The Queen's Bastard

by Robin Maxwell

  Thirty-nine

  When I awoke, the daylight was fading and I found my self abed within a fresh and pretty chamber, its large windows and a door opening onto what appeared to be a Spanish courtyard, all of greenery and the sound of a trickling fountain. The furnishings were fine but lacked the splendor of the kind I had seen in my Fathers lodgings at Court. A crucifix hung on the wall, and below it was a small altar with an icon of the Virgin and several candles, all lit. No one was about, and I could take stock of my circumstances.

  The pain in my leg was severe, and a look under the covers to my nakedness revealed a well made bandage so large as to cover my whole right thigh. I imagined that my temporary departure from the world had had to do with my loss of blood, and that some one of the townspeople had taken pity on me and brought me hence. Who that person was, was suddenly revealed as the door opened and the woman in the wine colored gown entered with a tray of bandages and instruments.

  At once she saw me awake, and her serious mien transmuted into one of the sincerest joy. I was startled by the beauty of her, for on our first meeting she had been wracked with terrible emotion and copious tears, and I with blinding pain. But now I could see she was extraordinary. Her large dark eyes were wide set above high rounded cheeks curving downward to a delicately pointed chin, so that together with the deep widows peak in the lustrous black hair she wore pulled back in a silver comb, her face was a perfect heart.

  “Señor,” she said putting down the tray and taking up my hand in hers. She spoke in a rich throaty tone very soothing to the ear. “I am so glad to see you awake now, tho it was a lucky thing you were dead to the world whilst the surgeon attended you.”

  The pain was still so severe that I hardly trusted my self to speak, knowing that I must needs keep up my charade as an Italian, albeit one who could speak to her in Spanish. My hesitation prompted her to continue. “I do not know if I can ever properly convey my gratitude to you for saving my children, Señor. They are my life.”

  I smiled, and the one she returned to me was as warm as the Andalusian sun. Then she retreated into a typically Spanish restraint.

  “I am Federico Reggio,” I finally managed, my voice akin to a croaking frog. “And I am grateful that God was so kind as to allow me the opportunity to help your children.” In the past months I had become adept at the Latin formality of speech which was foreign to me, as well as the insertion of God into almost every aspect of conversation.

  “I am Constanza Lorca de Estrada, and this is my Fathers house.”

  Without thinking, my eyes went to her hands and I saw that she wore a marriage ring. Her husband, I reckoned, was away in the Netherlands War. I remember feeling immediately saddened that she belonged to another man, but was at that moment gripped with so terrible a bolt of pain in my whole leg that I cried out involuntarily and broke instantly into a sweat. Constanzas face seemed to mirror my agony and I was ashamed of my unmanliness.

  She became very brisk and professional. “You must forgive me, Señor Reggio, but I am your only nurse here, and I must check your wound and change the bandage. The surgeon fears infection. Your leg was torn very badly.”

  It occurred to me then that this injury might kill me, and I thought upon the irony of surviving five years of war only to die from an accident in civilian life. The door opened then and an older man I supposed to be Constanzas Father, and her two children entered.

  “I see the patient is awake,” he said. He seemed at first glance a crusty gentleman with a gruff voice, but his smile was kind, and he came to me and grasped my hand firmly. “I am Ramón Lorca. Constanza has, I know, thanked you, Señor. Let me add my gratitude to hers. And here are two others who have something to say to you.”

  The children rushed forward and commenced smothering me with soft hugs and milky kisses which threatened to bring tears to my eyes. I chanced a look at Constanza who was having difficulty controlling her own tears. But in a moment she gently shooed them out, saying she needed to attend to her patient.

  Don Ramón bowed formally and said before he closed the door behind him, “We are taking good care of your horse who is, like your self Señor, a hero in our house. What is her name?”

  “Mirage,” I answered, and smiled to think that someone shared my admiration for that extraordinary beast.

  With Don Ramón and his grandchildren departed, Constanza lifted the blanket covering my injured leg. “I will be gentle as I am able, Señor. I have made a poultice of sage and garlic, tho the surgeon forbade me to use it.”

