Hart, Mallory Dorn

by Jasmine on the Wind

  Talavera blinked. He reflected a few seconds. Finally he grunted. "Perhaps this is so. Perhaps he presents a most tempting clay to be molded into a masterful spy—and let us call what is black, black. Why would he agree to such peril and the rigors of training for it?"

  "To gain his own ends," Tendilla asserted. "If he were the source from which flowed priceless information which aided the armies of the Cross in a rapid conquest of Granada, would Their Generous Majesties not consider serving justice and repaying such loyalty by reinstating his titles and lands? What more glittering inducement to risk for an impecunious orphan?"

  Talavera grunted again. "All presuming he has the ability to do what you devise for him." A beringed hand went up. "Nor do I wish to know the details. Your craftiness may yet provide this young person the means to recoup his family's honor, and for this I commend you." The rounded shoulders shrugged under the shimmering white satin robe. "The Lord will work his own will in the question of spiritual leadership of the territories reclaimed for Christ. But I would strongly like to see as temporal captain a man of your judicious nature, who is not ruled by greed or cruel passions. Therefore I say to you, plant your seeds in good time. And I shall pray that your confidence in this boy is not misplaced."

  "Then we may count on you, should it be required for the Queen's confessor to whisper a gentle suggestion in the royal ear? Or should the need arise for a liaison acquainted with the whole story in the event I am not available?"

  "I will help in whichever way I can that is not displeasing to God. I take it, it is just we three who are aware of this boy's identity?"

  "Just so, and one other, my cousin Doña María de Zuniga, the past few years a member of my household and the nurse who has brought the lad back to health."

  "Ah, yes, I recall her, a pious and discreet lady. The two of you have always enjoyed a close kinship."

  Di Lido now came forward to the desk. "Your Worship, at Don Iñigo's request I have drawn up several documents pertaining to his relationship with this youth, and also a testimony of the boy's true parentage. After you have met the person in question, we hope you will be gracious enough to witness these and carry sealed copies with you into safekeeping." He extended a leather envelope, which Talavera took from him.

  There was a gentle rapping at the door.

  "That is my major-domo to tell us our supper is waiting," Tendilla announced genially, and rose. "Come, good sirs, we can all use some rich fare under our belts. Eh, Your Grace?"

  "Amen," intoned Talavera, raising his hands in mock agreement. "I thought surely you were making me wait until breakfast."

  All three laughed easily together, like the longtime friends they were.

  ***

  The chamber was dark when Francho again opened his eyes. But now he felt stronger. And he was ravenously hungry. Realizing that footsteps without had awakened him, he sat up and looked toward the door with trepidation, half expecting a hooded hangman to enter, noose in hand.

  Instead, a flare of cheerful light introduced a woman into the chamber, followed by two servants holding many-branched candelabra aloft in each hand and a third lackey bearing a bowl and a cup on a tray.

  The woman, in her middle age, rustled toward him with a warm expression. Her gown was of a busy-patterned brocade, full-shirted, droopy-sleeved, and cinched with a tasseled golden cord about the waist. A few gray hairs escaped from the confining coif which soared above her head like white butterfly's wings. Her eyes, shiny brown beads caught in a net of fine lines, evinced a gentle humor. "The blessed heart of Jesu be praised," she exclaimed in a soft contralto. "I can see for myself you are indeed much recovered." Unhesitatingly she placed a cool hand on his forehead. "Not a trace of fever. You must thank God you have an iron pate, lad, and a strong constitution. Many a grown man would have been laid in his coffin from such a terrible mauling."

  For a moment she peered into his eyes intently, then smiled. "They told me you had eyes blue as the heavens...."

  She offered Francho a mug and he accepted it. It was cool, mulled wine mixed with water, and it coursed spicy and lively through his veins, reviving him. The woman watched him with a pleased smile, then directed the servant to put the tray with its bowl of steaming gruel and big spoon on Francho's lap. "We had to pour rich broth down your throat bit by bit while you lay senseless for so long. You shall have to eat hearty these next days to get some flesh on your bones." Her mouth, with its faintly pleated upper lip, twitched to see him fall upon the food. "I can see such a task will not overly try you," she murmured.

