No! Where was her mind? Her long lashes fluttered as her eyes moved in swift caress over the green velvet curtains and the sturdy bed posters holding them up, and glided over her other furnishings and the tooled leather clothes chests on the floor beyond. Dios mío, there wasn't any Dolores the pickpocket. Now she would come before him as an honored lady of the Queen's train! She was Dolores Ganavet, the Baroness de la Rocha, as luxuriously attired as he, with a recognized coat-of-arms and an estate, and manners just as fine. What was there for him to despise?
The tension flowed out of her body and her lips curved upward again. She couldn't think the man had gone that far from the boy. Her eyes had taken in his same old swagger, however subdued, and caught the flash of his quick grin toward di Lido as he rejoined the throng in the audience hall. She was familiar with this jaunty gallant under the brocades and velvets, and he would be overjoyed to see her.
She must plan carefully, this would be a momentous meeting. A thrill coursed through her as she imagined his shock when he realized who she was. But there was so little privacy in the crowded world of privilege revolving about the Throne. It would have to be at a time when most members of the Court were distracted, and of course when she was looking her very best. Like the night of the Cardinal's grand fiesta, to be held in the middle of the Court's sojourn in Toledo? Could she wait a week? Although there were entertainments almost every night, musicians playing, poets declaiming, balladeers and magicians, and games of checkers and cards, the special banquet would be attended by everybody, and in the Cardinal's vast mansion there surely would be some remote and quiet place to talk. Yes. It would be worth waiting for. She would just have to be careful, avoid crossing his path, and keep turned away from his glance.
She savored the anticipation and the suspense. She was also flirting, like a fighter in the bullring waving his red cloth, with a tiny threat of danger which she felt but could not interpret.
Abruptly she sprang up from the bed and ran over the red tiles to one of her chests. Opening it she plunged in her hand and felt about, fruitlessly for a while, overturning layer after layer of clothing and objects, but finally her fingers closed on a ribbon-tied packet and her frown cleared. Yes, there it was. She heaved a sigh of happy relief. This was going to be fun.
***
In the Monarchs' wake as they descended the dais and made a stately progress through the aisle which people opened for them lumbered a rotund man, his lumpy nose canted, his mouth turned down as if he smelled something bad, but the plume in his hat was more gorgeous than any other in the room. The sight of the Count of Haro still narrowed Francho's eyes.
Tendilla laid a hand on Francho's arm. "Francisco. Take care. I advise you to let the past be the past. Haro's influence with Their Majesties is enormous. Antagonizing him will only gain you an enemy to oppose your future petition." His voice was low but came through with stern clarity.
"Sí, my lord, I understand. I will comply, you have my word." Francho answered slowly, but never taking his eyes from the man who had betrayed Juan de Venegas. "Nonetheless, I detest him."
Tendilla nodded, but his stern black eyes continued to rivet his protege. "To hate is your privilege—as long as no sign of it shows. Such indulgence could cost you dear."
A page appeared at the Count's elbow to summon him to a council meeting, and the warning tone shifted smoothly. "In any case, Francisco, convey my excuses to my illustrious brother the Cardinal, when you return to his residence. However, I am confident you will represent me at his table with all distinction. Your debut is over; now take your place as a courtier." With a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth, Tendilla turned on his heel and strode off through the dispersing assembly.
For a moment Francho's gaze followed the imperious back as it disappeared through an oriental-arched portal. "If one could have affection for so reserved a man I suppose that I do," Francho admitted to himself, wryly. The Count had found him, helped him, molded him, and was trying for his future. Like a father. Francho knew he would always be loyal to him.
Di Lido, finally rid of some stout and overweening duchess who insisted on burdening his ear, now turned smiling to Francho again, but in a moment was staring over his shoulder across the great hall, his mouth pinched as if there were offal on his tongue. "There walks that evil blight, Torquemada," he grated. Francho tried to swing about, but the little Italian darted a restraining hand on his arm and then performed a subtle maneuver so that it was not obvious Francho's position had shifted. What he saw was a small knot of bent-headed clerics walking slowly to the egress, led by a heavy-set Dominican in snowy white robes whose meekly folded hands contrasted strongly with the hard face and burning eyes peering from under the humble cowl.