  She pulled the dressing off and her face screwed up in such pity at the sight of my wound, I was afraid to see it my self. But I knew I must. I lifted my self on an elbow and fairly gaped at the great tear in the flesh of the inner face of my thigh which was, tho stitched together with some skill, never the less angry purple, and swollen all round it. I fell rather than lowered my self back onto the pillow, exhausted from even that small exertion, and wondered, if in deed I survived this injury, would I be crippled for life? And more pressing than that, how would I send my intelligence report of Cadiz out of Spain? I had little time to ponder it, for in a moment I felt a coolness over the sore and saw Constanza taking several fingerfuls of a wet grey substance and applying it to the wound.

  “What is that?” I asked her.

  “My sage and garlic poultice,” she answered.

  I thought it odd for a woman to so blithely disobey a surgeon. Yet I felt comfortable with her ministrations, and trusted her altogether.

  “It may fester no matter what I do, Señor. There were many splinters of wood from the carriage piece. I do not know if the surgeon …”

  “Señora,” I said subduing the urge to moan as another wave of pain spread like fire from foot to groin, “you are more than kind and are doing everything you can. My recovery is entirely in Gods hands.”

  “Where was God,” she whispered fiercely, “when the horses ran off with my children?”

  Again this woman had surprised me. Were not Spaniards, of all the worlds Catholics, the most fervent in their faith in Gods unfailing wisdom?

  “Are you hungry?” she asked laying a new dressing over her poultice.

  “No,” I replied. “Tho I would be grateful for a sip of wine.” As she wiped her hands on a pure white towel I was suddenly reminded of the bleaching fields of Haarlem, and wondered had her husband sent back the thing from the Netherlands. Then I felt Constanzas strong arm under my shoulders lifting me, and the cup at my lips. As I drank the cool spiced wine I drank in, too, her warm beauty and thought to myself that her presence alone might be enough to heal me.

  I was wrong. Some time in that night the infection in my leg blossomed like a malevolent flower, spreading its poisons into my veins. I woke briefly, ablaze with pain and heat in all parts of my body. I was aware of Constanza sitting beside me, pressing iced cloths to my head and neck. But if I spoke it was senseless, and I remember seeing two of her and thinking, Ah, she has a twin sister, one for me. Then I was spinning and falling into darkness and oblivion...

  I came back to the pretty room in the Spanish house with the feel of a soft wet cloth gently wiping the crust from my eyelids which I still had not the strength to open. I heard a womans voice saying “See how much easier he breathes. And his color is good.”

  Someone grasped my hand and laid his fingers on my wrist. “The pulses are much stronger, Señora Estrada. He is a lucky man, this Reggio. God has rewarded him for his good deed to your family.”

  When the doctor left I slowly forced open my eyes. Even this was a chore. I could feel keenly every part of my body, and whilst there was no pain save a dull ache in the injured leg, I was weaker than a babe, and in deed felt as tho I were limp and wrung out as a housemaids rag.

  Then Constanza came into my vision. The look on her face was not so much happiness as quiet triumph, as tho she had singlehanded vanquished a monster. I smiled up at her, acknowledging the conquest. Without speaking she sat next to me simply stroking my han
d with a strange intimacy. Then I thought it was not so strange, in fact, for we had become entangled in the tenderest of bonds — I having saved the lives of her children, and she having saved mine. We stayed thus, silent and contemplative, our hands joined, for a very long time. Finally she smiled and said she wished to tell her Father that their honored guest had come back to the land of the living. I remember thinking as Constanza closed the door behind her that I already missed the sight of her, the sound and smell of her. And I was thrilled as I was terrified to know I had met the woman of my many dreams.

  Twas not till Don Ramón returned with Constanza and I bade her prop me to sitting in order to receive them with some dignity, that I chanced to see my saddlebags hung over a stool in the corner of the room. My belly, thankfully empty, lurched violently but I quickly forced my eyes back to my hosts. I was further alarmed to note that Don Ramón was regarding me perhaps more coolly than he had in our first meeting, tho Constanza was unreservedly gracious. She was saying that I should consider their home my own until I had entirely recovered.

  “Is there anyone you might wish us to write to in Italy, Señor Reggio, your family perhaps?” inquired Don Ramón in a tone I thought mild and at the same time pointed.

