Hart, Mallory Dorn

by Jasmine on the Wind

  Francho saw Leonora's dancing golden eyes widen under the pale brows as they met his for a moment, and then she returned his bow with a graceful court curtsey. "Señor," she murmured, acknowledging the introduction. And then, raising her sleek head, she flashed him a smile so warm and so charmingly bracketed by two adorable dimples that he fell instantaneously, impossibly, inconsolably, in love.

  Afterward Francho could hardly remember what conversations sustained the evening, either then or when they went up to supper, which was laid in Doña María's quarters. All evening his eyes and his mind were on the living, breathing miracle that had happened to him. He found it impossible to follow courtesy and not stare at her, even though she seemed not to mind his impoliteness. She smiled at him and inquired about his studies and chatted about her own, or else turned from him to charm the other men present into a fatuous glow. When her attention was elsewhere Francho felt the room had gone dark. Yet, even as he gazed directly into her shining brown eyes and drank into his thirsting soul the sight of her enchanting dimples, ivory skin, and cascade of blond hair, the lovelorn Francho fought despair.

  His thoughts were gloomy, although he conversed with what wit and intelligence he could muster. The exquisite Leonora would stay only a few nights at Mondejar, for she was already overdue at Madrid and could not linger.

  The injustice of it infuriated him, to find his love and lose her, all in a few days, and lose her forever, perhaps, since the young men at Court had eyes in their heads too, and time enough to press their suits. What cruelty! How had he angered Providence that life so mocked him, giving him so astounding a gift and then taking it away.

  The evening flew, the convivial supper was finished, the hour grew late, and Leonora's silken laugh rose above Von Gormach's stentorian tones as the German bowed low, kissed her fingers, and bade her rest well. Francho too kissed her warm fingers, loath to let them go, hoping she could read his admiration in his eyes, wondering if perhaps, behind the cousinly favor she displayed, there hid an answering regard.

  He could not sleep that night but lay picturing her face in his mind, imagining what it would be like to hold her body against his, and his breathing came fast and shallow and was hardly conducive to slumber. An arrangement of tones floated into his head, and he began to compose a new canción, beginning it, "O wondrous fair, o earthly angel...." Somewhere in the midst of it, his eyes finally closed.

  Leonora stayed late in her chamber the next morning, so Francho caught no sight of her before his tutor of science and alchemy claimed him, following Tendilla's orders that nothing be allowed to disturb the routine of learning. Later, he had a glimpse of her blond head leaning over the stone balustrade above the dirt-floored indoor court where he and Von Gormach had been hacking away at each other with blunt-edged swords for almost two hours. Suddenly Francho's tiring body became rejuvenated, his blows landed more forcefully, and his offense became heavily aggressive. But when the hard-pressed puffing German finally called quarter and Francho bounded up the spiral steps to greet Leonora, he found the balcony empty.

  Disconsolately he shrugged out of his padded armor and stalked off to clean up, and while he washed away the sweat and dust he consoled himself by describing his golden lady to himself in flowery Arabic, preparing for his session with Ebarra by transposing into the Moorish language the words of the love song he had composed the night before.

  It was already late afternoon, his tutorial appointments over for the day, that he headed toward Doña María's wing of the castle and was drawn all the more swiftly by the sound of a flute and a deeper-toned whistle issuing gaily from that lady's chambers. At his knock, he was bidden enter.

  "Oh, Don Francisco, do please join us," Doña María cried, her eyes bright as two polished beads. "I thought Doña Leonora might enjoy hearing these fellows"—she indicated two ragged, grinning village musicians who often tootled in the castle courtyard for whatever small coin was thrown them—"for they offer all the music we have hereabout." The little lie was delivered admirably blandly; she and di Lido had enjoyed many a secret concert in the padded tower room.

  The two ladies had seated themselves with their needlework near the hearth of the commodious chamber which held Doña María's curtained bed, sundry chests and furniture, a Moorish carved table used both for dining and writing, her prized brass ewers and bowls displayed in an open cupboard, and salvers heaped with dried flower petals, which lent a faint perfume to the air.

