by Shirl Henke
“King João was given his chance to fund the enterprise by Admiral Colon. He foolishly missed his opportunity by declining. Perhaps the Lord works in ways none of us yet understands,” Magdalena said with a smile. “Even the Genoese are favored by Him.” She loved baiting the haughty Castilians such as Don Gonzolo and Don Bernal, both of whom detested the Colons. She strongly suspected Lorenzo shared their feelings. One look at the way he was glaring at the oblivious, beaming Diego Colon assured Magdalena that her judgment was correct. Again a prickle of apprehension made her shiver in spite of the humid night air.
Pleading a headache, which was not far from the truth, Magdalena decided to take a turn outside in the fresh air. Nicolas de Palmas strolled across the stone patio behind the palace with her for a few moments. Once they were outdoors, her mood lifted, as if escaping the cold eyes of Lorenzo Guzman made it easier to breathe. However, the very corpulent older man huffed and puffed as he kept pace with her in the sticky humidity. Like most Castilians, he insisted on wearing heavy clothing in the heat. As he tugged at the high gathered collar of the satin tunic beneath his velvet doublet, Magdalena took pity on him.
“Please, you are eager to rejoin the political discussion inside. I will retire upstairs and attend to my hair, which is quite wilted, then rejoin you and the other gentlemen in the audience chamber.”
Gratefully, de Palmas waddled off, after being assured her headache was all but gone. Magdalena found a young servant girl who showed her to the room she had occupied when first she came to Ysabel. As she used the chamber pot and fussed with her hair, then bathed her hands and face with a cool cloth, she considered all that had happened to her in the past few months. Never would she return to Seville, but that no longer concerned her.
“I would live in a Taino bohio for the rest of my life if only Aaron loved me,” she whispered sadly. If only she could give him a son in place of the one he lost to Aliyah's spite.
Deep in thought, Magdalena did not rush back to the audience hall, but wandered through the shrubbery at the edge of the patio, delaying her return to the odious and boring party. She paused behind a clump of pink poui trees, deep in the shadows. Soft male voices murmured, the sound carrying across the courtyard with startling clarity. A sudden chill of premonition seized her as she strained to see who the two men were.
“You are right about the Torres woman. She is beautiful, but so razor-tongued that I would not want her in my bed. I can buy all the willing female flesh I desire back in Seville. When will your uncle send you the funds he has promised? God's balls, I am stranded here for no crime of my own! 'Tis you who was banished and must win your fortune here. I am for home—if you will give me what you owe.”
“You will receive your payment. Only be patient. The duke's anger has cooled and he will soon send me funds.”
Magdalena felt as if the breath had been squeezed from her. She struggled to overcome the same dizziness she had experienced outside Bernardo Valdés' study that day in Seville when the same man had spoken the same words in the same harsh Castilian lisp: You will receive your payment. Only be patient. Lorenzo Guzman was her father's co-conspirator!
Slowly, not daring to breathe, she moved farther into the darkness, watching each step lest she make a sound that might echo across the courtyard.
Diego Colon's face blanched with shock; then the patronizing courtliness she had always found so annoying asserted itself. He faced her across the round table where he broke his fast upon rising. The room was small and rather dark, well suited to the occasion, for no one could overhear their conversation although many might speculate about what had brought Dona Magdalena Valdés de Torres to visit the acting governor at such a scandalous hour.
“Surely you cannot expect me to give credence to such a wild accusation, my lady. You speak of treason here—the very crimes for which your poor father, may God forgive him, was executed.”
Magdalena looked at the weak, vacillating young man across from her. He had none of Cristobal's visionary drive, nor Bartolome's blunt decisiveness. Neither did he possess their gentle sense of humor or their tolerance. To Diego she was but a hysterical female, overwrought and frightened in the wilderness because her husband was away. She had rehearsed her speech to Diego carefully, knowing how difficult it would be to have him believe her, much less act on her charges.
