by Shirl Henke
Aaron was restless and half awake. Something was amiss. The instant he heard the scream, he leaped from the pallet, awakening Magdalena. She sat up, rubbing her eyes as he slid on his hose and reached for his sword belt.
“What has happened?” she asked with apprehension. “Tis not yet dawn. You cannot face Lorenzo now.”
” “I am not concerned with that filth. I heard a scream—a woman's cry. It sounded from Roldan's quarters.”
“Surely we are safe in the compound,” she said with a bravado she did not feel.
“Probably only a lover's spat,” he said, his teeth a white slash in the darkness as he grinned affectionately at her. “Stay indoors until I return.”
With that, he was gone. Magdalena felt an eerie sense, of uneasiness pervade the room. She rose and wrapped her body in a length of cotton cloth, securing it tightly above her breasts. Such would have to serve until they returned to Ysabel. “I am only overwrought because of the duel,” she murmured, trying to shake the tension holding her prisoner.
Aaron ran toward the bohio of the cacique. Already several of Roldan's men, night sentries filled with wine and none too alert, milled about the doorway to the big hall. He quickly shouldered past them and then stopped, frozen in shock. Aliyah lay on the floor, her head cradled in Roldan's lap. Both of them were covered with blood. It ran in a red river from the raw, slashing wound high on her stomach.
“I cannot staunch the flow,” Francisco said quietly.
“How did this happen?” Aaron asked as he knelt beside the cacique.
“She tried to kill me. We struggled and her own blade turned on her,” Roldan replied, puzzled and regretful.
Hearing Aaron's voice, Aliyah's mind cleared from the haze of pain and her eyes focused on him. One hand reached out and clutched at him with amazing strength, staining his bare arm with her blood. “I gave you a splendid son, yet you wed with a barren rack of bones, all for her precious white skin.”
“Aliyah, please, do not—”
“No! I am going to the zemis of my ancestors. From the spirit world I will return to curse that red-haired bitch, but know this now, white man,” she grated out in a low burbling rasp as red frothed on her lips, “I curse you with these words...you think your son dead... Navaro is alive.” She glared at Aaron and watched with satisfaction as he blanched in the dim dawn light.
“I saw his ashes...” Aaron's voice broke. “Where...?”
“I sent him away. You will never find him, such a small babe of mixed blood. There are many such now, like the shells along the beach. Your son is as good as dead to you. Get one on your cold white wife, Aaron...if she can give you one...” She coughed once, then her eyes glazed over, glowing dully. She was dead.
Aaron trembled as he stretched out his hand and touched her cheeks, then softly closed her eyes. “I had no idea…the strength of her hate...to send her own son off with strangers.”
“Tis a fearful, unnatural woman. How could a mother do such?” Roldan said as he lowered Aliyah's body to the floor.
Aaron crossed the room to get a length of cloth with which to cover her. Gazing numbly at the still form, he said in a low voice, “I will find you, Navaro, my son. I will search every village, every band of Tainos on Española until I do!”
Roldan clasped his shoulder. Just then a chorus of wild yelling broke the dawn silence. One of the Castilian soldiers ran into the bohio crying, “Behechio's Tainos are attacking—hundreds of them!”
“Magdalena!” Aaron said as he spun around. “I must see to her safety.”
“Go!” Roldan said as Aaron raced through the door. Then he turned his attention to the men assembling haphazardly before him. “It seems my mistress was but the harbinger of more misfortune. Her husband Behechio must not be the craven coward I thought him when he fled Xaragua.” As he spoke, he strode outside the bohio, hefting his sword. He issued curt instructions to all the assembled men, then walked toward the wall of the compound, where a horde of Indians was swarming in after having cut a wide hole in the heavy thatch barrier with stolen swords.
“How clever of these primitives to learn such a use of Toledo steel,” he muttered as he sliced one warrior almost in half with his blade.