No other identification was needed. In a mere handful of years Frey Tomas de Torquemada, the Inquisitor-General, had already sent thousands of heretics and blasphemers into the searing flames, and it was plain that this was only the beginning of his holy war. Di Lido put up a discreet hand to shield his lips, although there was no chance the man could hear him. "They say he's so fearful of assassination he keeps a unicorn's horn to neutralize any poison in his food. A useless precaution. Superstition will not save him from answering to his Maker for all the tortured and maimed innocents his fanaticism has claimed."
Mesmerized like a fledgling bird before a snake, Francho could not draw his eyes away from the jowled face with its heavy shadow of dark beard. Even at Mondejar word had come of the dread autos-da-fe in Valencia and Burgos, where hundreds of coerced penitants in tall, pointed hats had stumbled in procession toward the ghastly poles and pyres that would purify their souls and provide fine entertainment for the citizenry.
"Never allow the glance of that Satan to fall directly or too often upon you, Francisco. He takes umbrage at certain faces and assigns sins to them of which they may be innocent."
Francho grimaced. "But—I do not understand, Maestro, how it is that the Queen, who is revered for her justice and benevolence, countenances his excesses?"
Di Lido answered with a soft snort. "Countenance those mass murders? Do not be naive, ignorant youth. Her piety is such that she condones them."
The sauntering approach of some young gentlemen, whose eyes were friendly yet measuring of the new buck in their arena, cut short the subject. It was not until later, having left the Alcazar and ridden some streets below the palace's lofty perch, and while they mounted together the marble steps of the Cardinal's residence, that Francho hesitated, frowning. "But the Queen... Tell me, Maestro, does not the Church advise that for the protection and advancement of the Faith all means are proper?"
Di Lido's eyes flashed with the intellectual's hatred of twisted truths. "Is it our sacred duty to commit crime in the name of God, do you mean?" But then his breath was expelled in a weary sigh and the narrow shoulders folded in on themselves. "I cannot think so, Francisco. I cannot forget the words of Our Saviour to his overzealous disciples: 'Ye know not what manner of spirit you are of. The Son of Man is not come to destroy men's lives, but to save them!' He would not save them by painfully breaking their bones and then turning them to ashes."
Noting Francho's disturbed expression, he added, "The fact I have mentioned, of the extent of the needless torture, is not general knowledge; the Holy Office cloaks its activities in secrecy and silence. As your teacher I only feel that I must inform you so that you may carefully consider such actions. But carefully. And in silence too."
They fell quiet as they continued up the broad entrance stair, and in a moment di Lido was sufficiently calm so that when they entered the ebb and flow of visitors waiting in the great hall hoping for audience with Cardinal Mendoza he had quite recovered his urbane, elegant self.
***
After the cold Gothic starkness of Mondejar the worldly opulence surrounding Pedro Gonzalez de Mendoza, Grand Cardinal of Spain, put Francho in mind of a pot of clover honey instead of a vinegar jug. The prelate's huge establishment, the tremendous numbers of re
tainers and soldiers he maintained, the magnificence of his furnishings and objets d'art, and the nightly feasts arrayed on gold plates on his table kept Francho in a perpetually awed state. The Cardinal, who resembled Don Iñigo only about the sharp-honed eyes and thin mouth, had already sired two children by two different noblewomen and would, no doubt, produce several more, for he was known to be a man of lusty appetites and followed the Holy Gospel "cum grano salis." Yet he was highly respected throughout Europe as a capable primary of the Church and in fact gave precedence of authority only to the Pope, Innocent VIII. He also carried tremendous weight with Los Reyes Católicos, for he served as a brilliant tactician in their power balance with the Holy See. He was, in fact, sometimes referred to as the "third monarch of Spain."
