by Shirl Henke
“Sail to hell for all I care, Alonso.” He turned to Cristobal. “Magdalena has vanished! My servant said she did not return from the hospital that evening after we departed for the Vega.” He looked at Diego Colon, who seemed to blanch and step back suddenly. “Do you know what has happened to her?” Aaron took a menacing step toward the youngest Colon.
Cristobal put his hand firmly on Aaron's chest to stay him while Bartolome's eyes narrowed on Diego as he spoke. “You seem to have had conversation with the lady. What did she tell you?”
Diego shook his head as if in disbelief. “We had a dinner the evening you departed. Don Lorenzo and various members of the council and Dona Magdalena attended. The next morning she came to me with an insane tale—accusing Lorenzo Guzman, the Duke of Medina-Sidonia's nephew, of treason. Of course I could give no credence to it,” he added defensively, eyeing Aaron as he moved closer to his brothers.
“Where is the great Don Lorenzo now?” Aaron asked tightly, his fingers on his sword hilt.
“I—I do not know. He and his companion, Guerra, rode off in search of gold, I presumed,” Diego finished lamely.
“What did Magdalena say about treason? Explain it.
Every syllable. The lady lived at court. She was no fool when it came to political intrigues,” Bartolomé said. Now he looked every bit as menacing as Aaron.
Diego took a gulp of air and recounted Magdalena's story. By the time he had finished, he was sweating and more than a bit frightened. “Surely you do not think—”
“That Lorenzo Guzman took her?” Alonso Hojeda interrupted. “Just so. He was banished by his uncle for some greedy machinations with the Holy Office. If she discovered such, he would surely have wished to silence her before her champions returned.”
Aaron's heart turned to ice, not beating as he asked Hojeda, “How came you to know aught of my former brother-in-law?” He stepped between the Castilian and his horse.
“We were acquainted at court briefly,” Alonso said smoothly. “Lorenzo is a bitter man. One night when first he arrived here, he lapped enough wine to drown all the maggots in his wretched guts. Then the fawning court jackal told me all.”
“Have you any idea where he might flee if he feared discovery?” Aaron asked in a low deadly voice. He itched to place his fingers about that sinewy little throat and snap it!
“I mentioned a friend of yours,” Hojeda said tauntingly. “Roldan. I even told Guzman of how the rascal has carved out his own domain in Xaragua. Perhaps he has gone to Roldan and taken your lady with him.”
“That is across the island! Days of hard riding. Why would he do something so dangerous—the ships!” Bartolomé answered his own question.
“Two caravels, afloat in Roldan's waters off the peninsula,” Aaron said. “Yes, that is what he would hope for if he found no passage from Española in Ysabel.” He turned to the shrinking, pale figure of Diego Colon and said quietly, “I owe Cristobal my life and Magdalena owes Bartolomé hers. For that I will not kill you! But pray, Don Diego, pray very hard that my wife is alive and unharmed when I reach Roldan.”
With the threat hanging in the sultry air, Aaron turned and seized a surprised Alonso Hojeda by his leather-armored breastplate, lifting him off the ground. “You, too, are involved in this. I know Lorenzo Guzman would not set out blindly. He needed someone to guide him and doubtless greetings to pass along to Francisco. You are as treacherous as Guzman.” He threw Hojeda to Bartolomé, whose stout, muscled body caught the little man easily.
“I will see to it Don Alonso does not sail on this tide—or any other until you return with Magdalena,” Bartolomé said grimly.
“Can you be certain your old comrade Roldan will not kill you on sight if you trespass in Xaragua?” Cristobal asked Aaron. “Take some of the soldiers whom you led in battle with you.”
“No, I can find my way to the cacicazgo more swiftly if I take some Tainos who know Roldan.” Aaron saw the pain and helplessness in Cristobal's face. “We have all made mistakes, my friend. I have wronged my wife and now I must atone—or die trying. You must restore order and give justice to the Taino people.”
* * * *
Aliyah looked at her rival with thinly veiled hate. She did nothing to disguise the gloating look on her face. Rising in one lithe, sinuous movement, she eyed Magdalena with contempt. “Still you must cover your skinny body to hide its ugliness.” She caressed her own large breasts with bold and sensuous impudence, looking from Magdalena to Roldan, who was taking in the confrontation with obvious relish.
