Hart, Mallory Dorn

by Jasmine on the Wind

  The distinctive, convoluted music of the Arab was Nunez's province to teach. Centuries of living side by side had eroded much of the difference between Christian and Moslem music, and the ubiquitous gypsy had stitched the two modes even more closely together. The wide repertoire Francho learned needed only a switch of language to be appropriate in either Court.

  Restlessly he nursed his lovesick heart and daydreamed of Leonora, although he knew he had no right to covet her, not without first securing his own title and fortune. This, at least, gave him the impetus to continue honing his skills. He had only to think of her—curiously, he could not produce a steady image of her face; just when he got one feature clear in his mind's eye, the others blurred out—and resolve coursed through him like strong wine. The Mendoza name was borrowed. The only one that counted was the name he had a right to: Francisco Luis de Venegas, Marquis of Olivenza. Marquis! He would redeem it if he had to die.

  The year turned and then once more it was spring, and the first crocus heads poked from the gray earth in the garden. On March 5—Francho would never forget the day—Mendoza's courier galloped under the raised portcullis bearing a dispatch bidding Francho join the Court in Toledo forthwith, from whence they would then travel south together to Seville. The long tutoring was over. Von Gormach, who had been in the village, returned much later to find Francho supine on his bed, an empty earthenware jug of aguardiente hugged to his chest, a silly smile on his drunken face. And slumped snoring on the carpet with another empty jug and similar smiles, Nunez and Ebarra.

  ***

  Five days later, after a frenzy of packing and preparations which had the servants of every stripe panting, Francho and his companions consumed a hearty breakfast, retired one by one to Mondejar's chapel room to confess themselves to the black-robed village priest and were bid Godspeed by the saddened major-domo and his staff. In the courtyard, confusion reigned as retainers hurried and scurried about with last minute additions to the baggage and the excited horses snorted and stamped. Finally, to a cacophony of barking dogs and trumpet blasts to clear the steward's stream of daily petitioners from the path, the entourage cantered over the drawbridge and met a fresh breeze that snapped their flags like whips.

  Two men-at-arms rode first with green-and-white tabards over their chain mail, one supporting a green standard with the white castle-and-bar emblem of the Mendozas, the other a fluttering, long-tailed oriflamme of dark blue, the color associated with Zunigas. Francho and Von Gormach rode next, Francho with a steel cuirass over his velvet doublet, a short, fur-edged cape over his shoulders, and a tall, feathered hat on his dark curls. There were silver spurs attached to his soft, high boots. He rode with one fist on his hip, the other gloved hand holding the reins of his arch-necked black stallion gripping a small whip as well. Beside him Von Gormach creaked in the ungainly, black-painted half-armor and plumed casque of the German knight.

  Doña María traveled in a swaying gilt litter slung between two large mules, each ridden by a youth in green livery. The litter's damask curtains were stitched in gold and silver with the coronet of a viscountess and her crest showing the emblems of Mendoza, Zuniga, and a French lion couchant.

  Behind her came the two monks on mules, riding silent and hooded, for the Count had insisted Nunez and Ebarra maintain their anonymity, and these were followed by a smart bodyguard of a dozen pikemen, and then as many overladen baggage mules and carts, carrying everything from beds to Von Gormach's pet bird in a wicker cage.

  Francho was enthralled by his own elegance. In his heart there was still a place dedicated to the scapegrace who had haunted the back alleys of Ciudad Real and who had stared in awe at the mounted entourages of the upper classes as they rode grandly past him. Now the pobres made way for him and stood humbly with cap in hand along the side of the road as this proud young gentleman, his noble party, and his jangling escort went past in a halo of dignity and wealth.

  He held his gaze aloof from the peasants, but that did not mean he did not see them. At one point, touched with pity, he hailed a bedraggled youth toiling along on a crutch, a heavy bundle strapped to his twisted back, and invited him to ride into the next village on their spare mule.

  They passed Carabana, they passed the great castle at Maqueda that jutted against the sky, but otherwise the landscape was somber and monotonous. The first night they made camp in a field, enjoying the comfort of sturdy tents and the safeguard of their escort. The second night they presumed upon the hospitality of a gentleman known to Doña María, whose manse was just beyond Aranjuez.