“Don Diego, my father stole from the crown and the Holy Office. He took much more than his Crossbearer's share from the wealth of my husband's house. He deserved to die. But he was only one man working in Seville to entrap Benjamin Torres. Being Benjamin's son-in-law, Lorenzo was the one with every opportunity to set servants spying on Ana—and only he had connections in Barcelona who could spy upon and betray Mateo and Rafaela. All the wealth of Rafaela Torres' family—a vast merchant fleet—was also confiscated when the family was taken. I overheard Lorenzo Guzman plot this with my father. If my father was guilty of treason, then so is Don Lorenzo! He must be held for royal justice.”
Diego was torn between wanting to console the white-faced, desperate woman and wanting to shake her until her pretty white teeth loosened. By the staff of St. Peter, how could he silence her hysterical accusations?
“My dear, you say you overheard the conversation back in Seville—over two years ago. You never saw Don Lorenzo with your father. You met him at the court and here in Ysabel and did not recognize him. Now, after overhearing a conversation in the garden, you come to me and ask that I imprison the nephew of the Duke of Medina-Sidonia.” He shrugged helplessly, then extended his hand across the table and took her white clenched fists and patted them. “You must miss your husband. Er...” His face reddened and he hesitated, then worked up his courage and asked, “Might you be with child? Often in women this causes them to imagine all sorts of—”
“I am neither with child nor imagining anything!” Magdalena stood up, fury boiling through her veins. “I realize to whom the exalted Don Lorenzo is related and the power of that ducal house. Doubtless 'twas the reason he was exiled here rather than sent to the dungeons beneath St. Paul's Convent as Benjamin Torres and his family—and Bernardo Valdés—were. But he is guilty and I will see justice done.”
With that she turned to leave. Diego Colon's face mottled even ruddier than his fair complexion usually allowed. He stood up, both fright and anger evident in his voice as he called after her, “So, you think to wait until my high and mighty brothers return, conquering heroes who will believe your absurd tales! I rather think, having spent years about royal courts across Europe, they will be a bit more cautious than to imprison a duke's nephew on the word of the woman whose own father and husband's family have been burned for crimes against Church and Crown.”
Magdalena did not even pause to bid the jealous idiot good-day. What a fool she had been to come to him with the tale. He was so impressed with nobility that he was blind to all else—and he was bitterly envious of his elder brothers. “I will have to wait until Aaron and the Colons return,” she whispered to herself with a shudder, wondering how she could avoid any accidental meetings with Lorenzo Guzman in the following days. Magdalena knew that if she looked into that cruel, haughty face with its cold gray eyes, she would surely give away her loathing and terror. Small wonder I was so apprehensive when first we met!
Don Lorenzo nodded at the guard leaning in a slouched position in front of the governor's palace. The Castilian straightened a bit in deference to his rank. Crude colonial rabble. How he hated being consigned to abide among such! A caravel had arrived that morning. Perhaps there was word from his uncle that he could return to Castile, or at least some funds to pacify Peralonso. He walked down the long, cool hallway of the palace as if it were his own residence, then turned into the audience chamber. Diego Colon was hearing several complaints from local farmers and tradespeople, even a handful of Indians. Upon seeing the nobleman, the acting governor at once stood up and motioned for all those waiting on his judgment to take seats. He strode across the hall to the duke's nephew, a
nervous smile in place.
“Good day, Don Lorenzo. Please, this is no place for a gentleman. These poor folk can wait while we have a draught of wine. I have just received the mail from home and your uncle sends a letter to you.”
“I had hoped he would do so,” Guzman said in delight as they strolled across the hall into the Colons' private quarters. Diego summoned a Taino servant and instructed him to bring fruit and wine to the library.
“Please forgive the clutter. My eldest brother's charts and navigational instruments are his life's work. No one is to disturb them. The servants regard him as if he were a god.” Diego motioned for Lorenzo to take a seat on a high-backed mahogany chair of crude but sturdy workmanship.
Lorenzo smiled thinly. “Ah, yes, they call him the man from heaven, do they not?”
Diego flushed. “Precisely so.”
