Hart, Mallory Dorn

by Jasmine on the Wind

  The feeble lamp behind Leonora misted her hair with a spun-gold halo and cast the shadow of her lashes upon her chaste, soft cheeks. He stood up. She raised her head and regarded him as he stood, erect and strong, his heart in his eyes. She rose too. She did not smile. There was a faint veil across her gaze, accusation he thought, or disappointment. But the expression upon her face became soft and tender and told him he had won.

  "Sir. You are unfair. You ask more patience than a woman should have. It would seem unclever for me to choose to join my life with yours. But—I will marry no other. There is none I would have for a husband but you, Francisco. And so I will wait—for as long as I must...."

  He smothered the rest of her words in a rough, ecstatic hug, pressing her head against his shoulder in a possessive, protective gesture more eloquent of his feelings than a kiss or caress, telling her with all the strength of his arms the joy she had given him. And she clung to him the same wordless, needing way.

  Muffled against his shoulder she said, "But why don't you inquire what may be Tendilla's plans of Pietro di Lido? He is the Count's closest friend and confidant. He knows Don Iñigo's mind...." She pulled back her head and her look was coaxing, almost arch.

  He took her face between tender hands and brought his mouth down on hers, stopping her questions with a melting kiss.

  Chapter 11

  "If Your Majesty will give me leave, I have promised to attend a very sick gentleman whom I discovered in the field hospital, a former member of my father's household. He would be grievous disappointed should I not come."

  "Yes. Indeed, doña, you may go. Such caring duty is valorous; God will reward you." Isabella looked up from the pillow cover she was embroidering for her son and cast a much more dispassionate regard over her young lady-in-waiting than she felt. She had earlier been surprised at the Baroness de la Rocha's display of backbone by entering the malodorous, horrible, and pitiful atmosphere of the war hospital, thereby showing up most of her squeamish ladies, this damsel of an ancient but withdrawn family. Isabella had to admit to herself she had not been overly warm in her initial reception of the girl, taking her into the intimate royal presence as a duty-favor granted a powerful and influential lord. In fact, to look at the young woman one would dismiss her as needing to offer the world no more than that radiant complexion and those exotic eyes. But it was soon apparent that Doña Dolores Ganavet was also intelligent and had an agile wit. Isabella liked her. She found the Baroness a lively addition to her circle of ladies, most of whom were of sterling character but often boring.

  Now some of the ladies surrounding the Queen like a circle of flowers looked up from their embroidery to wonder at this paragon who would brave the field hospital again, a few pursing their lips at so obvious and pushy a way of impressing the Queen. Others simply cocked an ear for a moment and then went on with their chatter and gossip, which to them was more interesting.

  Dolores's friend, Luisa, Countess of Zafra, stretching her back by the window overlooking the barren little court where the Queen took the air privately, noted with concern, "The sky is very threatening, Doña Dolores; it will soon rain."

  Dolores smiled her thanks. "The sky has looked like that for days and it hasn't rained. And should it, I'll get a little wet, that's all." She shrugged one shoulder unconcernedly.

  "Go then," the Queen nodded, "and I hope you find your gentleman faring better. But do not forget this evening's competitions. You have promised to vanquish the Duchess here at checkers, and that I should be interested to see." She glanced at Beatrix de Boabdilla and winked, for her dear friend was the most clever player at the gameboard among all her women.

  "I will not forget, my Queen, although it comes to me I might have been too hasty in my challenge," Dolores answered with a short, rueful laugh.

  The co-ruler of Spain, a woman withal, stilled a quick pang of jealousy at the tender seventeen years that lent so lambent a glow to the girl's beauty.

  "I will withdraw now, Madam," Dolores murmured, and backed away with a brief curtsey.

