"I thought this was to be a small group of courtiers, sixty or so, for a restful month," the Duke observed dryly to Dolores as he threw his reins to a hostler and then turned to steady her down from the dismounting steps she was using.
"And so it is, if one speaks of courtiers." Dolores shrugged. "But you should know the Queen; she cannot rest for long. Before we left Seville she had arranged a convocation of abbesses from convents in the regions hereabout to attend her for a fortnight and report to her about education, for she is not satisfied that young women are being offered the subjects which would qualify them as properly educated. Her Majesty says she wishes the mothers superior to inform her, but she, of course, is going to tell them what to do." Her admiring laugh fluted out.
"The fact remains a lady need only know how to please her lord. I do not see the case for educating women beyond that." Medina-Sidonia scowled and offered his arm to help her negotiate the uneven, ancient paving stones of the bustle-filled courtyard. Dodging men and beasts and dogs, Dolores tried to hold her beige satin skirts away from the grimy stones as they made their way to the portal. "Women read that misled Christine de Pisane and begin to believe they are equal to men."
Dolores arched her brow at this. She had read and reread the infamous Treasure of the City of Ladies and often turned over in her mind Pisane's contention that women possessed as much moral strength and intellectual ability as men. "But why is such an idea abhorrent to you, my dear Duke? Don't you think it makes us more charming companions to be able to converse intelligently on worldly subjects? And surely our children will be born with greater capacity to lead and to govern if both sire and dam are—" Her sentence broke off but her mouth remained open. In turning her head she had glanced up just above the portal to the single wide balcony which broke the smoothness of the old, square tower. There several of the newly arrived nuns had gathered, standing etched against the deepening blue of the sky like great, angular birds in their starched, stiff headdresses and dark or white habits. The rest of Dolores's words were swallowed in a stunned gulp as she instantly recognized the tiny sister with the severe face who stood silently among the visitors on the balcony.
O Holy Virgin! Her mind tried but failed to deny her eyes. Her stomach turned over sickeningly and a sourness rose in her throat. So solidly had she fitted herself into the place of the Baroness de la Rocha that—as if she were the real Blanca—she had not given one thought to the fact that the directress of the Convent of the Holy Family and Santa Rosa might be one of Isabella's invitees. She heard a booming in her head, like the drums whose slow measure accompany a wretched condemned going to the executioner, and along with this dirge of doom her heart began to pound. There would be no fooling the sharp-eyed Mother Ines. If that woman saw her—and the Queen would certainly introduce her ladies to her guests—the existence of "Dolores" of Torrejoncillo would surely be ended.
Quickly Dolores lowered her head, as if watching for her footing, and with an effort willed herself to swallow her panic. The Duke had noticed nothing, embroiled as he was in following up their conversation with acerbic remarks about overly instructed women. Fighting hard against the immediate urge to bolt and hide Dolores made it seem as if she were listening. In a few moments they were sheltered below the balcony out of sight of the nuns, and entering the castle. Dolores could lift up her head and breathe again. Stopping under one of the massive stone arches of the great hall she mustered up a smile for her companion.
Crinkling the lids of one eye almost together, a habit when he was concerned, Medina-Sidonia scanned her face and said to her solicitously, "But I think you are weary, Baroness. You must rest."
"First I must see to the Queen. And then I will rest."
"Of course, doña. But I insist that you will be my partner this evening at cards. Even if that old rascal La Corunna has wheedled you first. Will you honor me?"
Heart still pounding, she couldn't get away rapidly enough. "Gladly, my lord. I look forward to it," she promised hastily. She tried not to pull her hand from his grasp as he lingeringly kissed it, but she was fearful any minute the Abbess would appear and she would not be able to dodge her. However, a moment later, sparing him a last, falsely bright smile, she was able to withdraw and went hurrying toward the door which would take her to her chamber.
"Lord help us, my lady, what is it?" Engracia cried, startled out of her nodding doze in a chair as Dolores swept into the room like a maelstrom, banging the door, sweeping off her hat and muttering, "Madre mía, madre mía!"
