Spanish Serenade

by Jennifer Blake

  “What arrangements are necessary? We have a night and clear sand at the edge of the sea. We have horses and men and swords, and even a moon to light the field. The prospect is perfection. Unless you have no stomach for it.”

  “You mean — tonight?”

  “What better time? After the governor's ball is over, of course. I would not want to offend him.”

  “But what honor can there be in this?”

  “The same as in battle, the defeat of a worthy foe.”

  “You will participate?”

  “It will be my pleasure.” The gold cord of Refugio's headdress gleamed as he inclined his head.

  Charro spoke then. “What shall be demonstrated, skill at swordplay or horsemanship?”

  “Need it be one or the other? The ancient tournament was a test of skill in both, a mock war.”

  A murmur rose from those listening. In it was intrigued interest, and also admiration. From the phrases that emerged, it appeared that most thought the exercise was a wonderfully concocted excuse by the count, one designed to supply him an audience for the drubbing he meant to give the admirer of his Venus.

  “I don't like this,” Pilar said, propelled to her feet by burgeoning fear.

  “But I do,” Refugio, said, his eyes bright with challenge. “And you shall be judge, if not also the prize. What could be better than a veritable moon goddess, fairest of the fair, impartial, incorruptible, and also endlessly accommodating.”

  “Stop this!” she demanded. “It can't be necessary.”

  “But it is, I promise you. Proof is required, don't you see? Proof that I value my Venus, and am, therefore, who I say. Proof for them all. And for me.”

  Who had heard those last soft words? No one, she thought, except herself. Her voice equally quiet, she said, “I'll have nothing to do with it. Nothing.”

  “No? The loss will be felt; how could it be otherwise? We require watching and favors, as well as judging. And you, my sweet Venus, unlike the goddess of justice, are not blind.”

  11

  THE NEWS OF THE CONTEST flashed around the ballroom as swiftly as the reflected light of a looking glass. Señora Guevara cried out in alarm as she heard, but for the most part the prospect was greeted with delight for its novelty. So great was the preoccupation of the governor's guests that the midnight unmasking became a perfunctory rite, a signal for the beginning of the entertainment instead of its end. That was, doubtless, Refugio's intention, though not his only one.

  Refugio and his men, with Philip and a number of his friends, left immediately after dropping their half masks. They were closely followed; few felt inclined to miss the spectacle.

  The ball guests flowed down the steps of the governor's palace and, calling their servants from their private party, mounted to their horses, their carts, and carriages and galloped after the contestants. They headed for the seashore beyond the neck of the harbor. Their passage through the town attracted the attention of others, the late revelers of lesser rank and station, mulatto servants, street vendors and musicians, seamen and stevedores from the docks. These followed on foot, laughing and drinking and shouting back and forth to find out the reason for the frolic.

  Pilar found a ride with Señora Guevara, piling in ahead of Doña Luisa without waiting for an invitation. Her welcome was chilly. The older woman's gaze as it rested on her in the light of the carriage lantern was sharp, as if she knew Pilar was at the center of the affair, but she made no accusation. Requesting that Doña Luisa stop dithering about the possibility of her gown becoming crushed in the overcrowded vehicle and get in if she wanted to go, the official's wife gave the order for the carriage to start.

  Somehow, Pilar had thought Refugio, and his men meant only to spar among themselves, with Philip as one of their number. By the time she reached the beach, however, the scheme had changed. Philip had brought three of his friends into it. Among them, they had collected enough mounts and swords and makeshift shields for all eight of the contestants. Two of them were helping Charro outfit the horses with blankets by way of protection, while Philip aided Baltasar and Enrique to blunt the swords.

  Pilar leaped down from the carriage and pushed her way through the laughing, chattering crowd toward where Refugio stood. He had removed his Moorish robe and headdress, retaining the sleeveless tunic over breeches and boots. He was checking the bit of the horse he was to ride, calming the animal, which was excited by the noise of the gathering crowd and the flaring, windblown light of the long torches that had been thrust into the sand at both ends of the designated field.

