"There was a forest of pennons. I knew most of them and in front, as always, I could pick out the Senor de Bayard's. It looked like an old friend. I said to Pedro de Paz, 'See there! We'll have hot work.' He laughed and tossed his lance up and caught it, vowing that no day had ever promised better. We faced the Duke of Lorraine's lances, whom the Chevalier commanded. They came on like a wave, six hundred of them, yelling 'France!' and 'Bayard!' We met them with 'Santiago!' Holy Virgin, what a crash! But I kept my seat and headed toward the lion pennon. Everybody wanted the honor of engaging Pierre de Bayard, and he was hard to reach. All at once I saw a great black horse rearing up on me and heard Bayard's war shout. My horse, El Moro, met him with teeth and hoofs. We could get in no more than a couple of blows before we were swept apart. But he recognized me. He raised his sword and called, 'Ha! Monseigneur de Vargas!' I have never seen him since."
That a letter should have arrived from such a personage was more than enough to stir the family of a retired soldier in southern Spain. A letter from the King would hardly have been so exciting.
cosa
"Bayard!" exclaimed Dona Maria. And lapsing into Italian, ''Che I"
I wrote him four months ago." said Don Francisco, "and he has given an immediate answer by the hand of his clerk. The good gentleman never learned to write, I believe, though he can sign his name. He is now governor of the French city of Grenoble, a place most convenient to Italy when the next war breaks out. I have given great thought to your education, son Pedro, because a good schooling is worth more than treasure, and I could think of no cavalier under whom you could study the profession of arms with as much profit."
Pedro's eyes were glowing. Mercedes caught her breath.
"I asked him whether he would graciously receive you into his household while peace lasts."
Having worked his audience to a pitch, Senor de Vargas now tantalized it by removing a travel-stained letter from his pocket with great deliberation. A blob of red wax, stamped with a signet, showed on the outside.
"It's in French, of course," said Don Francisco, pleased with his knowledge of that language. "Au moult preux et moult valoureux — "
Pedro could no longer contain himself; he leaned across the table. "What does he say. Father? Does he say yes?"
"Steady, son. Everything in its order. The noble gentleman is kind enough to recall with pleasure our meetings on various fields. It is like him to overvalue my merit, but he was always generous. He remarks truly that we are growing old and that we will never see such pleasant days again." Don Francisco's finger crawled down the page. "He regrets the injury to my knee, but hopes (note this, how gallantly put!) that it will not deprive him of the honor of encountering me in the next campaign. He kisses your hands, Maria." De Vargas paused for effect. "And he will be happy to welcome our son to his company of lances. He will give him every opportunity in his power. . . . Well, Pedro, how's that? Where's the New World now!"
It was nowhere—blotted out by this magnificent prospect. France, the patronage of the Great Cavalier, the prestige of having been trained by Bayard! Pedro sat with his fists clenched and his cheeks red.
"PedritOj querido mio!" exclaimed Dofia Maria. "How proud I am!"
Mercedes slipped around to her father's side and gazed at the signature on the letter, bold and rough as if it had been cut in wood.
"Look, Pedro," she said, "look!"
At that instant the dogs burst into an explosion of barking and dashed for the path leading up from the road to the pavilion. Sefior
de Vargas called them back. An unhurried footstep could be heard approaching. Then, around the corner, appeared a tall, handsomely dressed figure.
It was Diego de Silva.
Pedro once more had the impression of a large black bat transformed into a man, though nothing in de Silva's appearance, except his small chin and big, pointed ears, accounted for it. He was dressed in the latest fashion, with gold points to his doublet, a touch of lace at the throat, elegant riding boots, and a beautifully hilted sword. As he fondled the latter with a long, tapering hand, the last ray of sunset struck fire from a diamond on his forefinger. His scornful, unquiet eyes looked darker and larger than they actually were by contrast with the pallor of his skin. He moved and spoke with the grace of a finished courtier. But in spite of his glitter, something furtive and deformed, something nocturnal, clung to him.
Civilities were exchanged. De Silva raised Dofia Maria's hand to his lips—she made him as low a curtsy as her plumpness permitted; he confused little Mercedes with a couple of compliments; greeted Don Francisco with respect and exchanged bows with Pedro. He explained that he had been inspecting his vineyards, which bracketed the de Vargas property, and couldn't resist the temptation of dropping in.
"We are honored, sefior," bowed the elder de Vargas, overlooking his irritation of the morning. "If we had been warned of your coming, we would have provided a suitable reception. As it is, we can offer only meager refreshment. Pedro, fill a cup for our guest. The fruit, sir, is not bad, if I may presume so far."
"Your kindness embarrasses me," returned de Silva.
He drank to his hosts, then took the chair which had been placed for him on Dofia Maria's right. He observed that the weather, while excellent for the crops, was much too warm for riding, and that he felt slightly tired from his hunt for the Indian servant.
"You did not get on his traces, then?" said Don Francisco.
De Silva shrugged. "No, but he'll be picked up. A savage from the Indies won't get far in these mountains. I've sent word to Granada and Cadiz." His black glance rested a moment on Pedro. "You didn't join
us."