"Ask no questions, Engracia, none at all. Just do what I tell you to do. See my laundry is collected. Pull out a good traveling gown and hat, and see my chests are completely packed, and your things as well. We must leave here by dawn tomorrow, without fail."
"Cielos! But where do we go? And in such haste? What has happened, the Holy Virgin preserve us?" The servitor gaped as she watched her mistress pace the room in agitation, biting on her thumbnail.
Where were they to go? That was a good question. What was not in question was that her only hope of escaping discovery as an imposter was to leave at once, to vanish into thin air, to flee. Ah—
Suddenly a measure of calm descended upon her. Here was something she knew, running from danger. One needed speed and surprise and nerve, all of which she had on her side until morning at least. Her mind began to function again, an emerging plan began drawing off the fever of panic. She could deal with this emergency. Was she not Papa el Mono's Dolores, after all, not the protected, helpless lady she pretended? In fact, she could face this active danger with a cooler composure than her earlier reaction to a grandee of the realm who had asked for her hand in marriage.
"The laundry, the laundry!" She shooed the blinking Engracia out and went to the window to watch the westering sun. Already the back of her mind had told her she could not go back to Seville for she would have no good reason to do so. Actually there was only one place she might have reason to hurry back to—Torrejoncillo, the de la Rocha ancestral estate. And the reason could be simple, the same as once before. Someone dear to her was expiring and she wished to say a last goodbye. But who could it be? Everyone knew she had no kin. An old nanny, perhaps? Ah yes, that was it, a beloved wet nurse and nanny who had raised her. She would somehow think of something to tell Engracia that would shut up her questions.
The plan of action began to take shape in her mind. She could safely go about her duties with the Queen this evening, for she was sure that the nuns, exhausted from their long journeys, would follow convention and rest and sup in their chambers. Then she would plead high indisposition as she did every twenty-eight days—as a truant if the truth were told—mainly to give herself some breathing space from attendance on the Queen since her monthlies caused her little trouble. She would leave letters for the Queen and the Duke, and Luisa too, explaining that a messenger had galloped in with news from home. And after a short stay at Torrejoncillo—for it would never do to have Don Enrique's steward report she had not been there—she could return to Seville in safety to meet the Court. The Prioress would be returning to Santa Rosa and it was not a rich convent; the woman would probably have neither the money nor the necessity to visit the Court again. The nun's face, stamped on her mind, had taken on the menacing aspect of a demon. Well, the woman's age was advanced. Maybe she would die soon.
Engracia bustled in lugging a basket of clean linen and chemises. Allowing the woman no time to ask the questions that were popping the faded eyes under the arched, scraggly brows, Dolores gave her instructions for immediate transmittal to the two men she kept as guard/valets, for them to stand ready to load the baggage mules in the small hours of the morning so they all might leave before daybreak. A hamper of food and drink needed to be prepared as well. "And all must be done as discreetly as possible and as quietly," she emphasized to the loyal serving woman. "And don't look at me like that. I promise you we are not accused criminals avoiding justice, if that's what you think."
"But where do we go in
the cold and dark morning, my lady?" Engracia cried.
"To Torrejoncillo. And I will tell you why some other time."
"Torrejoncillo? But—how do we know how to get there? It must be a month of days from here," declared the astonished and dismayed woman.
"No, it is not that far. We need only follow the road to the northwest, at an angle to the lowering sun, and when we reach Cordoba we will inquire further. Someone will know which way to send us. Now don't worry. We have good mounts and I have money. Just see that my jewel casket is well hidden among the blankets."
Dolores's strong if baseless confidence communicated itself to Engracia. The serving woman took a deep breath and raised and lowered her shoulders in acquiescence. "Torrejoncillo, is it? Well, I suppose I will be glad to see my old home again."