He chuckled at the Taino woman in her voluptuous nakedness. In violation of the custom of married females, she wore no skirt. “Perhaps a man prefers a bit of mystery to enchant his imagination when he looks on a woman's body, Aliyah,” he said as his eyes raked Magdalena's soft curves, artfully draped in the sheer cotton cloth. “Although your assets are considerable,” he added with a swift glance at the golden, naked woman standing across from him, “I find it intriguing to play the old games of court once more.”
With that, he walked over to where Magdalena stood and took her hand, raising it for a gallant kiss. “You act as if we were still in Castile,” she said, ignoring the seething Aliyah and looking about the large, lavishly appointed bohio. The walls were hung with several tapestries of far superior quality to anything in the governor's palace in Ysabel, yet the room was furnished with only the low wooden stools and oddly shaped chairs carved of whole tree trunks that she had seen in Guacanagari's village. Modern weapons hung on the walls beside traditional Taino spears.
Roldan flashed a grin as he escorted her to a seat by a long, low trestle table laden with roasted meats, cassava bread, and lush melons and fruits. Goblets of red wine graced the table, which was set with Castilian pewter plates and Taino clay bowls. “As you can see, I have borrowed the best from both worlds. This, Dona Magdalena, is my royal court.”
“But the tapestries, the pewter—”
His rich laughter interrupted her. “I, er, said I borrowed it—perhaps I should have used a different word. I stole the best from two worlds—the cacicazgo from Behechio, along with his lovely bride,” he flourished a hand at Aliyah's pouting face, “and the European furnishings and fine wine from several caravels whose crews I persuaded to pledge allegiance to me instead of to the Colons in Ysabel.”
“But that is piracy, sir!” The minute Magdalena blurted out the words, she could have swallowed her tongue. She must make this volatile man her ally, not antagonize him.
But far from being angered, Roldan, the curly-headed giant with the roguish grin, seemed delighted with her spirit. “Piracy, humm.” He scratched his head and appeared to consider her words. “Yes, I do believe that would be how the admiral would look upon it.” He chuckled again. “He did so want those supplies, but a Genoese has nothing on a good Castilian when it comes to piracy—on land or sea!”
Magdalena arranged her scanty skirt carefully to conceal as much as possible of her legs, all the while ignoring the hostility radiating from across the table where Aliyah reclined. Roldan sat at the head, negligently at ease in a loose white tunic and hose, his feet encased in soft kid slippers and his neck and arms dripping with elaborate Taino jewelry, most obvious of which was the heavy gold medallion, the badge of royal chieftainship. Had he killed Behechio? She shivered, not wanting to know.
Roldan raised his goblet in a toast. “I heard my old comrade Torres had wed a noblewoman of great beauty. The tales of you were not exaggerated, my lady.”
“You and my husband were friends once.” A flicker of hope flared. Thus far Lorenzo and his minion Guerra had not yet arrived for dinner. If she could only convince Roldan to protect her...
“Diego Torres—or do I recall he preferred being called Aaron?”
“When out of earshot of the Inquisition, he prefers his birth name,” Magdalena answered.
Roldan smiled in appreciation. “Wit and beauty. Most rare, most rare. As you may gather, Dona Magdalena, there is no Holy Offic
e in Xaragua, nor likely ever to be. Your husband and I made the last crossing together on Maria Galante and served a turn in Ysabel together. I liked him well, even though he was the admiral's man.”
She tasted the wine slowly and peered at him over the rim of her goblet. “And now, do you still call him friend?”
“We agreed about Colon's ineptitude as a governor. We disagreed over what to do about it. He is too loyal.” Francisco studied her for a moment. “Alas, I fear you, too, are loyal.”
“To the governor in Ysabel or to my husband?” she inquired guilelessly and again was rewarded with his booming laugh.
“God's balls! I like you well,” he replied.
Lorenzo Guzman stood in the doorway, overhearing the last of the exchange. He paused as fury mottled his pale complexion, but the flickering torchlight hid it when he cleared his throat and walked up to where Roldan and Magdalena sat. “Please, Don Francisco, remember that this woman is my captive. She will try her wiles on you as she has on me, but she is in league with the governor.”
