Tendilla expected it would be Isabella who answered the simple farewell speech of the deposed ruler, her tact with words being greater than her consort's, but Isabella deferred to her co-monarch. And so, as the Chamberlain carried the proferred keys to him, Ferdinand's great baritone boomed out, "Your submission, O Sultan Abu Abdullah, has been timely and wise, for by this you have earned our respect and the sanctity of our solemn promise. Hear, you all gathered here, that we declare that in justice and in mercy our loyal Moslem subject shall find equality with our own."
Ferdinand handed the keys to Isabella who threw back her head and raised the gleaming gold symbols up toward the heavens for a moment of victory and silent dedication. She then passed them on to the heir of this conquered territory, the Infante.
Tendilla braced back his shoulders and took a deep breath, the green-and-white plumes waving from his helmet and affixed to the brow of his horse. Followed by a mounted squire holding the white castle and bar standard of the House of Mendoza, he rode forward before the young prince and slapped a mailed fist to his heart in salute. The Infante's pale face was alight with welcome as he handed the keys over to the new Governor of Granada, and it was this unexpected excitement from a boy who had always seemed timid before him that cracked Tendilla's poise and elicited from him a full smile. The saturnine face of Don Iñigo de Mendoza flooded with a pleasure much deeper than any realized.
The deep boom of a bombard on Granada's walls rolled across the ravines and river, and in the clear morning light tens of thousands of jubilant Christian eyes turned toward the city to catch the sun glittering from a great silver cross just raised over the Alhambra's main tower, carried in the night before by the Bishop of Salamanca and an advance group of Christian knights and men-at-arms. And, as the Prophet's crescent banners sadly descended, the red-and-yellow flag of Spain was run up to fly triumphantly beside the Cross.
Amid wild artillery booms a great shout of victory burst to the skies from the assembled army. "Santiago! Santiago! For God and for Spain!" the cries rang out, weapons and banners waving and brandished joyfully. A large company of Dominican brothers standing back from the road holding crosses and croziers and church flags began a deep Te Deum, soon joined by the fifes, flutes, and bells of the army, the whole delirious racket unquestionably penetrating into the deep recesses of Moslem homes where the followers of the Prophet had retreated to nurse their despair.
The meeting place at the mosque had been chosen carefully for it was located on a crossroad, and Boabdil's party would be able to veer away immediately to make their progress across the mountains. Boabdil's tragic gaze very briefly met Tendilla's as they moved past each other in opposite directions; the ruler into exile and disgrace, the new Governor riding proudly beside his monarchs toward the exotic, beautiful, and coveted prize of the Prophet's Granada. Nothing was conveyed in that tiny exchange of human emotion. Nothing and everything, the Count reflected—which could as easily be said for the fact of living and dying.
Chapter 31
"No, no, my lord, not so somber a costume, I pray you; something brighter, like this blue-and-gold velvet? 'Tis not a funeral, after all, but a triumph. The blue velvet with gold hosen and a feathered russet toque would be elegant, quite in the mood of the ceremony."
Francho made no objection as his erstwhile tutor di Lido instructed Ebarra to repack the brown costume into the chest of new clothes and lay out another brief doublet instead, as well as a fine lawn shirt, Francho's steel cuirass, and a short cape to fasten over one shoulder with a gold silk rope. Instead he stared bleakly out of the window at January's threatening sky. His thoughts jumped from Boabdil to Leonora, who by the time this day was over could be his, to Dolores and the note she had sent him about the terrible deaths she had witnessed—only a note, because since being reunited with the Queen's circle she mostly kept to the chamber assigned her "to recover from her arduous captivity"—and to avoid seeing him, he was sure. He did not want to think about Ali and Azahra. By the greatest will he was blocking off contemplating his complicity in their tragedy until his most vital road was fully traveled.
It was the ache of his bandaged face, perhaps, that so compressed his spirits. He put his hand up to pull listlessly at his beard before he remembered he was clean-shaven again, for over a month. No more the perfect image of a Moslem courtier, no more the acclaimed Head Musician.