When they had first arrived, as Francho genuflected and kissed the great amethyst ring extended to him, he had glimpsed the red-robed Cardinal winking cozily over his head at Tendilla, pleased that his austere younger brother, unfortunately married to a barren, addled woman who had been sequestered for years, had had the foresight to impregnate a mistress with this handsome, promising son. When the Cardinal inquired whether Francho had any leaning toward a religious vocation, the hint was not lost upon Tendilla. "He was offering, of course, to further any plans I might have to place you in a politically strategic church position," the Count told Francho later. "A sinecure not to be sneezed at, certainly. But not strategic enough." None of which tepid water served to extinguish Francho's exhilaration at claiming the Grand Cardinal of Spain as his uncle.
***
Leonora was driving her kinsman to distraction. When Francisco de Mendoza's group had arrived at the Cardinal's palace where they were to reside, she had been eagerly waiting to greet her mother with hugs and kisses, but also, Francho would have wagered his life on it, to blush and give him her hand in greeting too. In fact, he could not let go of her soft hand as she looked up at him through her lashes, drowning him in sunlit pools of amber brown.
She had to excuse herself very soon after to resume her duties with the Infanta Isabel, but threw him so expressive and warm a glance over her shoulder as he handed her into her litter that he had to swallow hard and keep his booted feet from rising several ells off the ground.
Yet for all the good this promising arrival meeting did him he might have remained at Mondejar. Leonora, as all new brooms, was so busy as one of the Infanta's dressers and companions that a passing, dimpled smile and the new French affectation of a wiggling wave of the fingers was all the blond charmer could spare her brooding admirer. Beside the fact that the droopy, skinny young Princess was often indisposed and in need of coddling, the Infanta Isabel had also been taken with her new lady and liked her about. So Francho found small opportunity to draw Leonora away from the gay group of young nobility always surrounding the Princess. Even the afternoon of his presentation to Their Majesties had been marred by a quick note from Leonora saying the Princess had a bellyache and she could not leave her post to be there.
However, a surprising—to him—number of ladies, young and older, did seek his attention and coquetted and flirted openly. Yet, except for his passing appreciation of the prettiest ones, they were little comfort. He wanted Leonora to look at him so, Leonora to obliquely suggest a walk in the palace gardens, Leonora to waft the scent of chypre under his nose, Leonora, his dazzling and dimpled delight....
As the full and fascinating days in Toledo followed each other he worked off his frustration with physical competition, having been immediately challenged by his curious, aggressive peers and hesitating not a moment to don armor and in the arena match his skill and virility against the bluest bloods of Spain. Von Gormach had trained him to an exacting level; his rushing lance unseated three of their best champions before he himself was thrown from his charger to land in a bruising crash of steel plate. His almost nonchalant prowess and strength with the lance and the sword left no question of acceptance into this bold circle of knights, and he took easily to their banter and their staglike rivalries. These vigorous and headstrong men were flexing their muscles, primed and ready to head south for the seasonal attacks against the detested Moors, and so was he.
A few nights after his arrival in Toledo he had attended Tendilla, di Lido, and a bemused Bishop of Talavera in a chamber in a little-used wing of the Cardinal's palace, and there he held them rapt for two hours with his mastery of the lute and the guembri and his rich-voiced delivery of a repertoire of ballads. Further, he had to grin as even Tendilla's face mirrored admiration at his complex conversation with Ebarra in perfectly accented Arabic. But Tendilla and Talavera were agreed that the time was still distant when his special talents would be needed to accomplish the miracle they sought. In return they also agreed that now was certainly propitious for him to join the army being sent to attack the stronghold of Baza in May. The difference to him was only one of degree. He was pawing like a bull to bring his prowess to the battlefield, to blood his sword. But he solemnly promised to continue as well the practice of music and Arabic, and Tendilla presented to him the willing Esteban Ebarra as an equerry.