Roldan gestured with the leg bone from a roasted hutia for Lorenzo and Peralonso to be seated. Then he gnawed on his “scepter,” chewed, and swallowed. Wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, he smiled mirthlessly at the two elegant courtiers. “I am a rough, unlettered fellow who served in the Moorish wars, Don Lorenzo, but I have been to court and know a trick or two. No one deceives me, and here I am cacique. I do as I wish.” His brown eyes glared with dark brilliance as he tossed the bone to one of the small, barkless dogs always underfoot in the Taino villages.
Guzman felt a frisson of fear and silently cursed his ill fortune for coming to this wilderness run by a madman. “My warning about the beautiful Magdalena was not intended to insult you, Don Francisco,” he said smoothly.
“Alonso Hojeda commends you to me, saying we have common grievances against the Colon family. What I need are fighting men, Don Lorenzo,” Roldan said, looking at the foppishly attired courtier dubiously.
Lorenzo's eyes were the color of the plate from which he delicately speared a piece of meat with his dirk. His long, angular face was not handsome, but in the flickering torchlight, it was haughty and contained. “I have not had the chance to test my blade against the Moors, but in Seville, I was accounted a passing good swordsman. I understand you have ships and men who can sail them back to Cadiz.”
Roldan shrugged. “I have ships, but what profit is it to me to send them off? The royal customs collectors at any port in Castile will confiscate my booty. Only those ships sent by the Colons sail with royal approval.”
Now Lorenzo smiled, catlike and cunning. “As the nephew of Medina-Sidonia, I believe I could have some influence on the customs collectors.”
Roldan betrayed mild interest. “So you desire to return home and need the means. Perhaps we can do business, perhaps not. What of the woman? Taking Torres' wife was lunacy.”
“He has no idea I took her, nor where I have fled,” Lorenzo said dismissively.
“You are a fool. Every Taino cacique on Española talks with the others. Twill not take overlong for one of them to receive word of a russet-haired beauty and inform Guacanagari's good friend.”
“Then kill her!” cried Aliyah. “She will bring death and destruction down on us all. Kill her and throw her body into the sea!”
Magdalena paled, but before she could respond, Roldan said, “I see no profit in that either. Nor will I have jealous women's bickering. Doña Magdalena is Torres' wife. I will hold her until he comes for her.” He paused and searched Magdalena's desolate face. “If he comes for her. What a fascinating test of mettle—you against Torres,” he said to Guzman, grinning like a shark.
Guzman paled, but rallied. “The man was forced to wed the wench. He did not want her in Ysabel. He will not risk coming for her. She is mine and I see no reason—”
“You are quite correct, Guzman. You see no reason, none at all. Here you sit at my table, in my fortress, under the weapons of my soldiers. You fled in desperation. Now you will await my pleasure.” He turned to Magdalena. “And right now, my pleasure is to see if Torres comes to claim his woman.”
“He will not come,” Aliyah said bitterly. “My son lies grievous ill with the white man's sickness. Already Aaron hates her for causing him to lose Navaro. He will never want to see her again if the boy dies.”
“Navaro is ill?” Magdalena turned from Aliyah to Roldan. “I have nursed many people with fevers—Tainos and white men. I could help. Please—”
“No!” Aliyah stood up, glaring at Magdalena. “She would kill my son out of jealousy. Do not let her near him.”
“The babe scarce looked ill this morning. Go attend him yourself if you think him in any danger,” Roldan commanded Aliyah, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. Then, observing Magdalena, he said, “Do not distress yourself. The babe is not truly taken with the pox as she would have you believe. She is filled with hate for your husband and for you.”
“As is Don Lorenzo here. Twas he who conspired to murder his own wife and all her family, just to obtain their wealth,” Magdalena said, casting a loathing, contemptuous glance at Guzman. “Please do not let him touch me.” She searched his unreadable expression.
“I will do as I have said. No one will touch you until Torres and Guzman settle their ancient feud. I think your husband will come, my lady. Were you mine, I would.” He watched her cheeks heat, then resumed eating, motioning for the others to do likewise.