"Come, my lord, the time approaches. You must dress," di Lido stirred him up. "This will be the greatest appearance of your life, and you cannot take too many pains with your toilette. Say now, did this day not seem improbable scarce eight years ago? How the time has flown! Do you remember the rivers of ale we quaffed at Mondejar to stave off the boredom? I daresay it did my liver no good nor does it still, but I am beginning to think that malt has a property which restrains the graying of hair. 'Tis a theory which will take more time to prove, of course." The fussy Italian picked up a hand mirror and critically surveyed the pomaded, scarcely streaked dark hair that rolled about his ears and was so exactly arranged under his brimless velour hat. In spite of his constant complaints about his health, di Lido seemed as wiry and fit as when Francho had first met him. In fact, for several weeks after their happy reunion the maestro had repaid Francho's hours of time spent detailing the events in Granada which di Lido wanted to include in his war chronicle by serving as dueling partner and sternly brushing up the returned hero on his swordsmanship.
"You're too early in addressing me as 'my lord,' Maestro," Francho muttered, pulling on his hosen. "I am yet only Don Francisco de Mendoza."
"Poof. What do a few hours matter, or formal ceremony? The day we rode into Granada the Queen informed Don Iñigo and you of her happy decision to reinstate you. And, to me at least, it was then you became the Marquis of Olivenza."
"The Marquis of Olivenza," Francho repeated.
Di Lido's sharp nose twitched. "Whatever ails you, Francisco? In a few hours the prize you have struggled for will be publicly conferred upon you. The rumor of your spectacular advancement is already spreading, and the Court is abuzz with conjecture. What enemies you have will soon be confounded by the honors descending upon you, and your friends will be pleased. You should be overjoyed, but instead you stare with a grim frown and seem beset by woe. 'Tis a strange way to welcome this day!" The savant peered intently at the silent Francho, sighed, and added dryly, "But I could have almost expected this, so well do I recognize your character. Look you, my young lord Venegas, let your old teacher console you. There is no kind of happiness that is pure, that hasn't been bought by someone else's tears and strife. There had to be some less than saintly measures on your part, some repercussions that others suffered, almost like the heavy travail of birth, to effect such miraculous transition from foundling to Marquis."
"I don't feel like a Marquis."
"One doesn't feel like a Marquis. One merely acts like one," di Lido snapped, out of patience. "Such childish doubt is unworthy of your position. Having so handily earned your title you should be spilling over with confidence." But di Lido's sympathetic understanding rose to the fore again. "Come, my lord Venegas. The Grand Sultan Abu Abdullah, Muza Aben, your two unfortunate young friends—will you debase their contributions, erase their worth in your life, by not at least rejoicing in your victory? Take a deep breath then and put on your conqueror's raiment."
***
Once more Francho trod across the decorative tiles of the Alhambra's resplendent Audience Hall, but now the royal dais held two high-backed throne chairs, and to the side a gilded seat for Cardinal Mendoza. He found a place among the men on a row of cushioned benches set up at the foot of the dais and reserved for those to be specially honored. The day would represent a high moment in the lives of many of the younger, outstanding heroes of the ten-year conflict, with knighthood, higher rank, or purses of gold among the honors to be conferred upon them.
The hall was brilliant and packed with the ladies and gentlemen of the Spanish Court and even, in more somber robes
and turbans, some of the high-born Moslems who had been selected to serve in civil capacities to effect smooth governmental transition. Looking along his bench Francho nodded briefly at those he knew, all the while noting that Reduan Venegas, whose troops had stood at silent and obedient attention as Los Reyes Católicos rode through the key-and-hand barbican, but who had not received exactly what he demanded, was absent from the ranks of onlookers.
Trumpets rang out and the excited chatter halted in mid-sentence, heads swiveled, and a path swept apart for a stately procession of dignitaries led by Their Majesties, the scarlet-robed cardinal, the purple-hatted archbishops, including the newest archbishop, Talavera, and a complement of chanting, pacing prelates in embroidered surplices holding aloft golden crosses. And in their midst but not to be missed in his humble cassock and rope belt like a sparrow among preening peacocks, the heavy-shouldered, omnipotent Inquisitor Torquemada, walking alone with clasped hands, pious of bearing and ruthless of face.