  Francho approached and bowed politely, his eyes filled with Leonora's lovely face under the pale white wings of a starched coif. He thought he had never imagined in all his dreams so perfect and delicate a nose, as if carved from the whitest and smoothest of marble, nor so charming a small mouth, like a rosy flower.

  "I fear Doña Leonora will find Mondejar not only lacking in music but in most entertainments, unfortunately, which were deemed too distracting for both tutors and scholars." Francho answered Doña María deprecatingly. "Here we live a life replete with no events. But that was, of course, until yesterday, when my lady Leonora entered this little world and set every corner of it ablaze with her beauty. Even Doña María's brilliant smile had too much to do to offset our austere lives." He stepped up and took Leonora's small hand and kissed it. "Your presence, doña, lends this old castle a glory it has never seen before."

  Pleased with himself, he watched a soft smile curve Leonora's mouth. "Why, you are too kind, sir. And I see that you learn more here than just Latin and the Greek philosophers. Does my cousin also have a tutor of flattery, mother?"

  "He has no need for one, my dear." Doña María chuckled. "Master Francisco has a natural aptitude for turning the right phrase. And even Señor di Lido praises his talent for poesy."

  Leonora bent her liquid amber-brown gaze upon her new cousin. "Then you shall be much admired at Court, Don Francisco. Queen Isabella, I hear, is extremely fond of the more gentle talents."

  "And you, doña?" Francho motioned toward the two intent musicians piping away at a galliard in the background. "Are you fond of music?"

  "Indeed, señor, very much. I adore dancing. And I am told that the Queen keeps many fine musicians at Court and that there is wonderful music and dancing at every occasion." The rise of her voice gave him a delighted glimpse of how excited she was to be going to Court.

  "No occasion at Court has yet been so sparkling as the first one to be graced by your shining presence, my lady."

  A dainty pink flushed Leonora's face. His smile was most disarming, she thought, but it was his eager, bright azure gaze that made her feel shy. She glanced down at the square of silk she was embroidering. "My mother tells me you shall soon repair to Court yourself. Are you excited about it?"

  "Yes, very. But not because of the dancing," Francho answered, and he assumed a rueful expression, recognizing a fine opportunity to engage her more intimately. "The sad fact is that although I've been taught the various steps, I've had little chance to practice them. Doña María cannot, to my regret, honor me as a partner"—Leonora glanced over sympathetically at her mother, whose bad leg still caused her pain "—and Maestro di Lido does not make a very inspiring lady. I should probably trip over my own feet and bring disgrace on the Mendozas."

  Her chimelike laughter enchanted his ear. Her eyes flickered over him as he leaned casually against one of the fat stone columns which supported the ceiling. "Oh, I scarcely think so, sir. I chanced to see you this morning at your dueling practice and you were most nimble and surefooted."

  "Sí, but wielding a sword against a great ox is not the same as handing a delicate lady into the proper figures without treading hard on her slippers or knocking off her hat." He grinned, shrugged. "I am afraid I am hopeless."

  "Most tragic," she murmured. Then she tilted her head and smiled up archly. "However, if... if it please you, I would be happy to practice the steps with you. We had a fine master at the seminary but the same problem arose, there were only women to dance with. In fact, it would help my confidence, too.
"

  Francho straightened and smiled broadly, swept off his tall, small-brimmed hat, and made a deep bow. "I shall be gladly and forever in your debt, doña. When, then?"

  "Well, why not now? If they will play again the galliard they just finished, one could try a few steps right here."

  The eavesdropping musicians exchanged glances, nodded, and swung once more into the measured but zestful dance that had become so popular throughout Europe. Although they lacked a drum, the whistle-player filled in by stamping his foot in rhythm.