Magdalena heard the cries of alarm and sounds of, fighting from the western wall of the compound. Seizing her dagger, she ran from the caneye and padded swiftly down the streets toward Roldan's large bohio in search of her husband. Suddenly two men materialized from the shadows. Instinctively Magdalena knew they were enemies and drew her dagger as one reached for her.
“Well, what have we here? The Jew's vixen,” Lorenzo snarled as her blade drew blood from his arm. He moved quickly to her left, distracting her as Peralonso came up behind her, but this time Magdalena had learned the way they worked. She ducked as his heavy sword hilt came down, hitting her shoulder. It was a painful, glancing blow, but it missed her head. Without wasting a breath on a scream, she darted between the two closing assailants and dashed into a narrow passage between the caneyes still deep in dawn's shadows.
“After her! She is our means of escape,” Lorenzo cried as he pursued his quarry with Guerra racing just behind him.
Magdalena turned corner after corner, twisting and turning in the maze of huts until she was thoroughly disoriented. All about her the cry of battle was rousing the inhabitants. She collided with men hastily arming themselves and stumbled over women and children huddled terror-stricken in the shadows. “Which way to the cacique's bohio?” she panted in Taino to one woman crouching in a doorway, shielding a whimpering little girl.
The woman pointed back the way she had come, but owing to the vague glaze of terror in her eyes, Magdalena was uncertain of whether the direction was accurate. Having nothing else on which to base her flight, she quickly back-tracked in a circuitous route, praying to avoid Guzman and Guerra.
A Taino warrior, fully armed with lance, knife, and darts suddenly stepped in front of her with his long spear outstretched to block her escape. She whirled only to run into Lorenzo and his minion. The Taino fled and the two Castilians closed in on her as she stood her ground, dagger moving this way and that, fending them off.
Please, Aaron, please—where are you?
All around the compound, Behechio's Taino warriors hacked their way through the walls and fell upon Roldan's men and their Taino allies. The hiss of darts blended with the swish of slashing swords. The Castilians quickly employed their arbalests, letting fly quiver after quiver of bolts, reaching their targets with deadly speed and accuracy. Taino women shrieked, clutching children and running for cover as men yelled with fear and battle lust, engaging in chaotic skirmishing all round the large, overcrowded village.
Soon smoke began to curl from the dry thatched roofs of the huts. The compound wall, in spite of its precautionary drenching, was already smoldering in several places. The brilliance of the golden orange sunrise on the eastern horizon was already exceeded by the crimson inferno inside the village. Orange flames and red blood blended, covering and consuming the brown and green world that had been Roldan's capital.
Aaron fought his way down a street crowded with enemy warriors, fleeing villagers, and sword-wielding soldiers. A dart whistled past his head as he ducked between two huts. When a Taino lunged at him with his lance, Aaron parried the thrust and slashed into the warrior's arm. Quickly freeing himself, he raced toward the caneye where he had left Magdalena, never looking back on the carnage behind him.
When he reached the caneye, he raced inside, calling Magdalena's name. Over the cries of men, women, and children, the din of battle and the roar of flames, no voice answered from within. Quickly he scanned the room and found no sign of violence. His wife was a fighter. No one could have taken her from here without her putting up a fearsome struggle, but that offered little consolation as it meant she was somewhere out in the streets trying to reach him amid the pitched battle.
Swearing, he turned and retraced the path to Roldan's bohio far less swiftly than he
had when the streets had been deserted. All the while he cut and thrust, he called her name. Finally one of Roldan's Taino guards, his head bleeding profusely from a nasty gash, reached out to him and cried, “You search for your woman?”
“You have seen her?” he asked, heart stopped with dread.
“The two men my cacique had imprisoned—they have escaped. I gave chase and saw them seize her. They went toward the chamber where my lord keeps his great beasts.”
“The horses,” Aaron said with dawning horror. The bastards had Magdalena and they were going to escape with her if he could not stop them! Wordlessly, he turned, praying Guzman had not the brains to stampede all the terrified beasts and leave him afoot. The bay he rode had good endurance—if he was yet there to be ridden!