Francho's wound throbbed dully. He touched the smaller dressing that had been recently applied to the healing gash on the side of his face and grimaced at the memory of the agonizing searing-iron the camp chirurgeon had used to stop the bleeding. At one time he would have been vain enough to have worn a curving plume in his hat to hide the inelegant bandage, but today it didn't seem to matter.
Looking over his shoulder he searched through the near crowd for a glimpse of Leonora, but she was hidden behind the front ranks of the most privileged peerage. She was present, though; he had seen her when she entered with her mother and Felipe de Guzman, her soft, creamy blond beauty supported on the arrogant arm of a man whose eyes were constantly narrowed. She was in for a shock, his dimpled, mercenary girl, that would make the arm she clung to so proudly suddenly less than necessary to her. For he believed what she had told him that night the Queen was almost murdered: "If I could have both you and a proud rank then I would be happiest." It was something like that she had said. Well, he would let her stew in the juices of her own selfishness for a few days and then, when her regret was the deepest, he would seek her out.
He caught a glimpse of Don Enrique, Duke of Medina-Sidonia, large and bucktoothed and resplendent in satin and a diamond chain, but his lady de la Rocha was not at his side for the moment. His mouth twisted into a small, ironic smile as he wondered if it were because she considered she had nothing becoming to wear in public until her boxes arrived from Seville. He was acutely aware that only time would enable them to meet face to face with the casual aplomb the situation called for, but the sharpness of the disappointment that he felt thinking she might not be present to see his elevation seemed to him unreasonable.
The solemn chant of the Deo Gratias ended, and there was an expectant murmur from the audience which included the grand masters of Santiago, Calatrava, and Alcantara blazoned with the distinctive crosses of their orders; the craggy, disappointed, but resigned Marquis of Cadiz; the haughty Marquis of Villena; the dukes and duchesses of Albuquerque, Medina Celi and Infantado; the youthful Captain Gonsalvo de Cordoba; the Mendozas, the Pachecos, the Zunigas, the Silvas, the Cardenas; the distinguished foreign envoys, the counts, viscounts, lord justices, hidalgos, knights, and all their ladies—the spectacular secular and religious personages of the united kingdoms of Spain rustled and whispered and peered at the men who sat full of pride on the gilded benches.
A liveried herald, reading from a linen scroll, called out the names of the great war commanders, who were in the audience because their deeds had already been honored privately by their rulers, although now the herald read out ringing praises to them from a grateful Ferdinand. The reserved Count of Tendilla, as all knew, had received the greatest laurel wreath, appointment as Governor of Granada, while his rivals the lords Cadiz and Medina-Sidonia had been appeased with vast tracts of invaluable property about Baza and Almeria. However, courtly etiquette abounded. If these grandees and the other commanders begrudged Tendilla his prize they were careful, in this celebratory moment, to keep their jealousies hidden.
Then the herald called out, "Don Diego Fernandez de Cordoba," and one of the men rose from the gilded benches to receive the commendations and rewards of Los Reyes Católicos. Following, the Lord of Palma was called and then Don Xippio of Batros. And then the high voice intoned, "Don Francisco de Mendoza."
Thanks to the confused rumors, Francho felt all eyes swivel to examine him as he rose and advanced, bowing and then sinking to his knees before his king and queen—a sober, broad-shouldered knight in a gleaming cuirass, with a large amethyst ring winking on his thumb. That he had performed the vital service of informant in Granada, with a position there close to the Sultan, had become titillating common knowledge, and the Moorish earring he still wore as a defiant memento of this service had proved an exotic lure to many a damsel, now that Leonora de Zuniga had chosen otherwise. But the flying rumors (which Francho suspected were di Lido's gleeful work) had it there was even more to his story, a mysterious secret involving the Queen, and so, when Isabella suddenly stood up and began to speak, her voice could easily be heard throughout the breadth of the hushed hall.