  Francho wolfed down the cereal, blowing impatiently on each spoonful to cool it and scraping up every stray morsel. The lady, meanwhile, directed the servants to take the chill off the night air with a hearth fire and to smooth the bedclothes. She sent one valet running for a basin of water so that Francho could wash his hands and face. When the last of the gruel had disappeared and the washing had refreshed him, Francho returned his mind to his predicament.

  "I thank you for your kindness, lady. But will you tell me what I am doing here? I don't understand...?" Maybe she, at least, wouldn't talk in riddles like the little man who had visited him earlier.

  But the dame simply stood still for a moment, cocking her head to listen to noises outside. "In a moment, Francisco, all your questions will be answered. You have visitors."

  A lackey threw open the door to admit three gentlemen, while another servant quickly pushed a chair closer to the bed. Francho shoved himself fully erect, wincing at the soreness around his ribs and silently cursing the weakness that kept him from leaping off the bed. He faced them silently with what he hoped was a belligerent expression. He wanted to impress upon them that he was not frightened, although under his projected bravado he remained tense and wary. He also wished he had on his own clothes rather than the silly nightrobe.

  Tendilla and di Lido he already recognized, so he centered his attention on the richly robed cleric accompanying them, whose purple skullcap, almost hidden in a halo of wispy white hair, and huge episcopal ring proclaimed him a high dignitary of the Church.

  The ecclesiastic walked directly up to the bed and automatically made the sign of the cross over Francho's head, meanwhile drawing his white brows together in concentration. His faded eyes roved over Francho's face, studying his features carefully, an examination through which Francho sat unflinchingly, although he felt himself flush with discomfort. At last the Bishop murmured a soft "Dominus Vobiscum" and clasped Francho's hands together between his own warm ones for a moment.

  "Et cum spiritu tuo, good Father," Francho mumbled back.

  Talavera expelled a heavy breath and seemed to relax. "I believe you are correct, Don Iñigo, although I still have a doubt or two. The resemblance, especially the eyes, is uncanny."

  Tendilla stepped forward. "This will dispell any doubts, Your Grace. The most telling proof is the scar on his back. If you will allow me, Francisco?"

  Francho stiffened, but the Count leveled upon him so severe a look he thought it wiser to conserve his energy and submit. He let the nobleman pull away the neck of his nightgown so that the churchman could stare myopically at the puckered white scar on his shoulder blade, and he was more puzzled than ever at their actions.

  The men drew back, exchanging glances of satisfaction. The portly prelate turned away to seat himself thoughtfully in the chair before the bed.

  The woman said calmly to her cousin, "Don Iñigo, the boy is sorely tried to know why he is at Mondejar."

  "Indeed?" Tendilla's black eyes surveyed Francho with the air of a man who has just bought a questionable horse. Francho, unwavering under the scrutiny, stared back; he hoped the bobbing of his Adam's apple did not give evidence of his acute unease.

  Tendilla allowed a slow smile to soften his saturnine features. "Even so," he murmured. "Courage, curiosity, and mulishness. Traits one might recognize all by themselves."

  An odd expression flitted across the face of di Lido, sitting at the foot of the b
ed. But he merely snapped his fingers at the one flunky who had remained in attendance, and the man bowed out of the chamber.

  The Count remained standing before Francho, fingering his bearded chin, one arm supporting his bent elbow. "You are known as Francisco, is that correct?"

  "Yes... Grandeza."

  "I shall present you to my companions: His Grace, Hernando de Talavera, Bishop of Avila and the Royal Confessor, my most excellent cousin, Doña María de Zuniga, to whose kind ministrations your wounds and brain fever have yielded; and you have already met Italy's most renowned savant, Señor Pietro di Lido." They all acknowledged the introduction by beaming at the boy in the bed. Francho only nodded back stiffly.

  Tendilla dropped his arms into a commending, akimbo position. "You were raised at San Martín, a small monastery in Tijuna, true?"

  "Yes... my lord."