  On the third day, nearing Toledo, Francho reined in and waited until Doña María's litter came abreast. The lady, lying full length on her soft pillows, had pushed the emblazoned curtains back all the way, for the day was warm. She greeted him with a friendly smile, but after studying his set profile a few moments as he rode along beside her, decided to open the exchange he seemed to be having trouble commencing.

  "What troubles you, Francisco? Do I detect some nervousness now we are nearing the Court?"

  Francho threw her a rueful smile. "You seem to discover me so easily, Lady, as if you could look right into my head. I won't deny I am nervous at the thought of standing before the Royal Monarchs of Spain." He shrugged a deep breath into his lungs. "I know, I know, I have been more than competently rehearsed in the proper etiquette and speeches, but even so I am dry-mouthed at the prospect. I fear my tongue will tie itself in knots and I will bring disgrace to my lord Tendilla."

  "Knots? Your silver tongue, my dear Francisco? Nonsense. Being presented to Their Majesties is an honor, not a torment. And most people live through it." She tucked an escaped lock of hair under her embroidered coif and shifted against her backrest.

  "You have never described the Queen to me in much detail. Tell me again what she is like, I beg you."

  "Willingly, although it has been over four years since I last attended Court, and perhaps she has changed a bit in the face, as we all do." Doña María smiled her closed-lipped smile, but her bright eyes twinkled with a relaxed humor. "The Queen is a handsome woman, of medium height and a proud, erect bearing. Her skin is the color of ivory, smooth, without wrinkles even when she smiles. Her eyes are blue, her hair brown with shadings of red, and uncoiffed it hangs down past her waist."

  "And her temperament?"

  "Maestro di Lido in fact has described her as tranquil, but untamed. And indeed she is spirited; when I think of Isabella I think of her as she often rides, clad in armor and mounted on a snorting charger!"

  "But what of her day-to-day nature?" Francho insisted, fascinated. "For that is how I shall encounter her, on her throne and surrounded by her courtiers."

  "Ah, Francisco, believe me there are as many opinions of our Queen's true nature as there are people in her Court. Some find her smile warm and frequent, some find it icy; some say she is pious and devout, some say fanatic; some say her pride comes from lofty nobility, some label it power-seeking vanity. She has been called bigoted; but there are those who deem this wisdom, and those who deem it calamity." Doña María shrugged and used her fan to create a cooling breeze on her face. "But I can tell you one certainty that all agree on, that she is just, to a fault. She protects the humblest in her kingdom as well as her dearest friends."

  Doña María threw back her head and laughed, forgetting her bad teeth. "Oh, let me tell you, for I was there when it happened. Once, just after she had taken the Crown, we traveled through a village where they were holding a competition for the post of town crier, and the Queen, invited to listen, noted which humble man really had the bigger voice and then recommended him to the Alcalde. Since this was not the mayor's favorite, for in so small a place he surely wished to reward some brother or cousin with the post, you should have seen his face when there was naught for it but to comply with the Queen's justly arrived at conclusion." Laughter at the official's sour smile suffused her face.

  "The thing is, my dear," Doña María became more sober, "never lose confidence, n
either in yourself or in God." She saw the cockiness seeking to come back into his blue eyes. "Our faith in you is unshakable. Francisco de Mendoza is, after all, a most trained and polished gentleman." She dropped her chin, so that her eyes looked up at him from their network of tiny lines with a meaningful stare, and he knew she was silently adding, "So, too, is Francisco de Venegas."

  "I thank you, my lady. I shall endeavor to be worthy of your faith. I thank you for your kind words." Her staunch encouragement helping him to shake off some of the anxiety which had suddenly assailed him, Francho gave her a grateful smile and a smart salute, then spurred his horse into a gallop to ride in advance of the party, picking up Von Gormach as he passed him.

  Pupil and tutor galloped carefree through fields suddenly grown rockier and humped and jagged as they approached Toledo from its riverless north. "Look at me," Francho called in his mind to the laboring peasants in the field. "Look at my fast courser, my clothes, my escort! Do you know who I am? I am Francho, the cutpurse, the alley rat, and I shall soon stand before your exalted rulers. Do you believe it? Ha-yah!" Ebulliently he urged his speeding horse on, and the fresh wind blew away the rest of his unease.