Her blue eyes, so calmly certain of rule and right, swept the throng of subjects before her. "My lords and ladies, hear us," her firm soprano rang out. "A quarter-century ago our beloved brother, the young Infante Alfonso, was foully murdered by a nobleman turned traitor to us. This villain's name was Don Juan de Venegas, Marquis of Olivenza. In the grief and wrath of a prostrate sister, Olivenza's subsequent death and our confiscation of his patents and estates did not satisfy us, but that we also branded his sole issue, a newborn babe, as enemy of the Crown and declared his name outlawed in our kingdom. We neither sanction nor decry the action of a maiden Princess alone in the world with her grief. But in the maturity of our years we now wish to rectify a misstep of justice done to the innocent infant, the Venegas scion.
"Our herald has called the name of Don Francisco de Mendoza, and this knight who kneels before us has stepped forward in pride. And well might he be proud, for many a Christian life and much distress of struggle and fortune has he saved for us by the informations gleaned during his daring masquerade in Granada. Additionally, if not for this person's opportune interference your queen would have given up her mortal life to an assassin's bolt. And, 'Go and rid of us Muza Aben' was our next difficult request of him—and this task he performed with both deftness and dispatch, to the result we entered Granada in this New Year 1492 and not in what might have been an exhausted six- or twelve-month hence.
"Can we doubt the loyalty, the bravery, the true heart of this right gallant knight, no matter what the name he bears? In the necessity to prove himself to us he has been a credit to the adopted name of Mendoza all these years and shown himself to be worthy of our regard. Now, with our gratitude and by our royal decree, shall he bear with pride the true name of his heritage, and also another, to designate the refounding and renewal of his house. So we hereby remove our sanctions from the name of Venegas, and so let it be."
Her gaze rested upon Francho with the assurance of one who had conferred with God. She took the jeweled sword offered her by the Royal Chamberlain and lay it thrice upon Francho's right shoulder. "You may rise then, Don Francisco de Granada-Venegas!" she called out with ringing affirmation.
The open-mouthed silence of the audience behind Francho was broken as he stood up by a whispered hubbub of astonished comments, from which some louder words floated to him: Venegas? impossible!... Elena de Lura, she had... supposed to have been killed... Tendilla's type of dramatic intrigue... name was anathema for... always thought he did not much resemble Don Iñigo...
Isabella raised an imperious hand, for she was not finished. Into the silence she continued, "Now, by the sublime right of disposition vested in us do we also assign to Don Francisco de Granada-Venegas the patents and estates held by his forebears, including the Marquisate of Olivenza, to which by our royal favor he is henceforth secured, along with his heirs and future line." She
nodded and a royal secretary standing below her read from a legal document in a stentorian voice a list of estates, castles, villages, and revenues being returned to the Marquis of Olivenza by the Crown.
Trying to ignore the itching between his shoulderblades caused by so many sets of eyes skewering him, Francho watched the curled parchment unroll without even listening. He already knew the names and attributes of his eleven estates, even minus the three the Crown had awarded to the disgruntled Reduan, which included an added fiefdom carved out of Granada's lower vega. When Isabella had informed them of her decision, he could hardly contain his excitement and triumph. The ground became a cloud upon which he capered, the melancholy Granada turned once more into an Eden of marvelous beauty, the very air he breathed became sweeter. Something like jasmine. That this had come to pass, had happened to him, product of monks and thieves, of cloisters, taverns, and Mondejar's hard lessons, most accomplished cutpurse, troubadour, and poseur, most talented trader of life's paths! And now he was he, Granada-Venegas, the excellent Marquis of Olivenza, the real and true, the baptized, the blooded noble gentleman with a solid base of true patrician ancestors set under his name. At that moment, at that moment of rebirth, vindication had washed his soul clean of all guilt.
But now, in spite of the stirrings behind him, the surprise, the admiration, the undercurrents of envy and awe, of hearing the secretary proclaiming his ricos hombre worth, and realizing that King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, the noblest monarchs of all Christendom, were regarding him with steady approval, one week past his initial jubilance and he could summon up no other reaction than a creeping panic that this was too much, the pompous royal secretary was making him too much a Marquis, too much a Venegas, too far from the rest of him. Suddenly he swallowed and bit hard on his lip to stifle a wild desire to laugh.
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