  He saw her coming, but continued with what he was doing until she stopped in front of him. “You decided to bring us your denied blessing?” he said, his voice light. “Or is it mere morbid curiosity?”

  “The last, of course,” she snapped. “Will you please tell me what you think you are doing?”

  “Why, yes, cara, I will, since you hold some right to demand answers. What do you want to know?”

  His irony carried a sting that made her lips tighten. “It's my life you're endangering as well as your own. Why? Why are you doing this?”

  “I had in mind to escape mingling after the unmasking, but it seems to have gone awry. Never mind. The field will be dark when the torches are put out.”

  “Is that supposed to reassure me? You could be killed, and so could the others!”

  “And you would weep and ride off with the victor.”

  “That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard you say. What use have I for Philip Guevara?”

  “I did wonder that myself.”

  The words were pensive, and a deliberate incitement to mayhem. She controlled the impulse with an effort. “You're enjoying this. You can't wait to hack and slash at somebody.”

  “Not having had my quota of blood for the day?”

  “Having no one to vent your bad temper on since Don Esteban eluded you, except your own men, who now need some outlet for their own violent impulses.”

  “I did say you weren't blind.” His tone was dry. “Oh, I understand you very well, if that's what you mean. You might have wanted to leave the ball, and you may have decided to present your men with a use for their energies, but more than these you wanted to prevent the bloodletting of a duel while teaching the son of our host a lesson.”

  “In swordplay and horsemanship? I have it on the best authority, his own, that he is the champion at both on the island.”

  “I would have said the lesson was to be, in discretion.”

  “Now there's a thought. And if in defeat he learns to curb his tongue and his amorous penchant, will he not be a better man? And will there not be cause for rejoicing if, afterward, we find ourselves homeless but safer?”

  She stared at him while the wind blew her skirts about them both and tore at the elaborate curled structure of her hair. It was probable, as he was suggesting, that they would not be welcome in Señora Guevara's house after tonight. No doubt lodgings elsewhere would be better, since a question had been raised about his identity and the Guevara family would be watching them more closely. It was the widow who had procured them their current place, however.

  Pilar said, “What about Doña Luisa?”

  “She must do as she pleases.”

  “And what if it's you who are defeated?”

  “It's been agreed that the winners have leave to kiss all the loveliest ladies.”

  “That isn't what I meant.” Her eyes were shadowed as she watched him.

  He smiled with slow and singular sweetness. “I know, having eyes. And ears. You have ribbons to spare; I claim one for a favor.”

  The ribbon, one of a row forming bows and nestling between her breasts at the top of her stomacher, was untied and slipped free of its fastening before she could form an answer. She felt the warm touch of his fingers, then the loosening of her bodice. She brought her hand up quickly to cover the bare space, giving him a tight-lipped stare for his tactics of evasion.

  He met her gaze and,
still smiling, wrapped the ribbon around his arm and tied it, leaving the ends fluttering. He took her hand then, and led her to a place that had been made for her at the edge of the sand. It was a chair placed on a blanket on the ledge of scrub-covered land overlooking the field. He seated her, then bowed and moved away. Watching him go, Pilar realized that the seat had been made ready before she arrived, that he had known she would come in spite of her denials.

  The other contestants, taking their cue from Refugio, began to move among the crowd, seeking favors. Young Havana ladies blushed and hid smiles as they gave away their scarves and ribbons to their gallants. Baltasar took a sash from Isabel's dress. Enrique, with comic courtliness, sought out Doña Luisa with a plea for the ribbon from her widow's cap. Perhaps because she was pleased to be a part of the proceeding, or perhaps only to put an end to a supplication that was embarrassing to her, the widow gave it up with a careless gesture.

  Pilar, turning from watching that encounter, found Charro on one knee before her. There was daring in his eyes and a certain bravado in the set of his shoulders as he importuned her. “A ribbon also, my lady, to increase my honor?”

