by Shirl Henke
Aaron stopped in front of a thatched-roof cane hut of medium proportions near the large sunken courtyard at the center of the village. “Tis not as spacious as the bohio I shared with Aliyah, but as befits my new status as your husband,” he shrugged, “twill serve.” He pulled her inside.
After the blazing sun, Magdalena blinked to accustom her eyes to the dimmer light. In truth, it was much like the cane house they inhabited in Ysabel, except the construction was a bit sturdier, but she would never admit that to this arrogant lout. The hut was spartanly furnished. A strangely shaped chair with a curving back and claw feet sat in one corner, a hamaca was strung between two support posts in the center of the room, and several pieces of pottery were placed neatly in a corner. Only Aaron's weapons and a saddlebag filled with his personal effects attested to the fact he lived here.
“Even less luxury than Ysabel afforded, I fear. You will find sleeping in a hamaca very interesting,” he said with an icy smile.
Just looking at the wretched hemp netting made her insect-bitten skin cry for mercy, but she said nothing. Surely men and women did not make love in those awful contraptions! Magdalena would have cut out her tongue before she asked. Changing the subject, she inquired, “What of the much-praised Taino hospitality? Are we to be fed—or are you punishing me by excluding me from the feast for the adelantado?”
“There will be food aplenty...and in time you will learn to help cook it.”
She stiffened angrily. “I am not one of your Indian women. I am nobly born.”
“Aliyah is the sister of a great cacique. A royal princess by European standards. Yet she tended a cookfire for me. I fear I was forced into a poor bargain with you to wife, my lady.”
“At this moment, no one could wish you wed to your savage mistress more than I!” she spat.
“You continue to refer to these people as savages. They may be primitive in the ways of weaponry and plain cruelty so familiar to the white race, but they have a beautiful way of life. Never again will you call them savages. Do you understand me?” His steely blue eyes bored into her furious green ones.
“You do this in revenge! Because I have forced you to wed me, you would make a peasant of me. Do your worst, Don Diego Torres,” she said scornfully, “for I was raised on horseback in a miserable crumbling estate on the marshes of the Guadalquiver. I can do anything your fine royal princess of the Tainos can!”
Chapter Fifteen
Magdalena quickly was compelled to eat her words— and a few other items even more difficult to choke down. There was indeed a great feast that evening in honor of the admiral's adelantado. All the highest ranking nobility of the vast village met at the long, high-roofed bohio belonging to Guacanagari.
Magdalena, having brought little clothing, was at a loss as they dressed for the occasion. She watched Aaron don a scanty loincloth and wrap an intricately wrought girdle about his slim hips. The workmanship was beautiful, she grudgingly admitted to herself. The fine cotton threads were worked with colorful shells, beads, and gold jewelry.
When he looked up and caught her observing the girdle, he flushed beneath his bronzed skin and said gruffly, “Aliyah made this for me as a gift. I must wear it for ceremonial occasions.” With that he casually selected several brilliant red parrot feathers and worked them artfully into his hair.
“You look like a yellow-haired Taino,” she said accusingly. “Would you truly turn your back on civilization and join these people?”
His eyes met hers with an icy blue stare. “I did not turn my back on civilization until it turned on me. My whole family is either dead or in exile. Should I love the lofty ideals of European ‘civilization’ for that?”
Magdalena forced herself not to flinch beneath the bitter sting of his words. “And for the sins of the fathers, the children shall be punished. You will always see me as the Crossbearer's daughter and hate me for what Bernardo Valdés did.”
He did not reply to that, only instructed her, “Get dressed. We will be late. I hear the drums summoning the honored guests.”
“I have naught but a white linen under-tunic and a loose brown velvet gown.”
He scoffed aloud. “God's bones! Velvet in this heat. You are more foolish than those soldiers behind the stockades who are sweating in their leather armor. Wear the under-tunic alone. Twill serve.”
Recalling her humiliating introduction to the admiral when she dressed so scandalously on the plaza at Ysabel, she flushed. “In Seville I would be thought a woman of the streets to go dressed in such a fashion.”
“Had you stayed in Seville, this all would have been spared you,” he replied without the slightest sympathy.