  Chapter 8

  The gray towers and battlements which were Toledo sat upon a height above the black torrent of the Tagus River and rose as a sudden shock from the relatively flat plains around. Topping the city's hoary medieval walls a hodgepodge of drab, crammed together buildings climbed up the cliffs toward the spires of the soaring cathedral. But even a city of such somber and serious mien could not take the edge off the pageantry of a royal arrival.

  The trumpets' clarion blares rang out loud and clear, the drums rattled, and a forest of banners and pennants flashed their vivid colors and snapped in the breeze as Los Reyes Católicos on white chargers entered Toledo by the ancient Moorish gate called Puerta de Visagra, from which they could get a good view of the lofty Moorish-built Alcazar palace, where they would reside for a month. Slowly the long and glittering procession in which Dolores rode wound its way upward through the coil of cobbled streets and plazas lined with the craning populace.

  The buildings on either side were old and thus in Moorish style, with dirty, tiled designs for decoration and arabesque grills on the windows. Some of these gray hulks were being used as convents and seminaries, and a surprising number of them were old synagogues, most with blank, boarded windows or else in use for other purposes. It seemed to Dolores as she rode through, remembering the smaller but more open and bright Madrid, that Toledo was a city of gray, brown, and black, overfull of churches and chapels and old women sitting silent before shadowed doorways. Even the people who applauded the rich cavalcade as it clopped past them displayed more curiosity than excitement.

  Luisa de Escobar glanced at the young woman who was riding by her side and thought that the Baroness de la Rocha looked particularly splendid today on her purple-and-green caparisoned horse, riding so erect on the sidesaddle, her shimmering satin cloak spread out on her mount's flanks and jeweled earrings flashing in her lobes. Luisa, who had been to Toledo before, thought she understood why her friend's usually wide smile had dwindled so small. She reached out to pat Dolores's shoulder and get her attention.

  "You are thinking how bleak this city looks, am I right, Doña Dolores? But the palaces, at least, are most gorgeous. Just think on the gala banquet Cardinal Mendoza has announced for our stay and pay no attention to Toledo."

  "But what ails these people that they are so glum?" Dolores questioned the round-faced little Countess, whose sharp eyes never missed much.

  "My father told me that Toledo has staged so many bloody purges to rid itself of the stamp of Jew and Moor that the people have become mystics in their constant battle against the Anti-Christs. In fact the Queen received reports that the city just last month put to the flame fifty blasphemers at one time and that the air hung black with smoke and ash for hours afterward." She shrugged her plump, velvet-covered shoulders. "Such zealousness, I suppose, makes no cause for gaiety."

  Just then they entered a large plaza, where an unusually large gallows held five swinging miscreants. Even the children throwing rocks at the swaying bodies had small enthusiasm, and the remains of the crowd who had just witnessed the executions now turned to the spectacle of the royal arrival with little chatter or comment to enliven their bows of welcome. Dolores suppressed a shudder and averted her eyes from the purple-faced, bulging-eyed corpses twisting in the breeze as she rode by and swallowed hard to quell the surge of nausea that assailed her. The rope had taken her father, after all, and avoid the thought as she might, it could also take her if her masquerade were ever discovered. The possibility was so remote it seldom worried her, but the fear was deep inside nevertheless and flashed to the surface at any sight or sound of fatal justice being meted out.

  With a forced brightness she turned to Luisa. "You are right, doña. Who cares about this dour city?"

  Luisa showed her jumbled teeth in an amiable smile. "Have you thought on which gown you will wear to the fiesta?"

  Dolores neck-reined her horse so as not to crowd another of the Queen's large retinue of ladies riding before her. "Sí, but it depends on which shade Her Majesty chooses since we cannot wear the same color. Still, I pray she does not choose argent for that is my newest gown and quite in the Italian mode— with a very enticing bosom." She chuckled and winked at Luisa, whose smile broadened.

