were lined with sevillanos of all descriptions: aristocrats, gypsies, merchants, functionaries of the crown and officials from the Archive of the Indies, members of numerous religious orders along with droves of women and children. Palm trees and flowering magnolia trees glistened under a warm October sun. Parasols in pastel hues rose and fell along the Triana Bridge as the exotic procession crossed the Guadalquivir on horseback en route to the Alcázar gardens, where a reception awaited them. Representing the king, the Duke was there to proclaim their official welcome. He’d sent word prohibiting Julian and his two nephews from attending. When Shiro asked someone about the origins of the unusual architecture surrounding them in the Alcázar gardens, he was treated to a lecture about the Moors and Islam, causing his head to spin at the realization there was yet another complex faith in the world rife with more rules and restrictions he would have to study.
The Duke accepted Father Sotelo’s obsequious offer to translate during the opening ceremonies, the toasts, and the exchange of gifts. But once Hasekura Tsunenaga expressed a desire to speak with the Duke in private, the Grandee of Spain called for Shiro.
Father Sotelo stared at the Duke in puzzlement. ‘Shiro, my Lord?’ said the priest, doing all he could to maintain a smile for the sake of Hasekura Tsunenaga, ‘I do not recommend it.’
Accustomed to clergymen from good families with whom he might exchange a pleasantry or two about mutual relatives, the Duke found this man, a commoner, to be a nuisance.
‘And why is that?’ he asked.
‘The Ambassador has chosen me as his official translator. Have I been remiss in any way?’
‘Not that I can tell, padre, but then, how would I know? Let me propose, no, insist, on the following compromise. You shall continue to translate for His Excellency the Ambassador, and Shiro shall translate for me.’
The priest related the Duke’s words to Hasekura Tsunenaga, who responded in Japanese with something short and gruff.
‘His Excellency wonders why you have chosen an inexperienced young man for such a delicate task?’ asked the priest.
‘Tell His Excellency,’ the Duke replied, ‘that I do it to honor his good judgment. I can only assume that the Samurai chosen to travel all the way to my ancestral home to convey His Excellency’s greetings must be one he holds in particular esteem.’
– XXI –
In which sorrow prepares a crime
Guada found Julian in the library. He was pretending to review papers related to their estates. He had given his footman instructions to alert him the minute his wife came through the front door. He wished to appear manly and serious, the responsible custodian of their properties and holdings. The brief minute he spent actually looking at the documents while she climbed the marble stairs numbed his brain with boredom and befuddlement. He found the legal language their assessors employed impenetrable. Once certain she had seen and appreciated his tableau vivant, he feigned to notice her and rose from the desk.
‘My Lady.’
‘Husband.’
Polite pairs of kisses were aimed at cheeks not reached.
‘I trust you had a safe journey,’ he said.
‘Safe as safe
can be, but long, and frightfully uncomfortable.’
‘You must rest and then we can dine, whenever you wish.’
She determined a bath was in order, and after it, glistening from scented oil, she regarded herself in a large mirror that leaned against the whitewashed wall. She was in her prime. Unable to remember the last time she had observed herself with such critical frankness, she was taken aback, experiencing satisfaction and blushing shame simultaneously.
It was evening by then, and cold meats were served with eggs fried in oil with bread to dip into the oil and the yolk. He, but not she, rubbed his bread with garlic. He drank a concoction brewed especially for him that was akin to ale, and she took water stained with brandy. Once the food and drink were served, the servants retreated to an adjacent chamber.
‘You’ve said nothing of your stay in Sanlúcar,’ she said.
‘I haven’t had the chance, and, in truth, there is not much to tell,’ he replied.
‘But I understand the task the Duke entrusted to you was important, and I remember the pleasure it gave you to set forth from Medina-Sidonia, a pleasure I found most hurtful.’
‘Though a noble in my own right,’ he said, with what he hoped she would regard as a rakish grin, ‘to be favored by the Duke of Medina-Sidonia is a considerable honor. The pleasure you recall derived exclusively from that.’
‘And yet,’ she said, her voice beginning to rise, ‘you did so good a job of it that you’ve been banned from the reception the Duke is holding for the Delegation you were charged with.’
She could see color entering his cheeks that matched her own. ‘I rather think,’ she went on, ‘the pleasure you felt at the thought of leaving me had more to do with the satisfaction it gave you to lie to me on so bold a scale, to renege on the solemn promise you made before we married, the perversity you looked forward to, your continuing lust for your haggard aunt.’
The fury he had swallowed owing to his abandonment by Marta Vélez, a fury that had only recently begun to subside, came to life again with a jolt and was joined by more fury still: at himself for being found out, and at Guada. He pushed his chair back, its legs scraping against the marble floor, and stood up.
“How dare you accuse me of such a thing!”
‘How dare you deny it!’ she said. ‘Did you really think you could get away with such a flagrant transgression while surrounded by men whose livelihoods depend upon the Duke’s largesse?’
‘Your jealousy is as misguided as it is unbecoming. You should be ashamed,’ he said, raising and shaking his index finger in the air.
“So you are denying it?”
“Absolutely.”
“When mother and I showed our displeasure the other night at the Duke’s decision to marry an already wed village girl, he retaliated by telling us about your escapades and drunken revelries, and your incompetence as a diplomat.”
He stormed over to where she sat and struck her across the face.
“Silence, woman! That will be enough.”
No one had ever struck her.
‘Silence? Woman?’ she laughed aloud, tears in her eyes, a rivulet of blood upon her lip. ‘I’ve known you all my life, Julian. And you’re still a boy. A boy with a problem I naively thought I could solve once I let you into my bed. What is it this woman has that both my father and you find so irresistible? She cannot be fairer than I or more generous in her exertions. My father has the excuse of being married to a woman who no longer admits him to her boudoir, but you do not.’