“Is there much sickness in your compound?” Magda-lena asked as she bit into a slice of papaya.
“Some, although more among the Indians than the whites,” Roldan replied. “Nothing so fearsome as what I hear goes on in Ysabel.”
“I worked with Dr. Chanca in Ysabel. I would be happy to lend my nursing skills here, if you would let me.” She held her breath. This might mean freedom to learn the village, to make friends, to escape!
“I do not want her subjected to such danger. Tis not the place for a lady,” Lorenzo protested.
Roldan shook his head in mock disbelief. “Still you try to command. Old habits die hard, Guzman. Twas not your place to abduct a lady and drag her here, but now that she is here, if she wishes to help with my people who are sick, I will allow it.”
Aliyah watched dispassionately as the child died. It was a girl, about the same age and size as Navaro, stricken with the strange pox that caused high fever and an ugly red rash and killed so many of her people. She let the weeping mother wrap the babe in a swaddling of cotton, as was the custom. Then with a feigned compassion, she placed her hand on the woman's shoulder and said, “I will take her to the fires. Only rest. You yourself are ill.”
The woman, sick and dispirited, looked suspiciously at her chieftain's wife. The cacique Behechio had been driven from the village by the one called Roldan, who had lived in the coastal mountains for over a year. With a small band of followers, some Tainos, .some bearded ones, Roldan had challenged Behechio on the day after his wedding with Aliyah. When the white man won, the royal woman allied herself with him, becoming his mistress, bestowing on him Behechio's medallion. “Why do you wish to see my daughter burned?”
“Does your zemi need her ashes?” Aliyah asked, already knowing that the burial jars in this hut were filled with the cremated ashes of three other of the woman's young children. She had lost three sons and her husband. Now the fever raged within her. What mattered anything else? “Take her,” she said, handing the small, tightly wrapped bundle to the mysterious princess from Marien.
As darkness fell that night, Aliyah nursed Navaro one last time so that he would not be hungry and make a cry in the night to awaken anyone. Then, with his curious blue eyes studying her, eyes that were Aaron's, Aliyah slipped from the compound with him hidden in a blanket she carried across one hip. The night air was sickeningly pungent from burial fires. Many children had died this day. Tomorrow there would be one more, she thought with a slight, cruel smile twisting the corners of her lips as she wa
tched the sky's eerie orange glow. Darkness enveloped her as she entered the jungle, leaving the wailing of mourners behind.
“Vanara, are you here?” she hissed as she adjusted her eyes to the blackness.
A plump older woman appeared from behind a palm. “Yes, my princess, I am ready.” She emerged carrying a heavy girdle filled with all the possessions she would take on this journey. She was afraid to go, but even more afraid to remain and disobey the sister of her cacique, her cousin Aliyah.
Together the two women walked through the darkness until the moon rose. Navaro stirred, then dozed once again.
“It is a very hard thing you do, your glory,” Vanara said.
Aliyah's face was all harsh planes and angles in the stark moonlight. “It is what I must do. Navaro will have a good life. The man I met from Roldan's great boats promised me.”
That man paced the beach, frightened to be in this rebel territory. What madness had possessed him to wait for her? His ship had been driven to this cove to seek shelter during a storm, not knowing they had ventured into a rebel stronghold. Roldan had allowed them to leave after exacting tribute in the form of almost half the brazilwood they had cut. When he met the white cacique, he also met the mysterious Aliyah and her blue-eyed babe. She spoke Castilian fluently and told him the most incredible tale.
Suddenly he heard a rustling in the bushes and his blood froze. He eyed the ship's boat, beached on the glistening white sand, waves lapping gently at its side. Should he run? Then two Taino woman entered the clearing and crossed the sand. He breathed more freely when he saw the child. No men were with them.
“I have brought him,” the beautiful Taino announced. “You have said how handsome he is.” She held a sleepy Navaro up for inspection.
Pedro de Las Casas looked at the boy's features. Even in the moonlight he could see the stamp of the white father on the babe's face. “You are certain his father does not want him? He is a splendid boy,” he said quietly, his hand ruffling the thick black cap of hair.