"Leaking roof and all?" Dolores quipped acidly, for she would not be glad. She smoothed her hair and replaced her hat, preparing to hasten to the Queen to help along with the other ladies at the royal undressing and redressing and freshening of toilette for the few hours of quiet chatter and supping in the great hall before bed. A sensation like little bugs crawled up and down her spine as she considered the small possibility the Mother Ines might be about, to be bumped into in a passage or mayhap even conversing with the Queen. Perhaps it would be safer to plead sickness even now? No, it was too soon after her obvious good health on the hunt. She would have to take her chances and pray. She realized the Queen was going to be very angry with her for running off so precipitously without permission, but hopefully Medina-Sidonia would intercede when the time came to calm the royal ire.
Leaving Engracia lifting down gowns and cloaks and garments off hooks to be folded into the chests, she opened the heavy, carved door and slipped out. She hurried toward the Queen's apartments, head high but eyes alert even as she nodded at those she encountered, on the lookout for the merest flicker of habit and veil, ready to spin about and march the other way. Her heart had begun to pound again.
***
In spite of Dolores's confidence about making her way to Cordoba—or perhaps because of it—she found herself and her small party of three riders and half a dozen baggage mules lost by noon of the next day, which was overcast and windy. Without the sun to orient them, the choices they made at several forks in the road were guided by the directions of other travelers or passing locals. But at one lonely branching they could only select what seemed the more important road of the three, one which ultimately proved to have taken them too far to the south.
Dolores learned long after that the hard-riding guard of eight armed men which an alarmed Don Enrique had sent after her as additional protection had chosen the correct road to Cordoba and then had doubled back after half a day without finding her, but finally could not fathom at which of several crossings the Baroness's party had branched off, nor could they find anyone who recalled her antelope device passing by. The men then rode back to Torredonpedro, in the end, their mission of safely escorting the Baroness de la Rocha to her destination unaccomplished.
It was not Cordoba Dolores reached the next day but Lucena, and there discovered that she would have to go even further south and out of her way to reach the road running northwest along the Genii River and through the Sierra Morena passes. But her relief at having avoided detection as an imposter was so great she did nothing more than mutter at the prospect of the extra four or five days' journeying, and at the next hostel she gave her valets a handful of coins to buy themselves extra flagons of ale in compensation.
Chapter 20
The council dissolved in an uproar over Boabdil's third and most conciliatory communication yet with their bellicose Christian Majesties. "Shameful!" cried out Yussef Abencerrage, the head of that family. "I would rather this grizzled old head be struck off than it should bow in such cowardice before a Christian dog." He shook a trembling fist at Grand Vizier Comixa, who had just revealed the content of Boabdil's feeble rejoinder to Ferdinand's threats.
Another council member jumped to his feet. "Our Sultan begs King Ferdinand to be satisfied with all he has already gained in conquest? Does one thank a disease for consuming every part of the body but the head?"
"If the King will help him keep order, Boabdil promises to rule over Granada as an obedient vassal of the Crown and offers even greater tribute than before to honor his scurrilous masters! Is that not the same thing as surrender? Why does he not just open the gates and let the Christians sit upon the throne?" sneered a richly dressed advisor upon whose silver breast medallion a cannon was engraved.
"Do we speak into the empty air when the Sultan attends us? Does Boabdil think he can ignore his council and rule as an autocrat? We have placed him upon the throne, and we can as easily put him down for such calumny!" raged an apoplectic nobleman.
Yusef Comixa stood before the clamor in silence, his face more sour and inscrutable than ever. He had known what Boabdil's latest weaseling would bring, and privately he agreed with the council. All he could do for the Sultan now was not to add his own opinion to the hostility.
