Carla Kelly

by The Wedding Journey

  “I…I’m not really sure,” Elinore replied, thrown off guard. “But see you here, sir, he will be glad to administer any medical treatment that you or your servants might require.”

  “We are all in famous health, my dear lovely,” the count replied. “I ask just one thing of you…Captain, is it?”

  “Yes. Captain Randall,” Jesse said, hoping he did not sound as skeptical as he felt.

  “I would like to paint your beautiful wife.”

  “What?” he exclaimed. “Surely you are not serious?”

  “You do not think she is beautiful?” the count asked, his eyes wide.

  “Count, she is the personification of loveliness,” Jesse said, and he felt his face turning red when Harper and Wilkie started to laugh. “But, Count, you will allow me to say that in her present state, my beautiful wife”—he emphasized my; he couldn’t help himself, not with the way the count was looking at her—“could use a bath and a clean dress, and even more than that, a place to sleep.”

  “Come with me, then, all of you,” Conde Almanzor said, drawing his cape around him with a flourish. “You will be my guests.”

  There seemed to be no point in arguing with the man, and Jesse felt no inclination to do so, not after another glance at Elinore’s drawn face, and the way Wilkie’s shoulders slumped. “Let’s follow him,” he said. “It can’t be any worse than a night in the rain.”

  They followed the count, who had appropriated Elinore and tucked her arm in his, through a side door to a coach that was probably new when the Bourbons came to power a century earlier. There was room for all inside. Only after a pointed look at the count was Jesse able to wrest Elinore away to sit beside him. “Proprietary, wouldn’t you say?” he whispered to her while the count occupied himself with seating everyone.

  “I can overlook almost anything in a man who doesn’t mind me with ten pounds of mud on my shoes and who promises a real bed,” she whispered back.

  He shuddered elaborately and pulled her closer. “You are a fast piece, Mrs. Randall,” he teased. “Too bad I am finding this out now, after I made all kinds of extravagant promises at Burgos.” He looked at her. The count was absolutely right; she was beautiful, even with rain on her face and her eyes so tired.

  Although it was a short ride, she was asleep before they reached the count’s estate, her head gentle against his shoulder. He couldn’t really tell in the rain and gathering darkness, but it seemed they crossed a moat. He even thought he heard the drawbridge clanking and grinding upright when they were through. He looked at Harper, who shook his head. Leger only stared out the window. Wilkie was gazing at him with such an expression of trust that Jesse felt uneasy.

  He told himself that although the count appeared a trifle eccentric, they had nothing to fear. The two retainers waiting by the stone entrance were as antique as the coachman, and even more deferential. Elinore will have a good night’s sleep, he told himself, as the count indicated she should follow a woman he identified as his housekeeper. Elinore looked back at him once, and he wanted to follow her, except that the count was ushering them into the hall.

  “I wish to know where that woman is taking my wife,” he said to the count.

  “She will tend to her every need and provide her with the best food we have to offer here in Almanzor,” the count said. “I will do the same for you. Follow me, sirs.”

  Every instinct told him no, but he saw the hunger on his men’s faces, even as they seemed to mirror the wariness he knew was on his own. He wavered, disgusted with his own indecision and even, for the tiniest moment, cursing David Sheffield for dying and leaving him with the responsibility of Marching Hospital Number Eight. “Very well,” he agreed reluctantly. “You will take me to her later, will you not?”

  Almanzor patted his shoulder. “Why don’t we let her have a peaceful night’s sleep for once, Captain? Surely your needs can wait. You can see her in the morning. Do follow me. I know, strictly speaking, that this is not sherry country —our soil is too wet—but I think I have a brandy that will surprise you.”

  He led them into a hall, and then through a series of rooms that made him wish for a long ball of twine, or at least the genius of a Theseus in the maze of the minotaur. Harper and Wilkie whispered together. They stopped finally at the door of a room that seemed like all the others. The count stood aside and motioned them inside. The pride on his face gave Jesse his first moment of relief. “Gentlemen, please accept the hospitality of Almanzor,” he said.

