Hart, Mallory Dorn

by Jasmine on the Wind

  A few minutes later, peering into the shadows surrounding the pools of light from the stableyard torches, Francho slipped after her. He reached his little cubicle and he carefully hid the purse under the loose plank which served as his guard-money. Then he lay on his pallet, hands behind his head, wrapped in a pleasant fog, marveling. He had never particularly cared what the girl who lay with him thought or what she felt, beyond heating her up so she would cooperate. Before, that is. But with Dolores he had wanted so much to please her, to reassure her, to make her happy with lying with him. And then there was that aching squeeze at his heart at the few frightened tears she had shed.

  How strange that it was Dolores who had introduced him to passion that had a face and a soul and was more than just a body accepting his. The thought of her inexperienced but eager, sweet kisses and warm, smooth skin stirred him even now. But he felt tender toward her, protective. The thought that any other male should touch her made him growl deep in his throat. Was that love? How did a man know? He recalled an old manuscript he'd sneaked peeks into at Santo Domingo, behind the back of the brother who was copying it. How did the good brother Abelard know that he truly loved Heloise? Or, from the popular ballads, the gallant El Cid know his undying affection for his lady Jimena?

  He shook his head in confusion. He decided to leave the stuffy chamber to wait in the courtyard for Carlos to return and admire his blazoned purse. He felt wonderful and depressed at the same time. Becoming a man seemed to be like a puppy chasing after its own tail, one minute you feel strong and free, the next minute, you feel grown, responsible and—Dolores's trusting face with the small sprinkling of freckles over the cheeks shimmered before his eyes— even guilty.

  She was hardly out of childhood and you have already taken her maidenhead, his conscience pricked him.

  " 'Tis no matter, that, I do care for her and I shall be her true swain," he offered up to San Bismas, who he suddenly felt, shamefacedly, was looking down in stern disapproval. "So she has done no wrong, only I, and I shall say fifty Paternosters come Sunday. And I will never abandon her," he swore, ignoring the certainty in his bones that there had to be more to his life than finally becoming a horsethief, or helping run the inn when Papa died.

  Preoccupied, Francho strolled past the doorway of the common room with a careless lack of caution, not even registering the face of the man brushing past him to relieve himself outside. But, unfortunately, the Count of Tendilla's burly sergeant-at-arms recognized him, stopped in his tracks, and lunged at him from behind with a triumphant, "Ha, you scum!" With a swift movement the man twisted Francho's arm painfully behind his back, whirled him around, and pinioned his neck in a bearlike grip against his barrel chest.

  Recovering from his stunned surprise, Francho tried to pry the guard's arm loose from under his Adam's apple, meanwhile struggling to kick backward as well as he could, but the big man had lifted him almost free of the ground and Francho's arm was agonizingly close to snapping with the added pressure of his weight.

  "Ho, Manuel, Gaspar!" the sergeant boomed to his mates who had been looking over the crowd from just inside the door. "See what I kicked up in this dung heap! This is the one, the sewer rat that ran our legs off back there. I'd know that thievin' face in Hell, I tell you. Here you, bergante, leave off that wriggling or I'll tighten me arm and put an end to your miserable life. 'Twould be no matter, you'll swing for this little strike anyhow, mark me good."

  The two other guards came running, daggers drawn, a noisy group collecting about them. "Sí, that's him sure enough," one of the guards corroborated, with oily pleasure. "Now we'll see how tough the wretch is...."

  "Where is it, scum, where's that money? Spit it up, damn you."

  Francho's heart was black with curses at his own stupidity.

  "I don't have it. I threw it away," he gasped.

  "Liar! Give it here, rata, or I'll crack you in two."

  Francho's teeth gritted, and purple sparks swam before his eyes as the soldier forced his back to arch like a bow.

  Tía Esperanza, peering with horror through the encircling onlookers, moaned aloud but dared not interfere with the soldiers. Papa el Mono, his face set in a grimace, hurried away unobtrusively. There was nothing to connect Francho with the inn, unless one of the regular patrons piped up, but should they ever decide to search the place, his goose was both spitted and cooked....

  "Where is it!" There was a vicious tug on Francho's twisted arm. The motley group yelled encouragement, some to the soldiers, some to the pickpocket.