By the time Aaron and Magdalena arrived at the bohio of Guacanagari, she felt her heart hammering within her breast. Tis a miracle no one can see it vibrate through this sheer cloth! she thought with mortification as she followed Aaron into the large, crowded room. Guacanagari reclined on a low wooden couch which was elaborately carved and covered with soft cotton cushions. Several other men of obvious rank had similar seats, as did a number of women.
As guest of honor, Bartolome was seated at Guacanagari's right hand and Luis Torres just behind him. While Aaron led her to a couch set aside for them, Magdalena felt the hot, hateful glare from a pair of narrowed obsidian eyes, glowing like coals. Instinctively, she knew the woman was Aliyah. Magdalena's heart sank as she surreptitiously studied her rival's flowing ebony hair draped across her body like black satin. She wore brilliant yellow feathers worked all through her hair and a heavy tangle of beads about her throat. Her-only concession to modesty was the long skirt woven cunningly of native grasses that clung to her hips and fell to midcalf. Her skin was a dusky golden hue, no darker than Aaron's. Her breasts were large and milk-filled, but otherwise she was marvelously recovered from birthing a child a scant three days ago. She was lushly curved, yet her belly was as flat as any virgin's.
She has borne Aaron's child and suckles it. Magdalena felt faint as she forced herself to remain calm and recline on the couch as if this were an everyday occurrence. She met Aliyah's fiery glare boldly. I will not cower. I am his wife!
Aliyah's face was round, the planes of it austere and handsome rather than pretty. Her nose was broad and slightly flat but small, her lips pouty and generous. Her eyes were her most arresting feature—so dark a brown they looked night black. Cat-green eyes returned the killing stare. Magdalena forced herself to smooth her linen tunic out and then casually, possessively, glide her hand up to Aaron's shoulder. ‘‘Small wonder she is taken with you. 'Tis your yellow hair she covets. All the feathers she sports in hers must have made bald half the parrots on Española, ” she said snidely.
He chuckled without mirth. “Never fear. We will doubtless have them served up as one course in our feast.”
“Parrots? They eat parrots?” She hoped her voice did not break.
He leaned near her and said quietly, “Do not disgrace me. Whatever food is placed before you is a special tribute given first to Guacanagari and shared only by those of highest rank. There will be dogs, iguanas, and hutias roasted...then other things. You must sample all of them as if you were at a banquet with the queen.” His eyes challenged her as he threw back her words. “You told me to do my worst. This feast is the pleasant part. Enjoy tonight, Magdalena—if you have the courage.”
His smug condescension indicated that he did not believe she possessed it. You will see otherwise, husband! But dogs? Reptiles? She repressed a shudder and raised her chin as Guacanagari clapped his hands and all the brilliantly arrayed revelers settled back to feast.
Slaves, supervised by lower-class servants, began to carry in the food in endless bowls. Each delicacy was first served to Guacanagari. Then when he had signaled his approval, more was served to the assemblage. To her surprise, Magdalena found the firm white meat of the iguana to be quite tasty. Even the dark sweetish hutia was palatable, as were the ever-present fruits, cassava bread, and yams. When the grayish chunks of stewe
d meat, which she assumed was made from the small, barkless dogs indigenous to Española, was served, Magdalena even managed to force a few bites of it down under Aaron's scrutiny.
“Twould not be so terrible if I knew not what I ate,” she managed to say with admirable calm.
Then came the greatest treat, for everyone began to make oohing and aahing sounds of delight when a large, hearth-fired tureen was placed before Guacanagari. His slaves dipped a gourd spoon into it and brought forth a strange, whitish substance, which he ate with great relish. Immediately a platter filled with big lobsters and whole roasted fresh river fish was served.
“The seafood course is always considered the greatest delicacy,” Aaron said matter of factly.
When a slave bowed before them with the serving gourd filled with the noisome white matter, Magdalena nearly gagged. Close up, the smell was overpoweringly fishy—and raw! She inspected the small, round, grayish-green lumps with great suspicion, then recoiled and placed her hand over her mouth lest she emit a shriek. Fish eyes, raw fish eyes stared at her from a bizarre jumble in the heaping spoon! She watched Aaron take a hearty helping. If Magdalena had not been so horror-stricken, she might have noticed how swiftly he swallowed the delicacy.