  Harper’s sigh was so deeply felt that Jesse could almost hear it resonate up from the stone floor. They were in a dining hall of such enormous size that Jesse wondered if whole Crusades had left from this place. Anything’s possible, he thought as he looked around. After looking at row upon row of dusty banners overhead, some of them with Arabic writing, he saw the long table at the hall’s end. With no further encouragement from the count, they all moved toward it. A great silver epergne stood at the table’s center, but the attraction were the silver platters that flanked it. He could not remember when he had seen so much food.

  Or so it seemed. The count who had followed them in gestured toward it gracefully and bowed. “Be my guests, gentlemen. Pray, do not hang back.”

  It was all Jesse could do not to sprint to the table and begin gobbling food from the nearest platter. He reached the table and stared at it in surprise and growing consternation. “What on earth…” he said, and stepped back.

  What lay on the table may have been well-prepared dishes at one time, but that was a long time ago. Deeply tarnished bowls held fruit so shriveled that he could not tell apple from plum. What must have once been a roasted suckling pig was now an empty sack of bones from which emanated what he could only charitably call a musty aroma. Dried loaves of bread shriveled in silver baskets next to cheese curled and moldy. If there was brandy in the bottles on the table, only sediment the color of slush remained. He turned to see Armand Leger standing beside him, his face drained of all color.

  “Mon dieu, monsieur. We are in a madman’s house,” the Frenchman said.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Think, Jesse, think, he commanded himself as he swallowed the panic that rose in his throat like bile. He stared at the food another moment, then turned around to see Harper right behind him.

  “Captain, I can kill him in a second,” the private whispered.

  “No,” Jesse whispered back, putting out his hand. “We don’t know where Elinore is. Let me try this.” He took a deep breath. Forcing himself to smile, he walked back to his host, who stood by the nearest table. “Count, your hospitality is nearly overwhelming, but I think the food has been on the table a few days too long.”

  The count shook his head, as though admonishing a fractious child. “Captain, I had no idea the British army was so particular! Last summer some of Marshal Marmont’s troops stopped here, and they were much more accommodating.”

  I wonder under what stones you have buried them, Jesse thought, not daring to look at Harper, who was standing right beside him now. “Actually, Count, we’re so cold from marching in rain all day, that I was wondering—as a special favor to me—if you would bring us some soup instead. We can tackle this feast tomorrow night, eh?”

  The count clapped his hands together. “What an excellent notion!” He put his hand on Jesse’s arm, and Jesse tried not to stare at the length and color of his fingernails. “My wife would call me remiss.” He clapped his hands until an antiquated servant shuffled into the dining hall. “Pablo, bring some soup and bread for this army.”

  Keep him talking, Jesse thought. “Your wife? When may we be graced with her presence, Count?”

  “Alas, she is quite ill, and could never visit.”

  “Count, I am a surgeon,” he reminded the man. “I would be pleased to tend to her. It is the least we can do to repay your magnificent hospitality.” Top that, you old bastard.

  The count shook his head. “She is too ill even for you, I fear.” He clacked yellow n
ails against yellow teeth, and Jesse shuddered. “That was why I was visiting that shabby excuse of a priest. I tell him she needs Extreme Unction, but he never listens.”

  “Last Rites? My God, Count, let me see her!” Jesse insisted. “Surely I can make her more comfortable.”

  “I doubt you can make her more comfortable,” the count replied, laughing as though enjoying a huge joke. “You may see her in the morning. She will keep.”

  I am not even going to think about that last remark, Jesse told himself. “I would like to see her.”

  “Then I will oblige you,” the count replied with a deep bow. “And now, I will see to your dinner. Please make yourselves comfortable until I return.”

  After the count left the room, humming to himself, they stared at each other. “We have wandered into a mess,” Leger said at last.

  “How right you are,” Jesse replied. A mob of thoughts careened about inside his brain, like balls pinging around a billiard table. “I don’t know what to do, but I do know this: we had better do everything in our power to stay together tonight.”

  “And tomorrow?”