  Leonora rose and held out her small, soft hand, and Francho took it, devastated by her touch and by the sweet dimples that flashed into being at the corners of her mouth. With a graceful movement she stooped and swept up the short train of her dark green gown. He led her out onto the arabesqued carpet which covered almost half the chamber, still peeking sideways at her because he couldn't get enough of looking at her. Hands clasped and held high, they waited for the beat and began the pattern, walking slowly forward to the count of four, facing each other, still holding hands rotating in a stately, clockwise circle, facing each other, rotating counterclockwise. They faced each other again and made a quick step forward, coming so close together Francho could feel her sweet breath on his chin, took two steps back, and bowed. Then, going four more steps in the original direction, they repeated the entire pattern.

  By the time they reached the end of the room, her accusing glance told him she had realized how good a dancer he was. But the amused smile that followed told him his ruse was forgiven, and as they stepped into a new figure where he could momentarily put his arm about her tiny waist he wondered if she could feel the involuntary quiver of his muscle as he tried not to sweep her into his arms.

  "What else do you not do well, sir, so I will be advised not to offer you help you don't need?"

  "Don't be angry, doña. It was the desperate ploy of a man who dreamt all night of the touch of your hand."

  "Methinks you have stayed too long in this country castle and would find attractive even the ugliest damsel if she came to visit."

  "Ah, cruel lady, you have pierced my heart to believe that. Even if I were in Paris and surrounded by all the beauties of the ancient world, you would be my Helen, the dazzling light by which all other lamps of beauty are extinguished. Look at me. Can't you tell how I am distracted by you?"

  Having to follow the music they now bowed, then clasped raised hands and stepped in close to each other again. He saw a tiny flame leap in her amber eyes as she saw beyond his smile and read the sincerity in his regard. She flushed and quickly dropped her lashes over her telltale response, but to his pleasure she did not simper.

  "Sir, you are too bold," she remonstrated, as the dance steps turned them back toward Doña María, the musicians happily outdoing themselves by inventing new measures to the music.

  He squeezed her hand gently, for he thought he was not really displeasing her. "Sí, and I kneel at your feet for my precipitousness. But you have entered my life like the most luminous angel sent from Heaven and I am overwhelmed. It is desperation makes me speak so openly."

  Hand on his hip he led her smoothly around the circle. Now her upward glance held mischief. "Desperation, señor? Whatever for?"

  "For the fact that you will fly from here tomorrow and my deprived eyes will have to wait weary months to behold you again. And perhaps in that time Doña María will have promised you to some powerful grandee...."

  "Nay, I do not think my dear mother and my cousin Tendilla will so quickly decide on whom to bestow my hand."

  "And would you have naught to say about it, should they?" he pressed.

  "Women seldom do," she teased, smiling up into his furrowed brow.

  He bent his dark head down to hers as they came to the final notes, murmuring in her ear, "Will you send me a letter from Court, kind angel, and not let me languish forgotten in this gloomy ward?"

  She threw back her head and laughed, and his eyes drank in the marble smoothness of her throat and the soft, white rise of bosom from her gold-laced bodice. "And will you dream of me every night, Master Francisco?" she countered and both to his delight and consternation squeezed his hand back.

  He pledged fervently as they circled one last time, "Every night and every day and four times on the Lord's day." He wondered whether to believe her oblique invitation. There were wiles of women he was not yet easy with, and he could not tell was she toying with him or was she really welcoming his suit. Not that it mattered. He was determined to pursue her, for what would be the good of all the wealth and titles in Christendom if he could not share them with this exquisite girl?

  "Very well, good cuz," she answered cordially. "I will send you a letter and tell you all the news of Court."

  "Three letters, four. And news of you is all I want."

  "And news of me too," she promised, eyes smiling up at him through a veil of brown lashes. The music ended on a long, drawn out note, they bowed to each other, and he offered her his arm to walk the few paces back to her stool and the too busily sewing Doña María.