Behechio's Tainos would not go near the fenced-in area where the Castilians kept their mounts. Of the friendly Tainos who lived here, only a few were not in mortal terror of horses. He slashed and hacked his way across the village square toward the enclosure. When he reached it, a sob tore from his throat. The gates were open, and flames licked about the fence. It was empty. He collared a soldier nearby just as the man dispatched an Indian with his sword. “Two white men dragging a red-haired woman—my wife—have you seen them?”
When the baffled man shook his head, Aaron released him and began to search further, seizing friend and foe alike, questioning in Castilian and Taino. The only white woman in Xaragua and no one had seen her! Just as he despaired, one of Roldan's captains came loping up, breathless and bloody with several minor wounds.
“Your lady—with two white men—those Don Francisco held prisoner. I saw them ride south—the trail to the caravels in the cove.”
Nodding quickly, Aaron asked, “Is there a single horse left in this village?”
At the negative reply, Aaron cursed, praying for his faithful Andaluz, lost back in Seville a lifetime ago. No one could have taken that steed from him when he called. Did Rubio remember only a bit of what he had been teaching him? He worked his way to a clear place in the compound wall, not as yet afire, and hacked his way through it, then circled warily away from the embroiled village. Already Roldan's men were routing Behechio's. He headed toward the coastal trail, which he had never before traversed.
How far was it to the sea? Would the ships take Lorenzo and his captive aboard? How could Guzman get the sailing master to cast off? As he considered these frightening questions, he whistled for Rubio, calling the big gelding by name. Just as he was about to abandon hope and begin to run after his quarry, he heard a snort, then the soft pounding of hoofbeats. Across the curve of the river in a planted clearing, half a dozen of Roldan's horses milled about, grazing aimlessly. Once free of the terrifying smells of blood and smoke, they had ceased their blind run.
He whistled again and the bay resumed his trot away from his companions, heading toward his master. Aaron's clothes were blood-spattered, and he himself had more than a few nicks and minor wounds. When the bay shied, he crooned to him in soft reassuring cadence until the horse came up, nosing him uncertainly.
Once he had a firm hand hold in the bay's mane, he moved slowly to the left side and pulled himself up in one swift, smooth movement. How fortunate that the jungle heat had led him to practice riding bareback. Riding without a hackamore, however, was quite another matter. The horse shied backwards, skittered sideways and generally resisted this strange new exercise, but Aaron's determination finally won out.
He forced himself to be calm as he controlled the big bay's pace and direction with his hands knotted in the mane, his knees working into the horse's sides. Finally he had Rubio plunging into the jungle along the trail to the coast.
Magdalena sat in the cold, sticky mud, her hands and feet numb, her body bruised and scratched from the swift and terrible ride along the overgrown, twisting pathway to the hidden cove where Roldan's caravels bobbed on the morning tide. Twice she had nearly escaped. Certainly she had slowed their progress, once by bolting her mount into the dense underbrush until they had overtaken her. Then she again had broken free, back-tracking and knocking Guerra from his horse as she did so. But she nearly killed herself when her mare slipped in the mud and pitched her several yards into the air. Fortunately, the jungle floor provided a soft cushion and she landed without hitting any trees. The mare was less fortunate and broke her leg. Guerra cut the poor beast's throat with his sword.
Guzman had her complete the ride with her hands and feet bound, slung across his saddle. Although miserably uncomfortable, she knew that riding double greatly slowed their pace. She had bought all the time she could when Lorenzo dropped her like a sack of yams onto the ground of the bare promontory where the signal fires for the caravels were laid.
Hojeda's Taino had run through the jungle on a more direct route than the horses could pass. He had arrived at the site ahead of them and gathered wood for the fire. Now he waited patiently with his small pile of dry twigs. Next to the kindling sat a bucket of pitch beside a deep ash-filled, blackened hole. This was where the smoky signal was made which would draw the distant caravel's attention. Then a ship's boat would be let down and sent to the narrow band of wet sandy beach.