  “Who knows? I think we will have to act very quickly.” He looked around. “I haven’t seen many servants, and the ones we have seen are as old as he is.”

  “You don’t need to be young to poison food,” Leger observed. “Or fire a pistol.”

  “No, you don’t,” Jesse agreed. “Let us insist that the count join us for soup.”

  They waited silently, standing in a miserable little circle. Jesse ached to know where Elinore was, and if she was being well treated. What have I gotten us into, he asked himself.

  “We’ll find her tomorrow, Chief.”

  He looked up to see Harper regarding him with a look dangerously close to affection. He called me Chief, Jesse thought. My goodness. I had better prove myself worthy of that honorific.

  Dinner turned out to be surprisingly normal. The count returned with a large bowl of barley stew. Jesse couldn’t readily identify the meat, and warned himself not to think too long about Marshal Marmont’s troopers of last summer. They all watched the count dip from the bowl, take a few bites, pronounce the stew good, and gesture to them to follow his example. No one needed further urging. The meat turned out to be sausage.

  The count was the perfect host, content to pass the basket of crusty bread, and see that everyone had a generous slice of cheese to float on top of the soup. He mourned that such a common meal had to be served at any dinner hosted by an Almanzor, but these were difficult, perilous times. “I trust you will overlook my poor hospitality, Captain,” he said, pushing away his empty bowl at last.

  “On the contrary, Count, your food is excellent, and you are showing us every possible attention,” he said. He thought a moment. What can I possibly lose by not venturing, he asked himself. “Count, considering these difficult times, I understand if you did not wish to trouble yourself with painting my wife. We can return some other time.”

  “It is no trouble to me, Captain, none at all!” the count replied. He looked around at them all, his eyes bright. “I wasn’t planning to paint her myself, you see. Tonight I am going to address a letter to Senor Francisco Goya in Madrid. He should have it in a few weeks, and if he has time in a month or so, he will be here to paint the senora.”

  Jesse stared at the count. “Perhaps you do not understand, Count, but we are probably being followed by the French, and must continue our retreat tomorrow.”

  “You may leave her with me, Captain.”

  Never, he wanted to shout, then leap up and wring the man’s scrawny neck. After a warning look at Harper and Wilkie, he forced himself to sit back in his chair. “I would miss her too much for that, Count. Perhaps you could make arrangements with Goya—I certainly appreciate that you have chosen him, of all painters—to come here in the spring when we return with Wellington’s army.”

  The count shook his head sadly. “It cannot be, Captain. She has to remain here.”

  Jesse could think of nothing to say in the face of such calm assurance. From his medical school days, he knew that arguing with a lunatic was akin to attempting to reason with a two-year-old. “This is certainly an honor for the Randalls, Count,” he said finally.

  The Spaniard beamed at him. “I am so glad you agree!” He looked around. “On the whole, you are much easier to deal with than Marmont’s soldiers. You never heard such complaint when I…Oh, never mind. It is time I showed you to your chambers.”

  Jesse didn’t have to look at his soldiers to sense their alarm. “I have a request, Count. Please let us stay in the same room. We’re rather used to each other by now.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it!” the count declared. “Soldiers and gentlemen together!” He touched Jesse’s arm, and Jesse tried not to wince when he thought of those fingernails. “We have never been so egalitarian here in Spain, sir!”

  “Then I insist that you quarter them in a room right next to Armand and me,” Jesse said, trying to sound firm when his insides were in turmoil. “They are my men, and I will be in charge of them.”

  Was that too much? Was it enough? he asked himself in agony as the count regarded him out of narrowed eyes. He returned the count’s stare, his eyes not wavering, all the while wondering if staring at a madman was as provocative as staring at a strange dog. “I insist,” he said, his voice quiet.

  To his relief, the count removed his hand and lowered his eyes with a self-conscious laugh. “How silly! I will do as you say, because I love the English so well.”

  “Walk next to him, Armand,” he whispered to the Frenchman. “I need a word with my men.”