  "I don't know... it wasn't me...."

  "Liar! Are you going to find it for us or do we have to light a little fire under you?"

  "I swear... I don't have it... I don't have it, see for yourself," Francho croaked.

  "Yes, I have eyes in my head, filth. But where did you hide it away, in what rat's nest? Tell me! Out with it!"

  "Hold, what happens here? What is the trouble, sergeant?" The stern, demanding voice gave the sergeant pause as Carlos pushed into the circle, impressing even the sweating Francho with his long, serious face under a feathered felt cap, his stark, black costume lit only with an enormous silver buckle.

  The sergeant glared suspiciously, but allowed Francho some relief from the torture of his arm. "And who, pray, are you?" he growled.

  "Son of the proprietor of this establishment. What has this fellow done?"

  "Enough to get himself stretched from the gibbet, that's what. Stole the purse of my lord, Count of Tendilla..." There was an appreciative babble from the onlookers. "...and he'll return every last maravedi if I have to choke it out of him."

  "A moment, hombre. Perhaps you are wrong. There are many thieves in the city. Maybe this is not the same rogue you are after?"

  The burly sergeant wasn't intimidated by a young commoner with airs. "Wrong, eh? You trying to tell me that there's some other rascal running around with this one's face? Not likely! He's the culprit, all right, and he'll get his just desserts, whether he coughs it up or not." His eyes narrowed under his casque. "You know this one?"

  Carlos's black eyes locked with Francho's. They understood each other. Carlos shrugged. "He loiters around here sometimes looking for drunks to pick. We boot him out."

  The sergeant grunted. "Pah, we waste time. We'll make him sorry he was born. Out of my way, fellow." He motioned to his companions and began dragging Francho away, the gawkers opening a path before them.

  "Ay, Santa María carisima, where are they taking my muchacho?" wailed Tía Esperanza from the common room's doorway. "Bring him back, villains, he is a good boy, he never steals..." she wept.

  "Hold your tongue, woman," growled Papa el Mono, pinching her side cruelly. "Don't claim him, fool. Do you want to bring the entire Hermandad down on us? We have loot here...."

  But Tía Esperanza rushed out into the courtyard, groaning, "They will hang him, they will hang my handsome Francho, my little foundling. Ay socorro, Santa María, Santa Rosa, San Pedro, Dios mío..." Fortunately the swelled crowd of tavern revelers, following the soldiers, and boisterously shouting suggestions for the best place to loop up a rope, drowned her wails.

  "There is nothing to be done here," Carlos whispered grimly to Papa. "But they surely will not hang him tonight. Tomorrow, if we can get a bribe to the turnkey—"

  Papa turned on him, tiny eyes hard. "I care nothing for him, the idiot. I care for what he will tell them if they apply the screws to his thumbs. Whatever it was he stole, find it. Get it out of here, fast. And anything else that can be recognized for stolen, or we'll all be carrion for the crows," the frightened innkeep hissed.

  To the disappointment of the rabble there was no hanging on the spot, for the soldiers' horses waited outside the stable and they mounted. Francho was slung on his belly in front of the sergeant, his hands secured behind him with a length of rein, his feet bound together, body pinned down in his captor's grip. His jaw was clenched in defiance, his only thought to show Carlos his courage and let him know he wouldn't
crack. He refused to admit the sharp sliver of fear that was stabbing around his chest.

  The Count's guards and their prisoner clattered out under the stone arch in a swirl of dust. Francho twisted his head quickly, hoping to catch Carlos's eye, certain his companion had a plan to help him, for Carlos had some access to the Alcalde's turnkey.

  But Carlos was gone. In his place stood Dolores, hand pressed against her mouth, tear-filled eyes huge with horror.

  Chapter 4

  Closeted with his two guests before a small fire laid to take the early chill off the air, Señor Piroso, the Alcalde of Ciudad Real, wielded an ivory-handled knife with plump fingers, deftly removing the skin of an apple in one strip. Wishing he had not gone so far in his last statement to his most illustrious guest—who was, after all, a military commander for the Queen as well as her confidant—he addressed the apple to avoid the black eyes lazily trying to insinuate themselves into the very depths of his head.