***
Dolores knew her excitement was causing her to look flushed, but she couldn't help it. She was always thrilled with the excesses of dress and glitter of the peacock nobility, and their noise and laughter and the mountains of food. The vast hall was ablaze with the light of thousands of tapers in standing candelabra around the tapestried walls and fat candles suspended from the painted ceilings in great iron chandeliers. The banquet tables were arranged in a great U-shape, with the Cardinal, his rulers, and his honored guests at the head on a dais. Big, square banners displaying the colors and insignias of all the religious orders of Europe hung in a forest overhead. The tables, covered with red damask, were so long and so crowded with several hundred guests seated on both sides of them that the army of liveried valets serving up myriad platters and pouring drink had scarce room to squeeze their jewel-decorated ewers between shoulders.
On the same side of the table but quite a distance down from her, Dolores had glimpsed Francho eating with Leonora de Zuniga, Antonio de la Cueva, and others of the Infanta's train; luckily they had not been assigned closer to her or opposite, where he might have been able to see her, even though the tables opposite were across a space almost wide enough for a tourney field.
Quick glimpse or not, she had still admired his appearance as he stood waiting for Leonora to seat herself, the very picture of the bravura courtier in a rich blue velvet surcoat which swung from his broad shoulders to barely below his hips and exhibited almost all of the particolored blue-and-white hosen that molded his strong legs and firm haunches. An orange felt hat with a jeweled ostrich plume was slanted dashingly on the black hair, which curled softly to the high collar of his doublet. He was elegant, and his confident stance and flash of white teeth bore this out.
Dolores thought it was sickening the way he devoured the little Zuniga with his eyes, all done up as she was in gold brocade and a high toque veiled in floating gold chiffon. In any case, she hoped that the intrusive competition of the Count of Perens, who was sitting on Leonora's other hand, would allow a minute when her message could be discreetly delivered to Tendilla's son.
The Duke, next to her, looked down his crooked nose and with his pinky jiggled her ringed hand lying on the table. "Well, Baroness, what manner of reverie do you entertain to take you so far away from this clamorous company?"
"My lord? Oh, I have no idea what I was thinking. Just a momentary lapse. In truth, I have never attended such a splendid occasion, it quite takes my breath away."
He pushed a goblet brimming with wine toward her and inserted it in her hand. "Then drink up, my lady, for the evening is very young. Come, Aphrodite, drink with me," he challenged her, bitterness plain behind the bulbous, blinking eyes. He raised his own goblet and downed the wine in it in one draught, although he was already showing the effects of several consumed earlier. To please him she swallowed a long gulp of her own wine. H
e leaned his shoulder toward her and spoke intimately in her ear, although he did not look directly at her.
"Shall I tell you, Doña Dolores, you take my breath away this evening? Your radiance captivates me; you are like a rosy peach whose dewy flesh tantalizes one to take a bite. And your eyes... so luminous, those gray orbs, so magnetic..." There was a certain tightness under his casual drawl. "But I've told you this before. I hope I do not bore you."
Dolores slid a glance up at him through her sooty lashes and favored him with a brilliant smile. "Dear Don Enrique, no woman can ever hear enough of such flattery. We see ourselves only through the eyes of the distinguished gentlemen who admire us."
In answer the Duke pointed with his heavy chin. "Regard. The Ambassador from Lombardy sits opposite, on your left. He cannot take his eyes from you."
"Does that distress you, my lord?" She looked over at the chain-bedecked grayhead who was gazing brightly at her and nodded graciously, returning the man's smile.
"No. It is your due, after all, and who would prevent the chill of blood from worshipping the sun? But I sometimes think the Moors brilliant to hide their women behind veils."
She put a cozening hand on his heavily embroidered, slashed sleeve. "But everyone knows that though my eyes may on occasion flirt, my interest lies wholely with you, Don Enrique."
"Interest? Interests, doña. That says it more accurately."
"Why are you wroth with me, my lord? Do I not keep to the letter of our agreement?"
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