As the slave readied a mercifully smaller portion for her, she glanced frantically across the room to Bartolome, who was manfully gulping down the treat. Guacanagari beamed at the adelantado. Aliyah smiled malevolently at her red-haired nemesis. You savage witch! Magdalena took a deep breath before the spoon neared her lips, then held it and swallowed the slimy mass with the speed of a lizard snatching a fly with his forked tongue.
Seizing her water goblet, she gulped down several huge slugs before she dared exhale. “Blessed Virgin, what I would give for a flagon of good red wine,” she muttered beneath her breath, meeting Aliyah's hostile stare with a triumphant smirk.
“The Taino people do not use spirits, only the tobaco, a mild stimulant that is burned. The smoke, when inhaled up the nostrils, brings on effects somewhat similar to strong drink,” Aaron replied, admiring her grit in spite of himself. The first time he had been forced to partake of fish eyes, he had excused himself soon after, to go wretch quietly in the jungle.
“I detest the evil stink of their stimulants. Good wine is preferable to sour smoke that surely rots the brain,” she replied, trying desperately to bring her rebellious stomach under control by discussing anything else but what was in it.
“You and Bartolome will favor the next course—nuts soaked in honey.”
Recognizing the agreeable looking sweet, she let out a long sigh of relief. I have survived!
* * * *
Magdalena had hoped the feast was a trial that, once overcome, would give her acceptance in Taino society. Early the next morning, at dawn's light, she was disabused of the notion when Aaron awakened her, pulling the sheer cotton insect netting from her body. “I am going fishing with Caonu,” he said as he reached for a long-handled spear with sharp fishbone prongs attached to one end. “You are to learn the skills practiced by noblewomen here.”
She rolled over with a moan. “I can imagine well their skills, plucking the eyes from innocent fish,” she said with a shudder.
“Scarcely that. They weave beautiful twilled baskets and paint cunning designs on pottery. Dress quickly and I will escort you to Guacanagari's bohio.”
Magdalena did not ask if Aliyah would be present, but with each step nearer the cacique's residence, she dreaded another confrontation. She might be holding Aaron's child, suckling his son in front of me, she thought in silent anguish. Then she looked at his harsh profile, so cleanly chiseled in the golden light of morn. I, too, may bear you a son, Aaron. Would he welcome him or reject him for his Valdés blood? She would know in time if they continued to make love as they had on their wedding night. Holding the thought of a golden-haired babe close to her heart, she steeled herself to face Aliyah.
Aaron, too, worried silently about how the two women would deal together. If he were wise, he would send his wife back to Ysabel with Bartolome and Luis on the morrow. Then he looked at her haughty, beautiful face and the inbred pride that carried her each step toward Guacanagari's bohio. No, he would lesson her well here in the interior before letting her return to the comforts of Castilian civilization.
* * * *
Lorenzo Guzman watched the settlement of Ysabel draw nearer as the caravel floated in on the tide. God's bones, what a bleak piece of offal! A Palos tavern looked like the Alhambra compared to this dismal sinkhole. To think he had been banished here, possibly for the rest of his life, never again to see the glittering courts of Castile and Aragon! He drew himself up from his slumped posture against the rail. He would face that arrogant Genoese wool merchant's spawn like the nephew of a duke.
Bitterly he recalled his last interview with Medina-Sidonia. The duke had been trembling with fright, his skin like damp parchment, as he informed Lorenzo that Torquemada and his Holy Office had secured a full confession from Bernardo Valdés, who was scheduled to burn in the next auto de fe in Seville.
“All incited by a letter from the hand of an accused Jew,” he had cried fiercely to his uncle. “Who would believe Isaac Torres, fled into exile, a traitor to the crowns of Castile and Aragon?”
“Apparently King Fernando did,” Medina-Sidonia had replied tightly. “It seems his former minister gave a most thorough accounting of where every last maravedi of Benjamin Torres had been sequestered. The royal portion and that due the Church were far short. When Valdés' country estate was searched, several highly incriminating pieces of jewelry were found, as well as documents regarding transfers of gold.”
