Hart, Mallory Dorn

by Jasmine on the Wind

  Francho finally shrugged and got back under the comforter again since he had reached the same conclusion about his strength; his head ached faintly and he was glad to subside against the pillow once more. The idea began to grip his mind that, after all, these people seemed favorably inclined toward him. If they insisted he was the son of a ricos hombre, well, what was so terrible? A marquis? A marquis owned lands, vassals, riches, everything.

  Tendilla's smile was thin. "You must believe youare Francisco de Venegas, bom to Elena and Juan Alfonso de Venegas, nobility of the realm. Normally you would be heir to your father's extensive estate and income as well as your mother's. But—although it is your right to know this it becomes a cruelty, for the fact remains that your entire inheritance was confiscated by the Crown, as well as all your patents and titles. What is worse"—and here Tendilla rubbed a finger across the small triangle of beard on his chin—"is that your own life is an execration to your sovereigns.

  "In time I shall tell you the reason for this, but let us go on for the moment—although mark me very well, not a person outside of those present in this room must know your real identity. If you value your life you will hold your tongue and keep your true name secret within you."

  Francho fought to keep his voice from rising. "But if I cannot claim my natural name or rank, then what... who shall I be?"

  "My son," Tendilla answered blandly.

  "Y... your son?"

  "Yes, an excellent subterfuge. Let us imagine that I had in my youth discreetly sired an illegitimate child by some unvirtuous but well-born lady, and that it has lately come to my attention that the good woman has expired, leaving the child alone. Having a marriage which no longer allows hope of any offspring, I now go to fetch my son by the bar sinister and bring him home to live with me, to be the means by which my line is perpetuated. Simple, is it not?"

  And simple it was. The mortality rate of offspring being high, even Francho knew that the arrangement proposed by Tendilla was quite common. Bastard children of the nobility, officially installed as heirs or favorites, were recognized without question or prejudice.

  "Therefore," the Count continued, pointing the hilt of his little dagger at Francho for emphasis, "you will now be known by the name of Francisco de Mendoza and will be entitled to the honor given the progeny of a grandee of the realm. My name will keep you safe. Yours will not. Do you understand?"

  Not wanting to appear stupid, Francho nodded. But hesitantly.

  Tendilla cocked an eyebrow. "You wish to question the arrangement?"

  Francho cleared his throat. "Yes. Why would you do this for me?"

  Again he was rewarded by the thin smile. "Good, you are discerning. Naught comes for naught, eh? Let me assure you that my intentions are most honorable and for your greatest benefit. And, as you correctly sense, for mine. You may trust me, Francisco. I shall shape a victorious future for us both."

  Francho's glance traveled again from face to face, returning to meet Tendilla's eyes. "And if I do not want to stay?" he tested.

  "If you cannot support the fine life of a gentleman you may go as soon as you wish, and freely, with no further argument. My word on it."

  Francho believed him. His tense muscles relaxed. His stomach stopped roiling. He took a deep breath, a quavering one in spite of himself. "I will stay."

  Tendilla nodded, sheathing his little dagger. Di Lido strode over to clap Francho's shoulder with friendly reassurance. "Bravo, bravo! Ah, what a list of cognomens you have knocking about your head, eh? Soon you will find them all too familiar."

  Doña María clasped her hands before her, smiling. "You will be happy here, Don Francisco. This is where you belong."

  Talavera, ruddy face beaming, approached to take Francho's hands and offer a blessing. "Sanguis Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat. Trust in the greatness of God, my son, and he will lead you."

  "Enough, enough for now. We shall further discuss the future, Francisco, when you are stronger. Come, my friends, let us retire and leave this newly begat hope of my house to regain his health and collect his thoughts." Tendilla's dark head in its velvet toque inclined stiffly, although a small smile still softened his aristocratic features. "I bid you a good night, Don Francisco de Mendoza," he murmured. He turned on his heel and strode to the portal, the others following behind him.

  The sound of their footsteps as they closed the door and left sounded to Francho like the rustle of leaves whispering away in the wind.