  “Yes, my Mother,” I responded quickly, providing them with a fictitious name and address in the city of Turin, knowing that by the time the letter had reached Italy and been returned to the Lorcas, I would be long gone from their house.

  Suddenly that thought caused a sensation in my chest, an empty ache. To leave Constanza … No, I must get hold of my self! She was a married woman, a Spaniard, a Catholic. And I had no reason to suppose my love was in any way returned.

  “When you are strong enough, you must come to the workshop,” Constanza said mildly. “We are a family of saddlemakers, have been for many generations.”

  “When I am stronger I shall be delighted,” I said glancing again at my saddlebags, wondering if they had been opened, if my letter to Lord Leicester with the map of Cadiz Harbor and its naval preparations had been found, if my true character as an English agent had been discovered. Searching their faces I suddenly thought not. Had I been found out they would have had sufficient time to summon the authorities to arrest me — a spy in their home, an enemy of Spain, a heretic. No, I argued silently, there was no need for pretense on their part. They had in deed respected a gentlemans privacy. My suspicions of Don Ramón were entirely unfounded. I was safe for the moment.

  Once it was confirmed that my life was out of danger, tho the hospitality of the Lorca household continued, I was sadly denied the tender nursing services of Constanza, and saw her rarely. Maids came with my meal trays, and an elderly manservant attended to my personal needs. Slowly I increased my time out of bed and exercised my hurt leg, knowing that sooner or later I must smuggle my document on the Armada at Cadiz to my patron.

  Finally one morning after breakfast I ventured from my room, stiff legged but thankfully upright and moving. I descended the stairs into the garden courtyard round which the entire casa had been built. It was literally abuzz with bees and hummingbirds feasting on the nectar of a thousand blooming flowers, riots of color cascading down the whitewashed walls, all round the gushing fountain. My heart quickened at the sight of the garden, for I anticipated finding Constanza there, perhaps surrounded by her children, sewing or reading quietly. I imagined my self coming quietly up behind her, taking her by surprise. She would gasp, then smile to see me up and about, perhaps ask me to join her, and there we would stay — me paying court to the beautiful lady of the house, her contemplating cuckolding her husband with the Italian stranger whose life she had so lovingly saved.

  But she was not in the courtyard, nor was she anywhere to be found in the large, handsomely appointed casa. I dared not ask her whereabouts of the servants, so I headed for the stables, thinking I would visit with Mirage. Inside I found a dozen horse stalls but no animals. A stablehand pointed out where the animals were grazing in a distant pasture, very green and, I thought, a splendid place for Mirage to be spending her morning.

  Now denied the company of my two favorite ladies I was never the less feeling very well, with the morning sunshine warming my pallid skin, and my leg paining me less and less with every step. Before me was a large oblong building of one floor, plain and unadorned except for a flower bedecked statue of Saint Francis of Assisi near its front door. I heard coming from within the place myriad sounds — voices, pounding, scraping and sloshing — and knew this must be the saddlemaking shop. I had been invited to visit and never having seen such an operation, went inside.

  As I passed thro the door I was at once assailed by the ghastly smell of hides simmering in vats of tanning broth, then saw the tanners, noses covered with masks which did not keep their eyes from watering, their brows permanently carved with wrinkles of disgust. I wondered how a man could work a lifetime at such a foul occupation, but then thought perhaps another man might wonder at the occupation of a soldier — killing other men for wages.

  Thro an archway I passed into the next room to find men stretching and dying the hides, much of it black, and recognized the results — cordovan and barbary leather used for the finest Spanish saddles.

  Yet deeper inside the factory I saw the saddles taking shape, some of the wooden trees heavily padded for soldiers — pommels and cantles high and sloped sharply from front to rear. Others were gentlemens saddles with stylishly low cantles and horns. I watched as a metalsmith formed winged cantles so large they would curve armorlike round a soldiers thighs. Some frames already bore their leather coverings, skirts and stirrups. Others were mere bony skeletons awaiting their skin.

  This being southern Spain the stirrups were all short, as the horsemen rode “a la gineta.” That is, short after the Turkey fashion, knees bent at a sharp angle, sometimes rising to stand in the stirrups to gallop. If this had been the north of Spain I would have seen longer stirrups for riding “a la brida,” in the orthodox fashion favored by Europeans and the knights of old — legs straight, heels angled forward. I had learnt it was a matter of honor and high praise for a man to have it said of him that he rode well in both saddles.