  ***

  But she did not write several letters. She dispatched him, via a royal courier riding through to Valencia, only one, and that a short one, from Leon, where the Court had traveled to enable Their Majesties to handle pressing affairs in that province. She wrote little of a personal nature other than she was delighted with the liveliness of the Infanta's personal household, but he carried the letter under his doublet nevertheless and waylaid each arriving courier hopefully seeking more letters which never came. Doña María, however, heard from Leonora several times and each time informed Francho that her daughter sent wishes for his continuing health and successful studies. It was, perhaps, just a polite inclusion, but Francho consoled himself that at least she remembered his existence. He made a vow that the next time he was in her presence she would come away remembering much more than that.

  The enervating heat of false summer during most of November soon passed into the bleak damp of winter, and Francho's former patience with his studies disappeared. He complained to Von Gormach that he felt as removed from life as a stylite living on a pillar and that he was full to the eyes with hunting, fishing, and thinking, and even with the pregnant Constanza. Especially he missed the lively presence and acerbic wit of di Lido and eagerly awaited the occasional letter the maestro wrote from the great university in Salamanca.

  "'The young men insist on bringing their own private tutors to my lectures on history, and these pedants squirm with rage to hear their pet notions totally disproven,'" Francho read gleefully to Doña María, who had strained to make out di Lido's tiny hand. "And there's more, listen. 'Deeming my discourse on ancient philosophies too long, some rude and bored youths began scraping their feet on the floor and were thrown out bodily from the lecture chamber by my indignant supporters, who threatened the ruffians with a beating.'" Francho chuckled, just imagining his teacher's delight with the fracas. "And listen again. 'Imagine how great was the throng to hear my lecture on the satires of Juvenal that every street and path to the hall was blocked, and I had to be delivered to my lectern on the shoulders of my students!'" Both of them smiled broadly, transported in their minds to the narrow, clogged streets.

  In addition to academic triumphs di Lido also thought to include in one letter the reports he had garnered of the past summer's hit-and-run battles in Granada, the blockade of various Moorish fortresses, and a description of the Spanish capture of the city of Ronda with the release of four hundred starved Christian captives from their heavy manacles—all of which served as fuel to Francho's discontent.

  One by one Francho's tutors departed that third year, deeming him well versed in their subjects. By January there remained at Mondejar only the faithful Von Gormach and Ebarra and Nunez, whose semi-confinement was relaxed in the small company.

  Francho's studies of Arabic and music now filled more of his time, not only because his future might depend on them but because he enjoyed them. He convers
ed easily with Ebarra in the Berber dialect and read and wrote a fluent Arabic. Using as a textbook a smuggled Koran, he learned to reckon time from the year of the Hegira rather than the birth of Christ and committed to memory the dates and meanings of the Moslem religious holy days. Just as important, he caught from Ebarra a true glimpse of the Moslem character, for every so often the flame of Islam burned through what had been the man's forced conversion to Christianity.

  As a product of the Moorish system of free education for all, Ebarra could recount in detail the histories of the great Arab houses that had ruled Spain and whose armies of the Crescent might have overrun all of Europe had not Charles Martel and the Franks stopped them at Poitiers. The invasion began in the eighth century, armies of Middle Eastern Arabs pouring across the straits from North Africa and in only a few short years conquering all of Spain, pushing what remained of the Christianized Iberians into a corner of the wild northern mountains. The whole peninsula belonged to the Arabs, called Moors from the invading Moroccan Berbers, for hundreds of years, until the land-hungry knights of the Cross strengthened enough to burst out of their strongholds and century by century retake their country, so that now only the territory of Granada remained Moslem.

  The bitter pride Ebarra took in the ancient Moslem triumphs reflected the ideal of religious aggression held by many believers in Mohammed the Prophet. On the other hand he was just as proud of the glories of Arab architecture and arts and their amazing advances in science and medicine, to say nothing of their remarkable body of literature. Some of these writings included volumes on the art and exquisitely refined techniques of lovemaking, which, when Pietro di Lido described some of the passages he had committed to memory, held Francho's undivided attention.

  In Don Iñigo's youth there had been peace between Spain and Granada, and the young bloods of both sides met and competed in important tourneys. This enabled Tendilla, in a long letter, to accurately describe to Francho the habits and manners of the Moorish aristocracy.