  A lackey entered to place a jug of water on a stool by his bed, extinguish the candles, and half close the bedcurtains, but Francho, worn out, hardly noticed the servant's entrance or departure. He slipped down under the cover and stretched out but then thrashed about, unable to find comfort. His ribs ached. His head spun.

  Venegas... Mendoza... Olivenza... Marquis... the names churned about in his brain, the impressive, impossible names burning in letters of flame in front of his eyes. He rolled his head back and forth, and suddenly he was whispering into the dark, "No. I am Francho. I am a thief and an ordinary varlet. I am me. I want to go back to the hostel, to Tía Esperanza, to Carlos and Pepi and Dolores and big 'Fredo. I want to go home."

  Ashamed of the tear that suddenly spilled down his cheek he strove to comfort himself. "Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will tell them no. Tomorrow I will get out of here and back to Ciudad Real. Somehow." At last, determined to leave, he fell asleep, fists clenched, brows drawn together, the dark ringlets damp on his forehead.

  The clarion call of a trumpet awoke him to a bright morning full of the exciting sounds of bustle and clatter in the great courtyard below. Sliding out of the bed, he slowly walked over to the window on legs which carried him normally at last and climbed up to lean on the window ledge. Looking down he discovered he had an unimpeded view of a colorful hunting party which was just leaving the castle over the drawbridge and going against a stream of people coming the other way: supplicants, clerics, farmers with carts of grain or chickens, merchants with something to sell to the steward, neighboring townspeople to petition or to fawn, all drawn to Mondejar by the presence of the governing lord of the county—and for whose return from the hunt they would now have to wait in the yard or the great hall most of the day.

  But Francho had eyes only for the stiff-backed Count of Tendilla in a burnished steel cuirass, riding out first on a high-stepping black stallion, the animal bedecked in argent and green trappings with silver tassels hanging from the wide, scalloped reins. Talavera rode beside him on a similarly bedecked horse, the prelate's large pectoral cross flashing in the early sunlight. A woman, possibly Doña Maria's lady-in-waiting, and Pietro di Lido followed, the lady sidesaddle on a chestnut mare, the fragile veil from her winged hat floating charmingly on the light breeze. Behind them came two tonsured members of Talavera's entourage in sedate robes, and these were followed by falconers supporting hooded birds on their padded fists, beaters with their dogs, armsbearers with crossbows and javelins, and a small squad of chain-mailed guards commanded by the unmistakable Rondero.

  The hunting party clopped out over the bridge and then fell into a canter, stirring up dust along the road until the road curved and took them out of Francho's line of sight.

  He slid down the ledge. Before his envious eyes still lingered the vision of Tendilla's easy seat and control of the spirited horse. With a twinge of homesickness, he mused that Carlos would give his soul to get such an animal. Yet, in the cheerful sunlight of morning his predicament seemed much less alarming, in fact the magnitude of his good luck finally leaped out at him. How craven it would be of him to flee back to Ciudad Real like a frightened rabbit. What had he to lose in learning to be a gentleman, and in a grandee's household, no less? He could always leave, later. He straightened his shoulders in resolution and banished the fear that had assailed him the night before.

  A short knock and Doña María sailed in with a lackey, who silently placed a tray of food on the table. Her bright eyes surveyed him cordially from under her wimple-draped, ro
lled-brim turban. "So, Don Francisco, you are up and around. How nice. There is soup and bread and a fresh, white cheese for your breakfast. And how do you do, this matin?"

  "Very well, my lady," he mumbled, suddenly shy.

  She indicated the raiment which she carried draped over her arms. "Look here, I have brought you garments to wear while we wait for those which have been ordered from the costumer in Madrid. These are Pietro di Lido's, since he is closest to your size, and have been altered by a needle- woman in the village. I shall leave them here, and in a moment a valet will attend you. Now eat, my dear, eat. The soup will get cold."

  She settled herself and sat for a while, contentedly watching him apply the cheese to a large slab of pale wheaten bread and wolf it down, along with the hot broth. Finally, lifting his gaze to hers, he asked offhandedly just to fill the silence, "Why did you not ride out with the hunt?"