A new, big voice overrode the angry babble of the thirty or forty men pressing before the beleaguered Comixa. Muza Aben Gazul, his head bristling with a spiked helmet riding the folds of his purple turban, pushed his shoulders through the frenzied group and strode to the Vizier's dais. "We have stood enough, noble Moors! Now let us give our own answer to the Christian jackals, for they do not even treat with Boabdil as a true ruler. See here, this missive has just arrived from Ferdinand, and it is addressed to me as commander of Granada's armies, and to you as council for the city. The words are not new, but his appeal to surrender is now an outright ultimatum. And I say Shaitan take the Christian King and all his evil forces! Does he think that we are old and weak that threats of invasion will make us tremble? Or that we are women, to be content with the crumbs of grace our Sultan begs?" Muza Aben's slanted black eyes flashed defiance into the upturned faces of his audience.
"If such is the enemy's opinion, who can blame him? We have waited too long upon the decision of a Sultan shuffling before the need for action. Now let us take the bit of a fiery warhorse in our own teeth and charge to the victory! Let the infidel know to his regret that a Moor is born to the spear and scimitar, nurtured upon the bolt in the bow, given the javelin in his hand at puberty. If the Christian King desires our land and our city, let him try to take it, but at his peril. For he will pay in rivers of blood, in seas of tears for every league of our ground he covets. Courage, courage and arms, in the name of Allah, my sirs, will defend us and launch us to our own victorious attacks." Fists on chain-mailed hips, booted feet planted firmly on the gleaming tiles, Muza Aben's stentorian voice radiated power and confidence. He continued:
"For my part a defender's grave in the sweet soil of Granada rather than the easiest pillow in her palaces earned by cowardice and submission!" he cried. "Let us fight, I say, let us beat our drums and gather our men, let us awake from this shameful sloth and set every man and boy to defending our walls. Draw your scimitars, my masters, and show the presumptuous Spanish dogs the deadly fangs of our ancestors. Your army is strong and prepared, your commanders ready. Only shout the name of 'war' and we shall rekindle our fighting heritage. What do you say, noble Moors?"
"War! War!" the council responded, swept away by this fiery oratory and deaf to all reason. "War! War! War!" each man shouted, and Comixa fell back a step or two to disengage from the ferment surrounding the general.
Dewlaps trembling, a wealthy merchant and erstwhile supporter of Boabdil tried to voice an objection. "We take a terrible risk with the lives of our wives and children," he cried. "A warrior's grave is not their salvation or wish. And our commerce will be ruined, utterly ruined. Consider, I pray you—" But he was drowned out.
"I say down with the Sultan; he makes us sniveling women!" a younger man hooted, and several others even began a call to depose Boabdil. But most of the dignitaries were caught up in Muza Aben's military defiance, and the only desire they bu
rned with now was to crush the enemy as in the old days of glory. Contemptuously they retracted Boabdil's conciliatory peace effort and honored the inspiring Muza Aben by giving him the right to draft their reply to Ferdinand: that they would suffer death before surrendering their city, and that all treaties and commitments between the Catholic rulers and Boabdil were hereby considered null and void.
High above the council chamber, hidden by a false grill which appeared as innocent as all the other gilt arabesques decorating the sumptuous chamber, was a small niche for the convenience of any Sultan wishing to eavesdrop on the doings of his advisors, or for the occasional Sultana who was interested in politics. The council members knew the chamber was there, although they could never tell whether or not it was occupied. But now they did not care; Boabdil's wrath was a weak thing.
As the meeting below began to disperse in a high fever of belligerence, Francho dragged his fascinated eyes away from the grill to observe the rebellion's effects upon Boabdil and Ayaxa. Ayaxa said nothing at all to her son but looked at him with hard, challenging eyes and a pressed mouth. Mutely then she turned her back and ramrod stiff stalked out to return to her apartments in the harem. Boabdil gnawed on his lip and exited silently. Francho followed him out.
But in the perfumed splendor of his private salon the Sultan vented a short, harsh laugh. "She warned me Ferdinand was not to be trusted and would never rest with mere tribute. Which, of course, I knew in my heart. She loathes me for a fool, and loathes herself for having borne me. And you, O singer of songs, she despises, for someone has told her you drip the poison of peace into my willing ear."
Hart, Mallory Dorn Page 49