As the servant brought the food and wine and then departed, Lorenzo noted the apparent nervousness of Colon. Something was amiss, but what? He took a sip of the foul warm wine and eyed the oddly colored tropical fruit lying in neat slices on the plate. He did not even know what half the foods he consumed in Española were! “I believe you said my uncle posted me a message?” he prompted.
Colon began to dig through the large leather pouch in one corner of the room. After a moment's search, he extracted a rolled missive with the wax seal of the House of Medina-Sidonia on it. Handing it to Guzman, he cleared his throat and said, “There is a matter, Don Lorenzo, that I fear you should be apprised of...” He floundered to a halt.
Guzman, about to take his coveted missive from Castile and depart, looked up warily at the inept acting governor. His brows rose in irritation and impatience. “Yes?”
“Dona Magdalena came to me early this morning with an absurd and fanciful tale. A young woman of noble blood, suffering the ill effects of a long sea voyage to this alien land, and then the shock of family disgrace and the death of her father—well, I am certain you will be tolerant of her sad outburst.”
By this time, Guzman's face had turned the color of ash and his hand crumpled the wax seal on the letter. “What did she say?” His voice was cold, precise, brittle with terror.
Colon, too absorbed in his own discomfiture to notice Guzman's reaction, continued fluttering his hands across the papers on Cristobal's desk. “Well, she thinks you to be the man who aided her father in his activities against your father-in-law, Benjamin Torres, and his family. I know it is ridiculous. She admits she had never seen you until she was at court in Valladolid last spring.
“Then why did she accuse me of such a heinous crime?” Lorenzo's voice was strained with fear and fury.
“It seems she overheard her father and another man speaking of betraying the Torres family to the Inquisition. 'Twas over two years ago, at her country estate outside Seville,” Diego said apologetically.
Lorenzo forced a laugh. “As you most certainly know, the charge is absurd. I have met Don Bernardo and his wife at court, even in Seville many years earlier when I was but a green boy. As to ever visiting their country estate...” He shrugged in perplexity. Then, leaning forward, he affixed Diego with his most chilling stare and said, “I do assume you will attempt everything in your power to keep this horrendous gossip from spreading through Ysabel.”
“Of course, Don Lorenzo. I sent her home with stern admonitions to keep quiet about this. As soon as her husband and her champion Bartolome return, I am certain they will take her in hand and calm her fanciful imagination. I myself will look in on her every evening when she returns from the hospital. She is best kept busy nursing feverish colonists and Indians who speak no Castilian, eh?”
As he arose, Lorenzo nodded in agreement, then asked casually, “Those caravels in the harbor, are any for Castile in the next days? My old friend Don Peralonso wishes to return to his patron, the duke.”
“The Galiante should be departing within a week, as soon as she is outfitted, but sometimes there are delays—careening to scrape the hull, reprovisioning, the usual matters—that and finding able-bodied seamen enough to man her. So many fall ill in this pestilential climate.”
Lorenzo nodded, attempting to maintain his facade of calm in front of the Genoese fool. “I shall send to learn from the Galiente's master when she will be ready.”
Guzman forced himself to walk calmly from the stone palace to where his horse was being held by a groom. He mounted and rode to the wretched cane and thatch hovel that passed for his residence in Ysabel. Once inside, he unrolled the letter with trembling hands and read its contents, then crumpled it with a curse and threw it across the rough-planked floor.
“I assume that means I must be patient yet a while longer,” Peralonso said from the doorway, one brow arched in disgust. “I heard the latest ship from Cadiz had just come in this morning.”
“We are in grave trouble, Peralonso. My uncle sends not one maravedi. We are to remain in exile and make our own fortunes. Hah! 'Tis but his way of assuring that we never return!”
“We? You speak as if I had aught to do with your banishment,” Guerra said tightly. “I have only been an adventurer seeking gold in this supposed land of glittering wealth. What an ill-conceived jest the Colons have perpetrated upon crafty old Fernando!”
“Forget the king, forget your supposed innocence! If I stand accused of killing his father, Diego Torres will slit your gullet as swiftly as he does mine.”