Then Lorenzo, too, had begun to tremble as he asked, “My name was not—”
“Yes, it was in the records of that idiot Valdés, ” the duke had hissed. “To keep the honor—and the very line—of the House of Medina-Sidonia safe, I had them destroyed before the Inquisitors saw them. Valdés alone stands accused...for now. I have risked everything pleading your case before the king. He and I are in accord. We would see you gone from court. Your own wife was accused by the Holy Office, and your daughter mysteriously vanished after Ana's death at the stake. This family can endure no more dishonor. You will leave for the Indies!”
“Tis no fault of mine that you and that treacherous judaizing converso Benjamin Torres arranged my marriage with his daughter,” Lorenzo said with fists clenched at his sides.
“You coveted too much. Not only your father-in-law's wealth, but that of his elder son in Barcelona. That was your undoing. I know not how long I can keep the familiars in Catalonia from your trail. If you leave now, we will all be better served by it.” The old man's voice was steely with finality.
And so Lorenzo had been banished in disgrace. All the wealth he had secured from Torres' estates had been claimed either by that greedy Trastamara king who set in motion the hellish investigation, or by the Inquisition itself. He was near penury. Only a pittance from his uncle had allowed him to book passage for the new colony as a gentleman.
As the gromets lowered the ship's boat into the water, he straightened his cloak and looked at the jungle and jagged mountains rising in the steamy distant haze. If only there is indeed gold here for the taking.
* * * *
Magdalena looked down at her hands, the tender palms and fingertips bloody, crisscrossed with a thousand tiny cuts from her futile and clumsy attempts at working the sharp-edged cane strips into the tightly woven patterned baskets. She succeeded no better with basketry than she had with painting pottery. After several pieces of fine hearth-fired clay lay shattered around her feet, Guacanagari's elder sister Mahia pronounced her hopeless. At least that is what Magdalena deduced. In her two weeks with the Taino, she had mastered only bits of the language, but the disgust of Aliyah's sister was plain.
“I was ever pricking my fingers with embroidery needles, too,” she said, forcing a sweet smile as she bowed and left the Taino gentlewomen to their art. She held her long
, hot plait of hair away from her neck and felt the sweat trickle down her back. How wonderful it would be to ride, she thought with a smirk. The haughty Taino royalty remained terrified of horses. “Stupid savages,” she muttered, heading purposefully through the crowded streets to the edge of town and Aaron's corral.
He would be furious, of course, but he was sore displeased with her anyway, so what did it matter? Only in the dark of night, on their sleeping platform, did he reach out for her in tenderness. But that was passion, not love, she reminded herself as she opened the heavy cane gate and grabbed a hackamore for her mount. Quickly, she captured her flea-bitten old horse and in moments was galloping bareback across the valley. The breeze cooled her sweaty body, but she could not enjoy the stolen freedom. Her relationship with her husband intruded.
By now, Aliyah had recovered fully from the birth of Navaro. Each time Magdalena saw the beautiful black-haired child with his sculpted European features and Aaron's piercing blue eyes, she wanted to sob. When the noblewomen gathered, Aliyah carried the boy with her, taking every opportunity to nurse him in front of Magdalena. “She grows slimmer and more desirable. If I become pregnant and grow fat, he will return to her.”
The hot, sultry air swallowed up her anguished words as she rode blindly past carefully tended fields of manioc, yams, and peanuts. The golden-brown skins of the women laboring in them glistened with perspiration as they worked the long, fire-hardened points of their planting sticks in the soft black earth. They wore no clothing in the heat and kept their hair tied on their heads with cunning clasps made of twilled cane. She pulled at the heavy linen that clung to her sweat drenched body, cursing the jungle, Española, and her husband.
As if she had conjured him, Aaron rode up beside her, reached over, and took the hackamore from her hands, reining in the heaving old gray with a gentle steady pull. “What in the name of Michael and all his angels are you doing riding in the heat of the day, unescorted?” he gritted between clenched teeth. “You will either kill the horse with heat stroke or break your neck.”