  "Then what were you doing in Ciudad Real?" the Count snapped.

  "I ran away from the monastery. I lived with friends in Ciudad Real..."

  "...who taught you the meritorious art of stealing? Solicitous friends, indeed!"

  "Perhaps not to some, but they were the only ones who cared whether I lived or died." Francho's eyes flashed blue fire. "They gave me a home when I had none, and for that I shall repay them someday."

  Tendilla, although he was both amused and impressed by the boy's spirited defense of his lawless coterie, remained silent.

  "And why do you ask me all these questions?" Francho stumbled ahead boldly. "What does it matter to you?" His voice cracked.

  "You stole a nice sum of money from me. Surely that should allow me some interest in you? Are you not aware that I am within my rights to hang you for such offense?"

  "It would be a just dessert for allowing myself to be caught by that flatfooted pigsticker of yours," Francho muttered, remembering the beating. "A one-legged girl could outrun him."

  Tendilla's lips twitched. "Oh, but you will not be hanged. Great blind fortune as well as your penchant for crime, I suppose, has happily brought you to your true friends. See here, boy, you may not know your parentage and birthright, but we who are present here do know who you are." The grandee paused, unable to resist being dramatic as he saw the boy's eyes widen and his lips part in surprise.

  "What? I don't follow you...."

  "You are Francisco Luis de Venegas, the Marquis of Olivenza."

  The brittle silence that followed was suffocating. Francho sat staring, transfixed, convinced that the famous Tendilla was a lunatic. He glanced around at the others; but their faces mirrored only sympathy for his shock. No surprise, no objection. But—they're all mad, he decided, crazy ones escaped from a holding, pretending to be aristocrats.

  "You think we are moonstruck, do you not?" the Count continued, as smoothly as if he had announced merely that Francho's name was not Francisco but Juan. "Let me assure you that during your illness we have taken rapid steps to be certain that you are the high-born infant of whom we lost track fifteen years ago. And we are satisfied of your identity." The smile that finally warmed his lean face seemed genuine to Francho's scrutiny. "Let me give you welcome to Mondejar, Don Francisco, lord of Olivenza." A hint of sympathy flickered in the black eyes.

  Francho closed his mouth abruptly. Did they think he was an idiot? Marquis? Since when did a marquis get left naked on doorsills? He said rigidly, "I don't understand why you joke with me."

  "Joke?" Tendilla rumbled. "By all the saints and devils, do I impress you as a bandier of words? Mark me well when I speak; I tell you the truth."

  "His disbelief is understandable, my lord," di Lido interrupted. "It must be a resounding shock to discover one's true name after so long. And then to have it bear a noble escutcheon in the bargain..."

  "Sí, my lord, it must be a difficult thing to encompass," Talavera agreed compassionately, rising from his chair to approach Francho. "Listen then to me, my son. Your father, Juan de Venegas, was a grandee of the realm. His rank of marquis is now yours, as his only heir. Your mother was Doña Elena de Lura, a sweet and noble lady and peeress in her own right, with title to the county of Monteroja. At the time of their unfortunate deaths, may the Redeemer have rescued both their immortal souls, you were taken away by a trusted retainer, who was to safely hide you until you could be delivered into friendly hands. Whatever misfortune befell him, the man was heard from no more; and when we took up a search, we could not find any clue as to what had become of you, a tiny babe."

  The Count's voice took up the tale. "Nor do we know even now why he went to Tijuna. No matter. It is our present desire, just as then, to help you take your rightful place in the peerage. Because your sire... and your mother... were close to our hearts."

  Doña María, warming her back at the fire, watched the flabbergasted boy struggle to find some composure, as if he were bracing against being pushed off the edge of a cliff. Poor fellow, she thought, he had learned to survive in his world, however mean, and now comes this revelation— astounding, bewildering, a monumental leap from the familiar. Her gaze swept his face. The high brow and square jaw were inherited from Don Juan, unquestionably. But the other features, a shock of dark ringlets spilling over his forehead, the sensitive mouth, and especially the intensely blue eyes, so startling against the pale olive complexion— those were Elena de Lura, almost as if that fey spirit had reappeared to face the world in sturdy male guise. Poor naive, unlucky Elena...