  Smiling, she shrugged. "Alas, I have a limb which pains me much with prolonged sitting in the saddle. But my companion, Doña Catalina, truly enjoys it, and so she is my emissary."

  "And what will they bag?"

  "Not much here, compared to the teeming forests near Don Iñigo's other properties. Some hare and red partridge for pies for our supper tonight, mayhap enough to also fill the bellies of the poor monks sheltering with us below on their way to Campostela." She rose, preparing to leave. Her smile was closed-mouth because her teeth were bad, but it was friendly, as she took his chin and tilted up his face for closer inspection. "Good, your color is fine today; you were so deathly wan these weeks under those bruises, I feared for you. If you wish, you may explore the castle a bit to amuse yourself. It is a drafty old pile, but when I was your age I found it intriguing. It reminded me of the old times when knights were chivalrous and rescued distressed maidens and the mail-clad warriors to whom honor was all stood shoulder to shoulder defending these thick walls." She laughed at herself in a soft contralto as she pulled tighter the embroidered belt encircling her thickened waist to dangle in two tassels about her knees. "But I babble on about silly, young girl's fancies. I have tasks to accomplish. The major-domo here is sometimes negligent and the milk house is in a shambles...."

  "But what if I should come upon the guards who caught me in Ciudad Real?"

  Turning from the door, she hastened to assure him. "Ah, but you will not, for they have been dismissed on some pretext or other—except for the big one, Rondero, who is the Count's most trusted servitor. The major-domo has informed the household that you are their master's natural son and that they are expected to show you due deference. So, whatever you should desire, you merely request it." How incredible, those words!

  Francho was still tasting the sweetness of them when an unctuous valet arrived to assist him with dressing. Since a full bath was bad for the recently ill, the fellow had brought with him a basin, hard soap, and a towel and insisted on sponging off Francho's thin young body, still showing the yellow and purple of fading bruises and the brown of welts. The servant asked no questions. He fluttered about his charge like an anxious nursemaid, handing him each garment, allowing him first to cover his nakedness with close-fitting underpants and a white, long-sleeved shirt, both of softest linen. Then Francho shoved his legs into skin-tight gray hosen, which the man drew up for him, and pulled the drawstring tight at the waist, ignoring his charge's embarrassment with the insistent help.

  Over this went a gray-and-white doublet of fine wool, organpipe-pleated all around, belted with a silvered cord, and reaching to Francho's mid-thigh. His shoulders were broadened by wide-puffed sleeves, which then descended so tight to the wrist they had to be slashed at the elbow to allow movement, and for decorative effect the underfabric of his shirt was pulled through the slits. His feet went into purple leather shoes of new style, minus the exaggerated toes which had become passé with the fashionable, the valet thought it necessary to explain. The man attached to Francho's belt as a part of his costume a small dagger in a sheath and slipped a chain of plain gold links about his neck. He finished by extending a russet felt hat with a soft crown and rolled brim, frowned when it was clapped on carelessly, and himself resettled it properly on the dark curls, with a tilt.

  The valet finally held up a glass mirror framed in gilt-painted wood. Francho had never seen himself in a mirror so clear and true, but the erstwhile cutpurse and pickpocket cockily assumed an attitude to peer at himself. He was immediately devastated at the astonishing image of a youth of refinement which jumped back at him; a well-dressed, unmistakable scion of privilege. Quickly he stopped goggling and introduced what he thought was a fitting air of hauteur into his expression, noting from the corner of his eye the valet's approval.

  Hand on the hilt of his dagger, he sallied out of the chamber at last, not with his usual careless swagger but with a proud bearing imitating Tendilla's.

  Roaming around the castle it didn't take him long to relish being addressed as Don Francisco by respectful, if curious, servitors as they went about their business. He was self-conscious at first, but he soon began to enjoy his exalted position and, taking his cue from earlier, brief observations of Tendilla and di Lido, just nodded at them imperiously.

  The fact was that he turned somersaults inside when the guards stationed about the castle and before the door to Tendilla's private apartments struck their chests with a stiff forearm salute as he passed.