  Engracia, sitting unobtrusively at the lower end of the room and holding Dolores's plainest wrap, separated herself from the group of dueñas. She took her mistress's embroidery and helped her don the cloak. Pulling up the hood, Dolores led the way to the nearby Queen's Portal, where a hostler stood ready with her small mare already saddled and waiting at a mounting step. But before she allowed the man to help her sit her sidesaddle, she patted her companion's wrinkled face. "Don't worry so, Engracia, I go only to the infirmary. I will be fine. I am in the bosom of this busy camp, what could happen to me?" She fished in her purse. "Here is a coin. Beg yourself a little cake from the kitchens." Engracia smiled, gap-toothed, but her brow still wrinkled.

  Dolores guided her horse along the dirt street leading to the hospital. She smiled back primly at the mounted gentlemen who greeted her as they threaded their way through the stream of soldiers and civilians going about their various affairs in this wooden city, and she even waved gaily at the bowing purveyor of furs, to whom she was in debt, standing at the doorway of his knocked-together log establishment toward the edge of camp. But she was upset.

  What could happen to me? she thought grimly as her horse drew her closer to the noxious building (where in truth she dreaded to go). She could be recognized, called out, shown to be an imposter, that's what. And the hangman could happen to her, because she went to visit not a fictitious gentleman, vassal to the old Baron, but big Alfredo from the inn at Ciudad Real, formerly her father's hulking bulwark and partner, and her old mentor in the fine art of jewelry clipping. He lay now barely alive, his eyes and half his head swathed in dirty bandages. But she had recognized him anyhow during the Queen's brief tour of the facility and had suffered her heart going up in fright until she realized he could not see her. He was blinded, and from the wrappings she also surmised the poor man's jaw or face was broken on one side.

  She had always counted him either imprisoned or hung by the Hermandad like her father and that horrible boy. But obviously he had gotten away by insinuating himself into the levies for the army that were marched south from Ciudad Real each year. As her first panic subsided pity took its place. She had stared in misery at the terribly wounded man propped on a heap of straw. He had been kind to her when she was little, and what harm could he do her now? Only a shallow movement of that big chest had showed he even lived. Moved by compassion to see his plight, she made a vow to return and see if she could ease his existence. And so in a drawstring bag hanging from her saddle was a special curing ointment for the eyes which she had purchased from the Queen's chemist, clean cloth for bandages, and a stoppered flask of warm beef broth.

  She put the spiced pomander ball which swung from her belt to her nose as her horse clopped across the wooden bridge toward the grim building. A disheveled and surprised guard at the portal helped her dismount carrying her drawstring bag and deferently pushed open the heavy door for her to enter. Dread assailed her. She almost turned about to flee the long, dim, and windowless space that was surely an intimation of Hell. It was certainly obvious that

  two days earlier chirurgeons and attendants had made special prettying efforts for the Queen's visit, sweeping up the refuse, keeping the overcrowded room as calm as possible, certainly muffling the cries of the worst sufferers.

  Now the tormented sounds of men in pain shriveled her ears. The horrible smell of vomit and excrement and blood gagged her, the sight of such hopelessly maimed beings minus arms, legs, swathed in red and pus-filled wrappings, turned her faint. But she clenched her teeth and pressed her lips together until they turned white, trying not to breathe in the foul air. Big 'Fredo was among these unluckiest of humans, and she owed him at least a last goodbye and some share of her own good fortune, however minute. Quickly looking away as two attendants hurried by her with a wooden tub slopping bloody water with something else red and horrid floating in it, she collared a hobbling, dirty crone and pointed in the direction she remembered 'Fredo
to be. The toothless one nodded at the coin Dolores shoved into her hand and led her along a narrow aisle, Dolores vainly trying to hold her skirts and cloak away from the vile floor and from brushing the filthy pallets on either side. She kept up her hood to block out the surroundings and began to pray very hard under her breath to shut out the hoarse calls for help and mercy from all sides. Her whole being was revolted, but she was even more afraid that if she did not make this visit of pity and succor, God might turn His eyes away from her.