  Thro another arched door was a very Hell of heat and sound — the metal shop where sweating loriners wrought and cast from molten gold and silver, all manner of mountings fit for the saddles of gentlemen and Kings.

  The final arched door revealed a chamber altogether different from the previous ones. A quiet haven, soft voices, the rich sweet fragrance of finished leather. Twas a place of artisans — men who sat happily hunched as they polished and inlaid, engraved and embossed in high relief the gold and silver bits, ornate scabbards and stirrups. Apprentice boys fashioned from velvety soft moroccan leather all manner of reins, bridles, martingales, straps. Velvet skirts were embroidered, tasseled and befringed by half a dozen spindle fingered grandmothers.

  My eyes beheld the rich beauty of the art and I felt the passion of the artisans moving in quiet waves all round me. I saw a woman, her back to me, head bent over her work so intently that I became curious to see it. I moved closer, standing almost over her shoulder. With a tiny hammer tapping on the end of an awl she was creating a cut and raised design of astonishing intricacy in fine black leather — swirls and flowers, tongues of fire, a mythic whiptailed dragon doing battle with a bold knight on horseback — all on the flap of a saddlepack.

  “It is magnificent,” I murmured, quite unable to disguise my awe. The artist turned then, and I found myself confronted by Constanza Estrada.

  “I am glad it pleases you, Señor Reggio.” She held my eyes for what seemed an eternity, then continued her work. She did not, however, dismiss me. Instead she spoke in that sweet cultured voice while she tap, tap, tapped the detail into a curl of flame projecting from her dragons mouth. She asked after my health and in particular how my wound was mending. She apologized for her absence from my bedside in recent weeks, saying that her work had piled up while she nursed me and she had had to
catch up with it. I found my self contented to listen to her speak, gaze down at the dark hair curling in soft tendrils at the nape of her neck, and watch her deft fingers position and angle and pound, just so. Now she was teasing me, telling me that I had set her back two good weeks and that her Father would take it out of her hide. Then she laughed at her own foolishness and I laughed with her.

  “Señora Estrada, you must tell me. How is it that you work … in such a way?”

  “Do you mean why do I work as a common laborer in my Fathers shop?”

  “Not a laborer,” I protested. “An artisan to be sure …”

  “But still, it puzzles you, Señor.”

  “I have never seen a gentlewoman anywhere labor thus.”

  She smiled a mysterious smile then. “You must first understand how deeply this …” She ran her fingers caressingly over the carven leather. “… satisfies me.”

  I was horrified to feel my sex pulse and rise as she uttered those two final words.

  “When I was a girl,” she went on, unaware of the effect she was having on me, “I had taken to stealing scraps of leather and tools from the shop, and begun creating my own designs. I hid them of course, for tho embroidery was encouraged in a lady, for a woman to work in leather was unseemly, unheard of. Then when I was thirteen I chanced upon a pamphlet of my Fathers discussing the saddlers guild in England, how they had been the first to allow entry to women. I dreamt of becoming a proper saddlemaker, tho I knew that Spain was not England and that all my dreams would come to naught. But one evening when my Father was sad and missing his wife — my Mother died when I was young — I took my small creations and without speaking, laid them out in front of the fire. Of course he was curious and examined each of them closely.” Constanza smiled then, a smile of remembering. “He was excited by the work, said he had never seen such finely wrought detail, said the artist had managed to bring the leather alive. Then he demanded to know where I had found the pieces, for he needed to speak with the artisan, persuade him to come to work for him. Suddenly my plan seemed to have worked too well. How could I tell my Father the artisan was my self? He would never believe me, might punish me for lying. He demanded once again to know the mans name. Finally I blurted out that it was me. That I had stolen the leather and the tools, and begged his forgiveness for tricking and humiliating him. Then he took my hands in his, held them up before his eyes and gazed at them saying ‘These are the hands of an artisan … I have known all along it was you, Constanza. My carvers reported to me that you had made off with their tools, their discarded leather. I knew what you were doing.’ He kissed both my hands. ‘But I had no idea you possessed so profound a talent. Will you honor me by working in my shop?’”