  "Ay, María," he gloated, his glee unbounded, "not three weeks ago they would have spat on me. Now they must kiss my behind and bang their chests. Salute, you bobiecas! I can still steal the eyes from your head before you could blink."

  He wandered happily about for a long time, passing through numerous chambers and climbing endless, twisting stairs in shadowy towers, which exuded dampness and cold from their stone walls. From the high slit windows he surveyed the gate house, the tidy stables where the Count's prize horses were pampered, the neat but sterile gardens and courts within the walls, the blacksmith's stall, from which a metallic clangor arose even to his aerie, the guard's barracks in a long building detached from the main house, and the square, moldering keep squatting to one side of the main court.

  Exhausted, finally, he managed by some miracle to find his wing of the castle and his own chamber, tossed aside his hat, and gratefully fell upon the bed to rest.

  When he woke up, with growling stomach, it was dusk and someone was knocking loudly on his door. The man who entered at his bidding was dressed more grandly than the ordinary lackey and had long, graying hair. This would be the major-domo, Francho thought, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  "The Count requests you to attend him in his chambers, Don Francisco," the man said in a rusty voice. "If you would please to follow me?"

  Smoothing his clothes and replacing his hat, Francho followed him, amused by the old retainer's bowlegged gait. Past the guarded door he was shown through a suite of fine rooms which at last led to Tendilla's study, where the major-domo knocked on the heavy door and then withdrew. "Enter," came the reply.

  Francho pulled back his shoulders and opened the door. He felt this second interview would be easier for him now that he had grasped his position and adjusted his attitude. It remained to see what Tendilla really wanted and, just as important, to receive answers to the many questions that had nagged at him as he had loped through the stone reaches of the castle.

  He thought he detected approval in Tendilla's brief scrutiny of him, but the Count said nothing, indicating with a tilt of his head and the tip of his feathered stylus that Francho was to wait while he finished a letter. Francho quietly strolled the paneled chamber, his self-conscious set of shoulders forgotten as he poked into the fascinating scientific bric-a-brac, manuscripts and military objects scattered about. Hands behind his back, he studied the mounted armor and weapons and tentatively touched the celestial orb.

  But it was the marvelously inlaid eight-stringed lute that made his eyes glow as he came upon it. With reverence he lifted the lute from the bench and stroked the satiny wood of th
e bellied sound box for a moment, then he softly twanged the strings. He ran his thumb up and down the long, fretted neck and noted how lightly and how comfortably the instrument nestled into his body.

  He didn't see Tendilla, still in the attitude of writing, watching him from under lowered brows.

  "Can you play it?" the Count asked suddenly.

  Francho started. He had been absorbed by the instrument. "A bit, my lord. I have had no formal lessons. I've just copied what I heard, and on no fine instrument such as this."

  "Pluck it, then, I am fond of music. I shall not expect you to be expert."

  The lute was a tenor, with dark, honey-toned resonance, and Francho's pleasure with the master-crafted instrument was evident as he plucked lightly at the strings and then tightened the screws on the angled head to bring the lute into pitch.

  He wondered if perhaps he should show more modesty and decline to exhibit his amateur talent, but the fancy passed; he would not give up the chance to try such a lute.

  Finally he stroked a ballad which he had often heard at Papa el Mono's toward midnight, when the bleary-eyed company had played itself out, sitting sprawled in drunken stupor, sobbing along with the minstrel's song of unrequited love and a distant home.

  Standing easy, with one leg raised on the low bench, he cradled the lute and at first played the mournful lay simply and without embellishment, trying for a controlled, sweet singing to flow through his fingers into the taut strings. Then, with a thrum, he changed into chorded figurations and took up the melody in his own supple voice, drawing out some of the words in order to weave vocal fugues around the instrumental notes.

  O amado mío, hast thou not one tear

  For the sighing heart that wanders o'er the wilds?

  Thou water, o, thou whispering wind,

  What message dost thou bring?

  Shall my song e'er tell

  Of Life's revolving wheel, of sorrow

  And penance,