Guerra sat down on a small stool and looked up at the sweating, trembling younger man. “You had best explain.”
When Guzman finished the tale of Magdalena's discovery, he looked at the ashen Peralonso Guerra.
“Torres is dangerous and high in favor with the governor. When they return, you will be fed to the hounds—if you are fortunate enough not to be returned to the gentle mercies of Torquemada!” Guerra rasped.
“And you with me. As my uncle's retainer and my companion, do you think that you may escape my fate? We are in this together, Peralonso.”
“We are trapped here. What can we do? The girl—if we kill her before Torres returns...” Guerra's eyes lit up as he looked at Guzman.
“Simply doing away with her will serve naught. She has babbled all to that young fool Colon. If she is killed, he will sooner or later blunder into confessing her story to his brothers.”
“What are we to do? Flee into the jungles and live as the savages do?”
Guzman began to stroke his goatee as he paced, a slow ruthless smile now hardening across his face. “These past weeks here in Ysabel, I have reacquainted myself with a boyhood companion from Seville, Alonso Hojeda.”
“He has gone with the Colons to fight savages, which from what I have heard of him, is his most favored sport,” Guerra said in disgust.
“No, there you are mistaken. His most favored sport is getting rich. He only remains with the admiral until he learns where the gold, silver, pearls—whatever the Indies may in time give up—are located. Then he will outfit his own ships with backing from Medina-Celi. He was forced into fighting here to maintain his honor, but he has ever been busy learning which way blow the winds of chance. He has put me in contact with another soldier and gold seeker, one Francisco Roldan.”
Now Guerra's eyes narrowed in calculation. “The one in the south who rules independent of the Colons?”
“The same. Also the one who seized two caravels off the coast of Xaragua. He may be our means of escape from Española—and, perhaps our means of securing our fortunes, too. It is said he lives far better in the south than do the miserable wretches here in Ysabel.”
“I have heard rumors about gold aplenty to the south,” Peralonso replied, then added, “but I still believe we should kill Torres' woman lest she slander us one day back at court.”
Lorenzo's eyes were cold as the storm-tossed North Atlantic when he said flatly, “No. I will not kill the bitch. At least not yet. Ever since I saw her at court I have fancied her. You will go to a man named Jesus Maria who is in service to Hojeda. He speaks the Taino
language and will secure us Indian guides so we may reach Xaragua and Roldan. I will take care of Doña Magdalena.”
* * * *
When she bade Dr. Chanca good evening and began her walk home, Magdalena was so weary she could scarce place one foot before the other. After a week working at the hospital, her already battered spirits were cast down even more. Three colonists and a Taino baby had died that day, the men of the flux, but the baby of simple measles. The child's mother and whole family were ill as well. Some of them had left Ysabel, desperately ill, to try and reach Guacanagari's village. If they succeeded, it would mean more death, for those with the disease seemed somehow to carry it with them to others. She shuddered to think of the decimation that could result. The sick Tainos should be stopped, but she knew going to Diego Colon would be useless. With so many of the able-bodied men off in the interior, he would never consent to send anyone to his brother's allies, even with a warning.
“Perhaps I can go myself. I think I know the way. If only I can convince Analu to go with me,” she. murmured to herself as she turned toward her house. The faithful servant had gone ahead to tell the serving girl to prepare a meal. Now that she worked each day at the hospital, she was beginning to be accorded genuine respect by the colonists. In truth, so many lay ill, there were few strong enough to molest her.
As the twilight deepened, she walked between two deserted huts whose former occupants were with the army in the interior. Suddenly a pair of strong arms seized her and a gloved hand clamped brutally over her mouth.
“Now, my little russet-haired bitch, let us see how you can spin tales for me!” Lorenzo Guzman's purring voice was the last thing she heard before she felt a crashing blow to her head and everything went black.
Chapter Twenty
“We are to meet Guacanagari and his warriors at the ridge overlooking the interior plains,” Aaron informed Cristobal and Bartolome as he reined in his mount beside them. He had just returned from a conference with Caonu.