  How could she refuse? This was playacting at chivalry, for the most part, with no deeper meaning, no obligation, attached. She slipped another ribbon bow free and tied it to his shield, a round piece of wood covered with bull hide of the kind used for practice in soldiers' barracks. He knelt there, watching her, until she was done. He reached then and caught her hand, carrying it to his lips. His mouth was warm and lingering on her skin, and the look in his eyes one of reverence.

  At last he released her. “I will make you proud,” he said as he sprang to his feet. A moment later he was gone.

  The combatants moved up and down, pacing off the field and marking it, testing the ground and their equipment. They discussed strategy in low voices in groups of two and three. The crowd grew thicker behind Pilar. Not far from where she sat, the governor and his lady were made comfortable in chairs. The musicians from the ball, augmented by a few street hawkers with mouth harps and concertinas, struck up a lively tune. Orange sellers and pie men plied their wares, all the while insisting with mendacious vehemence that Ash Wednesday with its lenten abstinence actually began at dawn. There was a brisk traffic in the stools brought by an enterprising carpenter, and on the outskirts of the gathering an even more lively trade in the wares of certain women. Still, the most frenzied activity was in the betting, with the odds running strongly in favor of the island men.

  That was until the crowd saw what was happening.

  Refugio and his group had gathered at one end, huddling in a circle. When they turned, their shirts and tunics had been removed, and their faces, arms, and upper bodies had been blackened with grease and soot. They would fight nearly unprotected from the blows of their opponents, but they would blend with the dark, making it harder to find them to strike.

  Pilar was grimly amused, though she could not shake her apprehension. The soot was for disguise, as well as weighing in the favor of Refugio's team. At the same time, the removal of his tunic exposed the purplish scar of Refugio's injury as a dark streak across his chest, a reminder of his past weakness. What if he were struck there again? She could not bear to think of it, was not sure she could stand to watch. That the rest of his audience had no such qualms, and that they approved of the tactic, was plain from the sudden shift in the betting.

  Philip and his force did not take it so lightly. They protested, only to be offered grease and soot. Grandly, the younger man declined. He would not so demean himself as to take refuge behind dirt. What Refugio replied was lost in the shouting of the others, but Philip turned and stalked away to join his friends. He sent Pilar a look compounded of anger and hunger and baffled suspicion, but made no move to approach her.

  Refugio stepped forward, facing the gathering like a gladiator about to take the field. His feet spread wide, his sword held as lightly as a dance master's baton in one hand and his shield in the other, he addressed them.

  “Greetings, my wanderers of the night, dwellers of these enchanted isles!” he called. “We welcome you to this last revel of a carnival season that is speeding from us. In token of our esteem for your hospitality, we pledge you a contest of skill and strength and equine command. Let all those who have ever dreamed of daring deeds and knightly honor join us. And if you will not fight at our sides, then cheer friend and foe alike. For we come not to spill blood, but only conceit; not to take life, but to salute it!”

  He continued with the rules of the game. It was a tourney in the truest sense, a war to the finish. The swords were blunted but could still inflict damage. There would be slashing blows in plenty, but no thrusting allowed. A man who was bloodied was presumed dead and must retire from the field. A man who was disarmed could be taken prisoner and held for ransom. A man rendered unconscious could either be removed by his friends or taken prisoner by his opponents, whoever reached him first. There was no obligation for a man who unhorsed another to dismount to fight. A man unhorsed was permitted to steal the mount of another, if he could. The last man or team left standing were the winners, though the fight could be ended at any time by the surrender of the opposing team. It could also be stopped by the judge, who, in this case was a fair lady, the Venus de la Torre. She would give the signal to begin.

  It was simple yet grandiose, proud yet plain. Refugio, in clear, incisive tones, invited the participation of the audience while setting the limits of what they might expect. The crowd was entranced by his presentation and the scent of a rare treat, and roared its approval.