He raised his hand to strike her again. As he did so she used her forearms to cover her face, beginning to sob.
‘Do you remember what you told me one night before we were married’ he said, softening his tone. “I marry you freely, you as you are,” you said. “I have come to treasure your heart, your heart with all its complications and extraneous attachments,” you said. “Trust me, you said, and you shall see of what I speak.’
‘You broke your promise,’ she cried out, her head turned away.
He walked out of the room, retrieved his cloak and sword downstairs, and left the massive house for the nearest tavern. He wished to tell her how his sins with his aunt had come to an end but realized how little it would do to improve the villainy already revealed. The only thing that gave him any sense of purpose that night as he drank with abandon was the thought of exacting revenge. Surely it had been the lowly sailor, the filthy one-armed rogue who had accompanied the savage Asian to Medina-Sidonia, the foul-smelling sevillano he had actually paid to remain silent.
– XXII –
In which a wife becomes a widow
Apart from the unsettling coincidence that her son-in-law’s mistress and her husband’s were one and the same, Doña Inmaculada was not especially perturbed by the news that Rodrigo was seeing a noblewoman. Not only a noblewoman, but one well regarded at court. Over the years, her fantasies concerning the satisfaction of Rodrigo’s baser needs had led her to conjure up brothels blackened with grime and populated by women unmannered and unclean. She was grateful Rodrigo was in Madrid that week, allowing her respite and time to consider whether her newly gained knowledge was worth throwing in his face.
For a moment, she entertained the notion that perhaps they visited the woman together. But she presumed to know her husband well enough to eliminate such a possibility. At the very least, he was too vain and, in his way, too old-fashioned. The idea, in fact, just before she banished it forever, caused her to giggle aloud.
The most scandalous and irritating part of the sordid tale for her was that the Duke knew about it. Worse yet, that most disagreeable and vociferous argument had been carried out in front of Guada and Rosario and the peculiar stranger. But somehow it had fostered a new sort of intimacy with the Duke. The cathartic repast had left a wearisome but welcome calm in its aftermath.
And with respect to Rodrigo, the Duke had done her a favor. What had constituted a tidal flow of speculation now had a name and a face. And though she would never admit it to anyone, it was someone she might get used to. She assumed he was with her now, and the thought, for the first time, allowed her to truly enjoy her solitude.
The only thorn remaining was Julian. Soledad Medina had warned them, and Guada it seemed, had been apprised of the young man’s other attachment. Her daughter had reckoned with it, or so she had thought, with dignity. Guada’s only error had been an excess of pride, believing him when he swore he would stop. The young man’s weakness for his own aunt, half-aunt to be exact, combined with the poor reviews awarded his assignment in Sanlúcar, tested the bounds of Inmaculada’s goodwill toward him. But some remained. She wished to look upon him after all as a son. Her own had been far more troubling to them thus far. Julian’s faults were ones she could understand. And he was wealthy, and handsome, and his standing would surely improve with time and he would give Guada beautiful children. Yes, she thought, with sufficient patience and prayer, a way could be found to carry on and overcome these disappointing days.
***
When Diego Molina rode to Sevilla after leaving Shiro at the Duke’s estate in Medina-Sidonia, he presented himself at the door of the Sánchez Ordoñez family. The abode was a modest house in the Triana district. Their prized daughter, Rocío Sánchez, had remained faithful to Diego for the two and a half years he had been at sea. Though she only received three letters from him in all that time and was ardently pursued by a baker of means, her flame for Diego remained lit and constant.
The reunion was a joyous one. With the exception of his missing hand, Rocío found him even handsomer than she remembered, and with the exception of an additional kilo or two thanks to the baker’s fruitless favors, he found in her a delectable answered prayer.
Upon payment by the bursar for his time at sea, he had twice the money he would have earned working with his family in the olive trade. But much more valuable from Rocío’s point of view was his declaration that his wanderlust was sated, his avarice for adventure had becalmed. He told her that from
then on the profession of selling harvests of choice arquebina olives would suit him just fine as long as he knew she would be there each evening with a meal and an embrace.
The wedding took place within a week of his arrival. They settled into a small, whitewashed house at the southern border of the olive estates in the countryside west of the city. They put their home in order and took pride going about their respective tasks. Enjoying home-cooked meals free of family and spending nights alone together went a long way toward eradicating the doubts and discomforts that had arisen during their separation. He regaled her with tales from his travels, and she filled him in on thirty months’ worth of local gossip.
Then one day he did not return from the groves. A man he worked with only knew that a nobleman and two men had ridden into the fields asking for Diego. The man and Rocío spent the afternoon and evening walking up and down the carefully plowed hills of iron-rich soil where the olive trees had been planted by Phoenicians and Romans. As dusk settled, they were alerted by the barking of Diego’s mastiff. They found the one-armed man on the verge of death, tied to a tree, run through by a sword. He was barely able to speak. They cut him down, and she rested his head upon her lap. She could not bear to look at the wound. After telling Rocío how much he loved her, and how sorry he was, his very last words were meant for someone else. ‘Tell Shiro the Samurai,’ he said, feeling the earth fall away from him, ‘it was the noble who wrote the letter in Sanlúcar.’
She would not leave him. The man she came with went for help. She remained with the dog and her husband’s body all through the night. She insisted he be buried where he lay, and when the priest objected, she spit at him. In silence she stayed by the tree and the mound where her man was interred for three days afterwards despite pleading from his family and her own. It was only when the baker came and sat down beside her that she deigned to speak. She looked at him with a fierceness he had never seen before. ‘If you will take me to the Samurai,’ she said—and he listened, not knowing what the word meant—‘I shall marry thee before the year is out.’