  "Well, the Queen never wears purple so I shall wear my purple and gold brocade with the five slashes on each sleeve and gold welting at the waist. Then I shall be in the Italian style too, and if my corsage is not as low as yours there is still much more of me to fill the space allotted." Luisa laughed, then straightened her slumping back and slid her eyes sideways. "Do you think the commanders bringing down the military levies from the north will reach Toledo in time for the Cardinal's party?"

  Dolores suppressed a smile. "I would hope so," she replied. "We could hardly have a splendid evening without the charming Count of Cifuentes or the Marquis of Villena or the elegant Count of Tendilla..."

  "Or the chivalrous Duke of Medina-Sidonia?" Luisa prompted, hoping for a confidence.

  "Yes, and his son, Felipe de Guzman," Dolores continued smoothly, although it made her laugh inside at how avidly everyone sought to confirm what they thought they already knew: that the powerful Medina-Sidonia not only had introduced the obscure but beauteous Baroness de la Rocha to Court and wangled her a good place among the Queen's younger attendants, but was her lover as well. Although the demeanor between the Duke and the young woman he sponsored had been most decorous the past winter in Madrid, the gossips of the Court were quick to note the Duke's proprietary attitude toward this orphaned daughter of an old friend and the Duchess's silent sourness in the face of this newest rival.

  Dolores had no wish to allay the whisperings and speculations. As his suspected mistress the Duke's stature at Court rubbed off on her, so that even though her title had little importance she had been treated with politeness and acceptance from the moment she arrived in Madrid with Medina-Sidonia's entourage. She was, after all, totally alone in the world. Nothing but luck and her wits had raised her so high from the seamy inn where she was born. Sometimes she had nightmares about running naked from a jeering crowd, her fine clothes ripped off and trampled in the mud, her jewels crushed, the back of everyone she knew turned against her. It was because of these fears that the security of her arrangement with Enrique de Guzman suited her very well.

  The silly María Padilla, in a cloak trimmed with gray squirrel tails tied with satin bows and a rolled turban wider than any of the other women near her, urged her mount in between them as the street winding up to the Alcazar widened. She had overheard some of their conversation and wanted to be included. "Tell me, is it true, I heard Doña Beatrix mention that the Count of Tendilla is at last bringing his bastard to Court to be presented here in Toledo?" Her twittering voice turned into a giggle. "I also heard Leonora de Zuniga say that her ne
w cousin is very, very handsome."

  "You seem to hear so much. You must be blessed with ears sharp as a bat's." Luisa sniffed.

  Undaunted, María continued, "These miserable wars carry off so many of our gallants every year; I fair cried when the Viscount Coruna and that sweet Luis Manta Alonza never returned alive from Ronda last summer. A new caballero is always welcome. Don't you think, Doña Dolores?"

  Dolores had pulled her heart back from its sudden lurch. "Especially if he is handsome," she managed to agree sociably, in spite of the drying of her mouth. So. Finally she would know if the dismissed guard had spoken the truth to her so long ago in Ciudad Real or if her wild dreams were stupid. She had already been presented to the Count of Tendilla in Madrid, and now and then when they were thrown together in a group she chatted briefly and pleasantly with him. He was fascinating, she thought, with dark eyes inviolate to scrutiny and a certain inner tension which in spite of his reserve cast an aura of mystery about him that held strong appeal for women. But there had been no son with him in Madrid. Now it seemed as if there would be one in Toledo.

  And what if her surmise about Francho was wrong, would it matter? She had already cast the dice, her path was chosen for good or ill. She paid little attention to the conversation around her as she rode straight ahead, ignoring the fluttering feeling in her stomach. But for a tiny moment she closed her eyes and prayed she would not remain altogether alone amidst the swirl and intrigue of the Spanish Court.

  ***

  On Fridays Their Catholic Majesties held regular audience for any subject who wished to claim their ears as they sat enthroned upon a multicolored tile dais with the arms of Leon and Castile embroidered on gold damascened draperies behind them. The huge, Moorish-arched great hall of the Alcazar was filled with chatting, strolling hidalgos and their ladies, with clerics of every rank and order, and wealthy bourgeoisie, and through their numbers threaded liveried pages and lackeys bearing messages. Some conversed in small groups, some talked privately in tete-a-tete, many formed an audience before the dais to see and be seen, to view the proceedings and hear what news a stream of couriers delivered.