  He heard the Count clear his throat. "So then it is your opinion, Señor Alcalde, that by next summer's campaigns, Spain will not yet be ready to mount a full invasion of the Kingdom of Granada?"

  "Ah, no, my lord, you put it a trifle strongly. Perhaps ready, yes, but not as ready as could be. The mighty and decisive blow it would require to forever rid our land of the Moslem scourge, even with what great sacrifices and toll of blood, must needs be carried out by a vast recruitment of men and provisions and armaments. Ah... with all deference to the wisdom of the royal advisors, it seems to my uninformed reckoning that we shall have to strain beyond possibility to produce such numbers."

  "You have had problems raising your levy of troops for our last campaigns?"

  "Problems, ah no, indeed, Ciudad Real has always easily met its quotas," the Alcalde said quickly, wishing it were true. "But food this year is everywhere in scant supply and dear because of the drought. How will such an army be fed? And one hears... rumors, of course... that the royal coffers are... ah... hardly filled."

  "Has one also heard rumors that our northern borders are in unsettled condition?" the Count probed, his tone neutral.

  Señor Piroso shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Shrugging, he proferred to his guest the quarters of peeled apple on a crystal plate. "Ah, to be sure, my lord, there is always talk. The threat from Navarre is not new, of course, only... one hears it has become acute and that there could be war in that quarter by spring." He licked his thick lips. "But, I assure you, as a loyal subject of the throne, my heart and my hand are behind anything Their Most Gracious Majesties see fit to do."

  The Count of Tendilla, his lean frame resting in a tall, pillowed armchair across a small table from Piroso, skewered an apple quarter with his small dagger. He wanted to make the provincial official more comfortable. Ascertaining the leaning of those functionaries responsible for filling the royal ranks of soldiers was essential to military decisions. He smiled blandly, waving the morsel of apple at his host.

  "Of course, of course, but don't retreat, good señor. It so happens I agree with you most strongly, which makes me unpopular among my colleagues. The resources we could send south this year would be minor compared to the might of Abul Hassan's legions arrayed against us, and his many thick-walled fortresses." He consumed the apple in two decisive bites. "But Her Majesty will not be swayed from her crusade, and the drums are beating throughout Aragon and Castile, as you know, to fill our lists and warehouses." He picked up his wine goblet from the small table at his side. "A pity.... I have always disapproved of premature wars."

  Tendilla sighed, shifting his black gaze to sight moodily through the fine ruby-colored wineglass.

  The fretting Alcalde was torn, eager for information yet thinking he should change the subject. He felt he was but an administrator, not a court diplomat, and he did not want to be surprised into saying what was really in his heart, that the Queen's vendetta against the Moslem was ill timed at present and smacked of fanaticism. The heathen had, after all, dwelt in Granada countless centuries. What would a few more years hurt, years in which Señor Piroso, at least, could certainly make his own nest a little softer.

  The Count of Tendilla, as a powerful grandee of Spain, was in a position to express his opinion freely. But since the accession to the Castilian throne of the intense Isabella and her Aragonese consort, life could turn sour for those lesser lights who disagreed with royal desires.

  Still, he was so small a fish, could he not risk keeping the conversation going and perhaps learn what might really be in the wind? He had hundreds of reales invested in business ventures which depended on the free flow of commerce between the cities of Granada and their northern markets.

  His plump, beringed hand patted nervously at his graying hair, which he wore in the old-fashioned mode, long and straight, with short bangs over his fleshy brow. He ventured to break the Count's musing. "Ah... is it true, my lord Tendilla, that this summer's attack on the city of Loja has cost us... well, what is the incredible rumor?" His pale eyes bulged. "Fifteen thousand soldiers!" Not to mention the worst of the "rumor," the near capture and death of Ferdinand himself in that infamous Moslem ambush.

  Pietro di Lido, nattily attired in a short brocade doublet with brown satin sleeves and brown-and-white striped hosen, approached from the other end of the long room, where he had been examining several shelves of large, bound manuscripts and some printed books.

