by Mimi Milan
Elena bit back a retort. The last thing she wanted was to land in a carcel, trapped behind thick iron bars set in solid stone. She gathered her skirts with a distinct “humph” and gave the guards one last glare before moving along. She wandered away, waiting until she had rounded the corner and was free to feel along the tall stone wall.
There has to be another way in!
Yet the only thing in view was a lush orange tree, its branches heavy with ripe fruit. She had heard tales of the trees surrounding the House of Castillo. It was common knowledge that on the day of “Passing the Peerage,” the superseding noble was to authorize a new law. Typically, it was something that taxed the villagers and they were required to give a greater portion of their grain or donate livestock. Naturally, there would be quiet complaints amongst the townsfolk – criticisms that would die on the tips of their tongues before reaching the powerful nobility who could create costlier, even fatal conditions. However, such had not been the case with the last señor. In a moment of rare generosity, the late Conde del Castillo had ordered the trees planted in an attempt to feed the poorest of the villagers. Each family was allowed one orange apiece, encouraged to sow the seeds and nurture the soil it claimed, the hope being that it would eventually take root.
Hence the explanation of this sole climber standing like an unwounded soldier loaded with ammunition. Elena leaned against it, welcoming the cool shade its canopy offered. She slowly slid down the trunk, plopping onto the cool grass below with a soft thud. The moment’s rest gave her time to examine her bare feet, bloody and sore from the long walk into town. If she thought they looked bad now, she could only manage what was to be expected once the blisters turned into callouses. She grimaced. Oh, well. They would look terrible, but at least she had saved the shoes. Smiling, she patted the hidden pocket sewn in her skirt, proud of the little secret held there. She glanced around, ensuring there were no witnesses present. When all appeared safe, she reached into the pouch and pulled out one of the delicate slippers. Encrusted with precious jewels her father had spent years to procure, it gleamed in the sun like a promise.
Better days awaited her.
She carefully balanced the shoe in one hand, bringing it close to her face so she could examine the intricate pattern designed so that each gem would catch and reflect the maximum amount of light imaginable. She had to admit that while she was a good shoemaker, she had yet to obtain the craftsmanship her father had effortlessly produced. The thought of him and the news she was to deliver to her stepmother brought on an episode of fresh tears. Openly weeping, she clutched the slipper to her chest, intent on having herself a good cry until the snapping sound of a branch overhead caused her to look up.
“Hola, hermosa.”
Elena screamed, the outcry startling a man poised on one slender branch, his arms desperately flapping up and down. However, the more he flailed the weaker his balance grew until he, predictably, landed with a solid thud beside her, moaning as if his ill fate was the worst that could happen to a body. Then (as if that were not enough to confirm this day was truly the most miserable of them all) an orange bounced off her head and rolled onto the ground.
“Ouch!” Elena slapped a hand to her russet crown. Ignoring the man’s continued groans, she reached over to where the fruit had landed, digging into its flesh with a gripe. “Ammunition indeed. I’ll undoubtedly find a goose egg growing in the morning.”
“I would be so fortunate to suffer so little,” the man said as he sat upright. “I’ll surely have bruises from head to toe.”
“Serves you right,” Elena retorted. She tried to ignore the way jet-black curls framed a strong face with coffee colored eyes that welcomed any onlooker to drown in them. “What kind of decent man does something as foolish as climb trees? Only a thief attempting to take more than his allotted share.”
“I am no thief.”
“Then why would you not pick the fruit from one of the lower branches?”
“Because I was not as interested in picking oranges as I was hiding from the calculating mothers of hopeful daughters determined to make a fine match with anyone positioned to secure their station.”
It took her a moment to fully appreciate the implication made. When she did, she was quick to bow her head. “My apologies, señor. I didn’t realize you were with the nobleza. Please forgive my loose tongue.”
“Nonsense. There’s nothing to forgive. In fact, I should probably be thanking you for your attempt to guard this sacred tree of forbidden fruit. After all, it is the only one in the entire village – possibly in all of Spain.”
A rueful smile tugged at the corner of his mouth and she knew he was teasing her. Well, if that was the way he wished to play, he would soon learn that games were not only for the gentry.
“Oh, I see. You are with the royal court… as their payaso.”
The man laughed and then stuck out his chest with pride. “Indeed. I am not only the jester, but I am the king of them all. Well, maybe not el rey himself. There may be one or two humorous sorts who could best me yet. Let us settle with the Count of Jesters. De acuerdo?”
“You’re a curious man,” Elena said, unsure exactly what to make of his unconventional, but jovial ways.
“And you are a shoeless woman,” he replied.
Elena glanced down to her feet. Suddenly embarrassed, she pulled them in and they disappeared under her dress. Attempting to demonstrate that she was not bothered by her own unusual manner, she gave a careless shrug. “I wanted to save my slippers.”
“And what an exquisite creation it is. May I?” The man reached for the shoe, plucking it up before she could respond. Then he grasped one tired foot from beneath her dusty hem, lifted it up and gently slipped the bejeweled masterpiece over her toes. “There it is. A perfect fit.”
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