  Without a blink or hesitation, Armand stood next to the count, bowed elaborately, and extended his arm. Jesse hung back, and Harper and Wilkie walked slowly beside him from the dining hall. “When you get in your room, barricade the door with anything you can find. You had better take turns standing guard. I’m going to try to see Elinore.”

  “What are you going to do, Chief?” Harper whispered.

  “I have not a clue. Ah, Count, do tell us something about these wonderful pictures here in your gallery!”

  They were wonderful: a Velázquez here, an El Greco there. If he wasn’t mistaken, a Tintoretto and at least two Titians languished in a darker corner. He thought he recognized a Raphael carelessly leaning against another painting on the floor. “Count, these are magnificent,” he said, and he meant it. “I will be honored to have my darling Elinore painted by Goya and displayed in your gallery.”

  The count beamed at him and blew him a kiss.

  Here I go, Jesse thought. “Do let me look in on her tonight, Count. I’m sure she is enjoying the best of your hospitality, but I miss her lovely face.”

  “Of course, Captain,” the count said promptly. Jesse could have dropped to his knees in relief. “But first let us quarter your men.” He laughed, and Jesse felt his scalp tingle. “But we won’t draw them, eh? Just quarter’um.” He went off in a gale of laughter at his wit in English.

  Jesse forced himself to laugh along. “Count, how clever you are with English!” He leaned closer, trying not to cringe as his head touched the count’s. “You must be the wittiest man in Spain.” And the most diabolical, he thought. Oh, Lord, take pity on stupid people tonight, please.

  Both Harper and Wilkie were pale and subdued when they reached a door. The count opened it, and ushered the two men inside. Jesse could see a large bed, and a fire burning. He glanced at the barred windows, then looked away.

  “Here you are, lads. Do have a pleasant night in your quarters,” the count said. He fumbled with the keys at his belt, tried several, and then locked the door. Jesse looked at Leger. The Frenchman managed a small shrug.

  “You and Senor Leger will be here,” the count said, indicating the room next door. They went inside, and Jesse noticed their medical satchels and other traveling kits lined against the wall. “You are treating us so well, Count,” he said with a bow.

  “Anythi
ng for my allies.” The count gestured grandly around him. “The king of Portugal slept here in 1494 when he came to sign the Treaty of Tordesillas.” He permitted himself a small giggle behind his hand. “I can assure you the sheets have been changed at least once or twice since then!”

  Jesse laughed, and Leger joined in. “You have a magnificent wit,” the Frenchman said. “Captain Randall, have you ever been so entertained?”

  “Not within recent memory.” He looked at the count with what he hoped was a pleasant but firm expression. “And now, Count, please take me to my wife.”

  “Indeed,” Almanzor said promptly, as though responding to a cue. He locked Leger inside the room, and handed the lamp to Jesse, after dismissing the old servant.

  He was silent then, and Jesse was grateful. He concentrated on each passageway, and every staircase, but with a sinking feeling found himself hopelessly confused. The castle was a labyrinth, probably built this way on purpose centuries ago to fuddle any warlord trying to conquer it. Well, I am fuddled, diddled and scotched, Hippocrates, he thought as they traversed yet another corridor, climbed yet another set of stairs, narrower now, and obviously in an older part of the sprawling building.

  He forced himself to be calm. The last staircase spiraled up inside a narrow tower. His confidence returned, because he knew he could find this structure again, provided he could get outside and walk the grounds. When the count, wheezing now, stopped at the only door and began the search for the key, he looked up and noticed a trapdoor that must lead to the roof.

  The chamber was circular and small, and lit only by a fire in a brazier. He could barely make out Elinore in the gloom, sound asleep in a bed with heavy curtains drawn back. I have wandered into a fairy tale, he thought in amazement. Here we are, living in modern times, except for this castle in Spain. He went to the bed to see Elinore.

  She stirred when he sat down beside her, but did not waken. He touched her hair, pleased to see that it was clean, and that she wore a simple nightgown. Beautiful lady, he thought, if I kiss you, will I break a spell, or make things worse? He kissed her cheek, then returned to the count. He bowed. “Count, you have taken such wonderful care of Elinore. Could I not stay with her tonight?”