  What Refugio did not say, but which had become obvious to Pilar as he talked, was that the stripping away of the outer garments of his men and himself had been done for one last reason. In a real sense, it evened the odds for Philip and his friends. Refugio knew his men to be superior in age and experience and the kind of skill learned by vicious drilling and scant praise and honed by fights that could lead to bloody death or hanging. He was a fair man, and so he had given away an advantage. To make him and his men bleed would be easier since they lacked the protection of clothing against the blunted blades. Recognizing what he had done, Pilar felt her heart jar in her chest, then begin a slow, sickening throb.

  Refugio sketched a brief bow, then turned and leaped to the back of his mount with lithe, accustomed ease. He sat it in the center of the field as one by one the others came forward to be introduced and to make their obeisance to judge and spectators. That done, the combatants swung their horses and moved back into place behind the lines drawn at either end of the field. The tall torches were upended in the sand to extinguish them, and darkness descended.

  In the sudden quiet there could be heard the murmurous sound of the sea and the whisper of blowing sand. A horse snorted and a bit jingled. Somewhere far away a dog barked. Nearer at hand, a man sneezed and a woman smothered a laugh.

  In the dimness could be seen the double line of horsemen, dark shapes like shadows in the pale light of the moon. The wind ruffled the manes of the horses and also fluttered the full sleeves of the shirts, whitely gleaming, of the four men lined up on the right. Beyond them the sea rolled endlessly shoreward, glistening with the moon's faint track on its gently shifting breast.

  Pilar had not been told beforehand that she must signal, had no idea how it should be done. Somewhere behind her a drummer had begun a light roll that slowly grew in volume. She glanced around her for something to make a loud noise, for some final light to extinguish, for a scarf or a hat to be thrown. There was nothing that could be seen in the darkness. Abruptly she noticed the gleam of the pale ribbons on her dress. There was one more that could be sacrificed. Quickly she stripped it free, untied it. Rising to her feet, she lifted it high above her head so that it caught the sheen of moonlight and the lift of the offshore wind. Then with a wide gesture she tossed it toward the center of the field.

  It floated, gliding, shining, collapsing earthward. As it touched the sand the drumming stopp
ed with a final booming thud.

  The night exploded with shouts and yells and pounding hoofs. The men came together with a shock that threw half of their mounts back on their haunches. Swords clanged and grated. There were grunts and cries and curses. The thump and crash of blows caught on shields was a dull undertone. A horse reared. Another broke from the fray and was hauled back again. It was every man for himself, a hacking, cutting melee.

  The crowd, finding its voice, began to scream and call encouragement and to shift this way and that for a better view. Men pummeled each other in excitement. A few women shrieked and jumped up and down while others turned their heads, unable to watch. Pilar did not resume her seat, but stood with her hands clenched into fists in front of her. She could hardly bear to see, but neither could she bring herself to look away.

  A horse went down. The rider jumped free, then scrambled out of the way of the others. It was Enrique from his size and the sheen of dark grease on his torso. There was a moment when he scurried this way and that, trying to catch his panicked mount as he was pursued by a mounted man from the other team. His horse galloped away down the beach and he turned back toward his attacker. He dodged and ducked, sword firmly grasped in his hand. Then swiftly he tumbled, rolling under the belly of his opponent's horse, coming up on the other side to drag the man from the saddle. There was the flash of a blade in the moonlight and a dark streak appeared on the man's shirt. Enrique pulled himself into the fallen man's saddle and sent the horse back into the fray.

  The drum beat a quick tattoo. The injured man stumbled to the edge of the field, where his friends stripped off his shirt in order to patch the wound. The fighters were reduced to seven.

  Pilar, straining to follow the movements of the shifting phantoms, thought she saw a blow aimed and caught on a shield that had not been between friend and foe, but between two of Refugio's men. It must have been an accident, a mistimed hit as the men shifted at speed; still, it made her catch her breath. Anything could happen out there in that twisting, turning morass of blows and hoofs and unprotected flesh. Anything at all.