  She held the crone with her when she reached 'Fredo. Money would persuade the woman to apply the ointment to his eyes and to change the bandages. More money and a drop of honesty might move the old thing to give him special care until he died, for she could see now that he could not ingest more than a trickle of liquid through one side of his mouth. He could not see her, but he could hear, she thought. She knelt by his side and reached for one big and dirty hand to hold between hers. He jerked it away weakly, moving his head, a moan escaping his rigid lips. But she reached for his hand again, patting it to soothe him, gently rubbing the coarsened flesh, hoping he could feel her sympathy. She leaned over toward the one unbandaged, hairy ear, flinching at the lice she could see in his hair, and whispered to him, with a strange sort of relief, who she was, Papa el Mono's Dolores.

  ***

  She stumbled from the field hospital so sickened at the pit of her stomach that she lurched past the man who held her horse and ran blindly to a corner of the building where, ignoring the curious stares of attendants and ambulant wounded who lounged outside the structure, she simply held on to the wood and retched with dry heaves until the tears ran down her cheeks. She had to get away from the noxious infirmary. She had to get out, she needed to run and run from the misery that was called life and the frightful pain man inflicted upon man, and the toll of the endless wars in which God, in his mystery, allowed men to break themselves. She stumbled back to the portal.

  The guard helped her to mount, and she kicked up her mare, knowing only that she wanted to ride, to ride free and breathe free as she had learned to do at Torrejoncillo whenever the depression of her spirits became too much to bear. She made for the northern gate, which was the nearest, believing the guards would let her pass, for yesterday a surrender delegation had arrived from Baza and the desperate Moorish sorties were finished. But when she hauled up before the massive timber gate the soldiers on duty quickly lowered their pikes to bar her way. An officer approached, curious about the cloak-muffled lady on her caparisoned Arabian mare.

  "Please allow me to pass the gates, sergeant. I must let my horse run. She gets no exercise, the poor beast." Dolores pushed back the edges of her hood and favored the man with her sweetest smile. He appreciated it, she could see from his admiring attention, but not enough to draw him away from his duty.

  "I am very sorry, my lady, but no one is allowed from camp without authorization from an authority of rank or the officiating camp commander for the week. Do you have such a paper?"

  "Why no, I didn't think it was necessary, since—"

  "Then I will not be able to let you through."

  "But I must get out, just for a short ride. It is not dangerous. The men on the ramparts will be able to watch out for me," she pleaded.

  The sergeant's eyes showed mild suspicion. "And what is so attractive out there in the cold that you must ride from the camp?"

  She held back her frustration, but barely. "Nothing. I don't know what you are implying. Sergeant, I have just come from the infirmary and I am sickened. I must get some air into my lungs. Please."

  "Plenty of air in here, my lady, and a lot safer. This is a siege camp, not a meadow for ladies to go cavorting. You are alone. Without a pass I cannot let you go." He grasped the horse's reins to turn the mare around, the pikemen and assorted loungers at the gate grinning at Dolores's discomfiture.

  "Take your hands off my reins, man, I do not need your help to turn my horse. Where is your camp captain? I will get your damned pass."

  "You needn't get snippity, lady," the soldier retorted, surprised by the young woman's huffiness, "I am only following my orders. 'Tis the Count of Tendilla commanding this week and you may find him in his quarters, if he is there. Or..." The man jutted his chin as a pointer to someone behind her, "you can bring your plea to his adjutant, Don Francisco de Mendoza, just there."

  Dolores twisted about to see Francho and several breast-plated riders heading toward her along the wall of the stockade. Francho rode cloaked, but without cuirass or hat, the wind ruffling his dark curls across his forehead.

  "What goes on here, Nunez?" he inquired pleasantly as he trotted up, glancing sideways at Dolores.

  "The lady wishes to ride out, señor, but she has no authorization to leave the camp. I have told her that I cannot let her pass."