Guerra cut her bonds to allow circulation to return to her hands and feet, but he stood directly over her, menacing her with an arsenal of weapons pilfered from the bodies of dead soldiers in the village.
Guzman commanded Hojeda's Taino servant to pour the black sticky pitch over the small mound of wood. He then produced a flint and set the sparks to ignite it as the Indian jumped back, still in awe at the magical ways white men had with fire. The leaping flames quickly filled the dimness of the dawn sky with billowing black smoke, alerting the morning watch aboard the caravels to the fact that Roldan had sent an urgent message.
“Will they believe us when we tell them the village is overrun by Behechio's savages?” Peralonso asked as he kept one eye on Magdalena.
“Aye. Only look at us, cut, burned and scratched from our flight. What earthly reason would we have to return but a few days after our last visit to the cove if not to give warning?” Lorenzo noted with grim satisfaction that one ship's boat was being lowered into the water.
“What will we do with her? She will blurt out that we are escaped from their cacique if given the chance,” Guerra stated.
Lorenzo looked at the half-naked woman crumpled on the sand with her hair flowing like dark fire about her shoulders. He said with a shrug, “I suppose we must kill her. A pity we have never had the chance to use her.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Of course, we could let you live...if you kept silent,” Lorenzo added silkily as he gazed down at Magdalena. Her eyes blazed like emerald names and she spat on his boots. “I suspected as much. But then, if you are in a swoon from the anguish of the Taino attack, the captain will surely understand.” He motioned for Guerra to move away. Then he knelt down and drew back his fist.
Realizing his intent, Magdalena's still numb hands, splayed in the soft mud, clawed deeply as she grasped fìstfuls and hurled the sticky black grit full into his face. With an oath, Lorenzo swung at her in spite of his burning eyes, but she ducked. Before he could raise his fist to strike at her again, Magdalena rolled to her feet and began to run, forcing her cramped limbs to obey her.
Guerra gave chase until he heard the crashing sound of a horse breaking from the undergrowth. Aaron's big bay gelding thundered into the clearing. He swung down and clasped Magdalena as she stumbled into his arms.
“My legs betray me. Aaron, beware!” she cried. Peralonso's sword gleamed evilly as he lunged at his adversary.
Quickly shoving Magdalena behind him, Aaron ducked Guerra's first clumsy slash as he unsheathed his own sword. He met the next onslaught, and the loud clanging of tempered Toledo steel rang across the awakening jungle. The Taino quickly stepped back, eyeing the combatants, ready to vanish into the undergrowth if the battle went ill for his masters. He stood near their horses, guarding them, a feat that definitely m
arked him as one who had lived with the ruthless Hojeda. Still the Taino would not dare to join the fight.
Guzman, seeing how well his mentor was occupying Torres, smiled coldly as he drew his own blade. “This is a battle you will not win, marrano,” he said with an eerie laugh. He lunged, but Aaron's big broadsword flashed in an arc from right to left, holding both men at bay.
Magdalena frantically scanned the area, searching for a weapon. Lorenzo had taken her dagger. The cowardly Indian had one, but she could not hope to wrest his weapon from him.
Aaron fought with amazing speed and agility, fending off both his deadly and desperate adversaries. But as he ducked, jumped and parried their blows, holding them was all he could do—until he made one mistake and they closed in for the kill.
Magdalena coughed as the wind changed directions and smoke blew in her face. Instantly the idea came to her. She raced around the fire pit and seized a long, slender piece of green wood lying to the side. She shoved one end of it in the fire to let it ignite, keeping her eyes on the combatants.
Magdalena knew she took a terrible risk as she struggled to heft the heavy pitch bucket. If the flames came near her, she would die just as Benjamin and his family had. The thought fortified her. With a loud curse, she screamed at Guzman.
Instinctively he turned, just in time to have a generous splash of the tarry paste hit him square in the chest.
Magdalena dropped the bucket and picked up the firebrand with lightning speed while Aaron and Guerra