  Doña María transferred her attention to her cousin, Tendilla. What bittersweet memories the finding of this boy must have loosed upon him, although he would not show it. Her musings were broken by Francho's desperate appeal to the Bishop of Avila, as the one he deemed least inclined to lie.

  "Reverend Bishop, there are thousands of bastards left in the street every week. Perhaps it is not really me, Francisco no-name, whom you seek." But even as he protested Francho felt the stirrings of a fascinated willingness to believe. Alternating with a hysterical desire to laugh.

  Talavera deferred to Tendilla, who responded, with a hint of impatience, "Are you absurd enough to think we would indiscriminately accept any waif as Don Juan's missing heir? There are a number of proofs. One, you strongly resemble your parents." He held up one tapered finger. "Two, you have the right name and the right age. Three, we have obtained by relay couriers several articles that were left with you at Santo Domingo—a blanket of fine wool such as would wrap the babe of a ricos hombre, and especially the ingenious and unique silver nursing cup your father invented for you when a wetnurse could not be obtained.

  "These things are in my possession; you may examine them when you wish. But the last proof, to my mind, is the most conclusive. After your christening, when we had repaired to the castle's hall for the feast and celebration, your father called his friends about him to display to us a curious mark on the shoulder blade of his firstborn."

  Lifting his head, Tendilla stared at a point straight ahead of him, as if seeing back into the past. "It was so unusual as to not be forgotten, a red and ragged tear which the Hebrew doctor had sewn up with fine silk, and which resembled, by chance alone, a hilted dagger. Your birth was hard. The doctor used a secret instrument to turn you in the womb, wounding you but saving both your life and your mother's. My friend Venegas was awed. He believed it was an omen, a sign that your arm would bring victory in the field and honor upon his house."

  The dark stare dropped back to Francho. "The scar has turned white with age. But it is the same one we all gaped at fifteen years ago."

  Unconsciously Francho's hand felt behind him, under his right shoulder blade.

  "You must assimilate this. You are Don Francisco de Venegas."

  Tendilla turned suddenly, deliberate as a stalking cat, and moved to the unshuttered window. He clasped his hands behind him and frowned out into the night. Doña María knew he was disturbed by the boy's eyes. But Tendilla spoke, and although it was toward the cloud-misted moon rising over the plains like a hesitant bride, his words, resonant and precise, rebounded from
the walls of the quiet chamber. "Just for tonight, however."

  Pietro di Lido sniffed his scented handkerchief. Talavera fingered the large cross at his bosom. Doña María looked down, busily smoothing her skirt. Francho glanced helplessly at each one, hoping to find some expression, some guide that would help him understand the tangle of statements and contradictions which they presented. He found nothing but kind sympathy.

  He swiped at his moist forehead with the back of his beribboned wrist, then shoved back the blanket and swung his legs off the side of the bed.

  "Where do you go, boy?" Doña María cried.

  The Count turned his head without haste. "Are you leaving us, Don Francisco?" His voice was untroubled.

  "Yes, if it is true I am not a prisoner. Why would I want to be a Venegas tonight and someone else tomorrow and maybe someone else after that? I'd rather be me, Francho, and go back to my own people and my own life in Ciudad Real." He scowled at them all and hoped he sounded in control of himself, for deep within he knew that whatever their game nothing would ever be the same again. If they let him go he would be forever haunted by these strange revelations and wondering were they true. "And even if I am who you say I am, what is that to me but a name? I don't know how to be a lord. I'm a cut... a member of the rabble, pure and simple."

  Talavera shook his head. "God's mercy, my lord Tendilla," he chided. "It is cruel to bait the boy with ambiguous statements. Explain to him all of it, I beg you."

  Tendilla lifted an eyebrow in apology to the prelate. "Forgive me, you are right, Your Grace. That was unworthy advantage. Pray, stay in your bed, Francho. You are still weak. I shall attempt to speak more plainly." He came across the chamber again to resume his stance before the bed.