  "Let me make so bold as to answer that, Señor Piroso," he began in his mellifluous Spanish Italian-accented. "More to the truth, it was twenty thousand men, God save their souls. A rout, an inglorious defeat, a surprise stab in the back. Think you 'twas an easy matter to attempt to breach that great pile of stone walls manned by the very glory of Moorish knighthood and such fierce troops as we yet only dream of? Ah no, señor, but alas, even with the best chivalry of Spain pledged to capture Loja at all costs, we were outfought, and worse, outwitted by those wily Arabs. Whatever history may say of them, I see them to be the very incarnation of the ancient Greek warrior, brave, ferocious, and vastly cunning."

  Piroso bristled. "Fie, Señor di Lido, I am aghast. Do you praise these heathen devils, these defilers of our Holy Church? Those murderers of innocent women and children? The spawn of Satan himself? I cannot believe you even consider them a respected enemy." That should show Tendilla where his loyalties lay.

  "We too have done our share of bloody murdering, señor," di Lido responded with relish, warming up to his favorite way to pass a dull evening.

  Seeing the Alcalde sputtering, the amused Tendilla took pity on him. "I fear Maestro di Lido often makes startling remarks in order to provoke some lively discussion, señor. In truth, being an instructed Roman of the highest order, he is quite impartial in his respect for combatants, with a high regard for the clever and valorous of whatever stripe. A habit left over from the ancient gladiatorial contests, no doubt, where a particularly brave warrior was allowed to live, even though he had lost against Rome's champion; nay, was honored, even."

  It was almost possible for Tendilla to see the indignation forming behind the Alcalde's forehead as di Lido, one eyebrow languidly raised to see if his challenge to discourse would be taken up, fanned himself with a showy handkerchief.

  "Woman!" the Alcalde thought, raising his velvet sleeve to wipe his moist brow. "Silly little fop. He would faint at a stuck finger." Wondering what strange business would bring the dignified Count within the sphere of this mincing foreigner, nevertheless for courtesy's sake he clumsily changed the subject. "And how do you find my library, Señor di Lido? Naturally it must seem quite incomplete to a renowned scholar such as yourself?"

  Di Lido nodded gracefully. "On the contrary, may I commend you, sir. You have a fine collection, chosen with much expertise. Excelamente! One rarely finds a complete copy of the Scripta Theosophica in private hands. And the illumination of your manuscript is superb, such magnificent tints, such detailed renderings. I am delighted to have come across it," the Italian enthused, quite genuinely.

 
; The Alcalde smirked. Actually the books had belonged to his uncle, who had died without heirs, but it could do no harm to take credit for that late lamented's erudition, God rest his soul. And bless him, for the volumes were worth a fortune in money.

  "It is not easy for a man of moderate means to come by fine volumes and in a lesser corner of the world. Therefore, never would I part with 'my children' as it were. But I must confess that I have had some luck in their acquisition," Piroso declaimed modestly. He leaned over to refill the Count's wineglass from a figured silver decanter, but stopped midway, frowning, as there came a loud knock on the heavy, arched door. Damn them, he had said there were to be no disturbances. What had gone wrong in the kitchen now? Plague take his drunken steward.... "Enter!"

  But it was the Count's big sergeant-at-arms who entered, looking somewhat mussed, his helmet held under his arm. He saluted his patron respectfully. "My lord."

  "What is it, Rondero?"

  "We have the young thief, my lord, the one who got away from us earlier this evening."

  "Good. Have you recovered my purse?"

  "Ah... no, Your Excellence, he refuses to tell what he's done with it. And no amount of coaxing seems to help the scum to speak. Following your rule, my lord, we did not yet apply the strongest persuasions. He's certainly dropped it in some rathole in the city... your pardon, Señor Alcalde... and it is impossible to know where to look."

  "Did you tell him he is liable to a hanging? Did that make no impression?"

  "None, my lord. He is more stubborn than most street bastards would be under our hands."

  "Well, that takes some sort of courage, however foolish. Yet the rascal did get away with a princely amount. And worse, a very rare coin from Cathay which I treasured." Tendilla considered for a moment. " 'Tis a pity to just let it go, hang him or not. Bring him up here then and I will try to persuade him he will hang without his soul shriven if he persists in this foolishness. The money might as well buy us some amusement."