  Dolores met the inquiring blue eyes with a lifted chin. "Please, Fr—Don Francisco, I merely need to ride out a short distance and back again. I have just come from the Queen's hospital where I attended a man who is mortally wounded, dying. I am very sorely grieved, and suffocated by that terrible place. I must... I just want to get some air into my lungs and the stink off my clothes." She had not intended to wind up sounding like a supplicant, but with her pleading tone so she had.

  Under the familiar half-frown he studied her face. A look of concern crossed his features. "You look quite pale, doña."

  "I think—it was too much for me," she admitted, and her back slumped of its own accord.

  Francho turned toward the other men in his complement. "Don Diego, ride on with the others, for there is only the small northwest gate left to report." The fellow nodded. "Check the moorings of the stockade bridge over the stream where the rains have been eating away at the banks. We want no accidents. I'll return in an hour." And to the guard he said, "This lady is the Baroness de la Rocha, one of the Queen's attendants. Let her pass. I will escort her personally."

  The man saluted. "By your order, Don Francisco." And he signaled the pikemen to draw up the bar.

  As the gate opened, the wide swath of cleared ground which surrounded the camp came into view, a break which guarded against sneak attack with oil-soaked fire arrows which could cause disaster to the camp. Beyond it in the valley to the north low brush and stands of trees crept over the small hummocks that were the foothills of the dun mountains looming behind. "We shall ride to that line of trees over there, bordering the banks of the stream; do you see it?" Francho pointed to a copse about a six-minute gallop away. "That will keep us still within view of the pickets on our scaffolds."

  "Thank you, Don Francisco," Dolores murmured gratefully, lifting her head again as they jogged through the gate. "I thank you for your understanding."

  "We all need to run sometimes, doña," he rumbled. But he glanced at her with solicitude.

  The gate thumped shut behind them, and the sound acted like a draught of strong wine poured into Dolores's veins. With an unexpected rapid movement she shook off her hood, pulled off her small, tiara-shaped hat, drew out the pin that held her hair knotted, and shook free her thick and glorious hair in a gleaming auburn flood. She kicked the mare hard and the animal leaped and flew forward along the road, body stretched, neck stretched, reveling in this chance to run free as much as her mistress, who clung to the pommel of the cumbersome sidesaddle with her hair streaming out behind her and her cloak billowing, face tilted up to be cleansed and rejuvenated by the chill buffeting of air.

  She had heard a startled shout. There came the pounding of hooves behind her and she grinned. Francho's big stallion could outrun the mare easily, but her small lead was fun, and she urged her mount to greater speed. The rush of damp air was clearing her eyes and flushing the stink of the hospital from her lungs and her clothes. She swiveled her head and through the whipping of her hair saw him bearing down on her, a grin on his face too. Laughing, she faced forward again and prodded the willing animal, "Come on, Passinella, lengthen your stride, girl. For just another few moments let those t
wo males suffer our dust." She didn't care that she would never make it to the copse first. She knew only that she was away from the crowded camp and coursing through the open country, away from the sometimes stifling manners of the Court and free for a moment to be herself. And coming up fast behind her was, mirabile dictu, the insufferable, the alluring Don Francisco de Mendoza. She had not felt so atingle with excitement in a long time, and suddenly life was good again.

  Their laughter mingled as he caught up to her and they pulled both steeds back out of the wide-open dash into a more comfortable canter. He let her lead the way as they plunged off the road and toward the tangle of leafless bushes and willow and birch trees that lined the high banks of the rushing stream. This was where they were supposed to stop, but Dolores continued to canter on along the line of the copse until she found an opening and scrambled down a small hill to the stream bank where there was a sandy clearing. She pulled her horse up at the edge of the stream and allowed the beast to drink the clear burbling water.

  "This is farther than I said we should go," Francho reprimanded her as he came up beside her and let the stallion lower his head too. His face was stung as pink by the cold air as hers.