Perspiring under his doublet, Pedro explained his idea of searching in the other direction.
"Ah," said de Silva.
There was a chilly note in his voice. Pedro thought he knew the reason for de Silva's call and braced himself to meet a complaint about the two huntsmen. But surprisingly the subject was dropped.
"Excellent wine!" continued the other, smacking his lips. "Which recalls something very close to my heart, Don Francisco. Have you considered the offer I made you for your vineyard?"
So, that was his object. It annoyed the elder de Vargas that his guest should bring up a business matter in the presence of the family, a topic that ought to be discussed in private.
"Yes, I've considered it."
"You see," de Silva went on, "except for your land, I own this entire slope. I have acquired it piecemeal over several years. It would greatly convenience me if you sold, so that I could round out my property. And the price offered seemed to me fair."
"Entirely."
"Have you reached a conclusion?"
The de Vargas family held its breath.
"I do not wish to sell for the present, sir."
"Oh, come, sir!" de Silva urged. "The price is no great matter. We won't split hairs. I offered you five hundred ducats; suppose we make it seven hundred. It's an absurd figure, but I've set my mind on the thing. You can't say no to seven hundred ducats."
Hot waves began pulsing along the old cavalier's veins. The fellow seemed to think that all he needed was to jingle money—as if a de Vargas were a tradesman. He not only intruded on a family's privacy, but sat there parleying like a Jew. Saucy malapert! thought the old gentleman.
On her side, Dofia Maria gave him a disturbed glance. With Italian realism, she could see what the proposed sum meant. It would entirely cover the rest of Pedro's education and add weight to Mercedes's dot. Then, with the royal pension and the couple of benefices they held, life would be comfortable enough. Even if it meant sacrificing—
"I do not wish to sell for the present, sir."
"Ah," said de Silva. He looked bewildered a moment; then his eyes kindled, and a white band showed across his forehead. "Ah. Well, we'll drop the matter, sefior, for this time, though I'll be cursed if I understand."
He was quite honest. He moved in a world where every value has its
pri
ce in gold. When that yardstick failed, he was bewildered, angry, and scornful.
"Someone told me," he went on, "that you planned to send your son abroad." His voice had a patronizing drawl that stirred the roots of Pedro's hair. "Which is costly, as no one knows better than I. It seemed to me that perhaps a sale would accommodate you."
Don Francisco was doing his best to remain civil, but he felt the surges of wrath gaining on him. He tried to shut his mind to them. Because de Silva had no manners, it did not discharge him from his obligations as a host. He clung to that.
"As it happened, we were discussing the matter when you came, sir," he answered with more of a lisp than usual. "In view of the peace, I plan sending my son to France. The Sefior de Bayard has graciously consented to give him a place in his company."
"Ah?" De Silva did not seem impressed.
"It might interest you to see his letter. We were in the course of reading it."
De Vargas proudly handed over the sacred document, but the other gave it no more than a perfunctory glance.
"Hm-m," he said. "Yes, quite so." And having returned it: "Why Bayard? The choice amazes me. With all respect to the Chevalier as a stanch old war dog, isn't he a good deal of a relic? We're living in modem times. Why not send your son to one of the fashionable courts? I should think the household of Monsieur de Bayard would be as out-of-date as my grandmother's coif."
De Vargas's mouth felt fever-dry. With a shaking hand, he raised his cup and emptied it. Pedro's face was rigid. Dona Maria looked appealingly at her husband.
"Ha!" choked Don Francisco at last, his head swimming. "The Sefior de Bayard is my friend."
"No offense, of course," said de Silva airily. "It's no business of mine. I was only surprised. Or if not a court, why not the Indies? A youngster can pick up experience and perhaps money there. As a matter of fact, I intend to make the voyage myself fairly soon."
Pedro exchanged a glance with his mother. The look on his father's face would have made him laugh at any other time. It implied that of all places in the world, the Indies was where Diego de Silva best belonged.
"Naturally I shall not remain there," the latter continued. "My friend, Diego Velasquez, Governor of Cuba, has promised me a bargain
in land and Indians. It ought to be a sound investment. Besides, as you may know, I am a familiar of the Holy Office and will make a survey for the Suprema. The Inquisitor of Jaen, our good Father Ignacio de Lora, has been chosen to accompany me. We fear that heresy needs investigating in the Islands."
At this reference to the Inquisition, a shadow, an almost palpable chill, descended on the pavilion. It happened in any company where the dread name was mentioned. A kingdom within the kingdom, a power greater than the King's, a despotism more complete than any yet invented, it paralyzed the human soul with terror. It did not represent the Catholic Church. Indeed, it represented the very reverse of Catholic, a peculiar Spanish development, narrow, local, fanatic; a parasite repudiated by traditional Catholic thought then as well as since. Not until four hundred years later would the world again be visited by a similar curse. Secret denunciation—friend against friend, child against parent, enemy against enemy—the thought of dungeon, torture, whip and stake, beggary and infamy, were the ideas which the name conjured up. No one was safe; no one was too innocent to be proved guilty. In view of the menace, many noblemen and others, who could prove the purity of their blood, their limpieza, free of Jewish or Moorish taint, joined the ranks of the Inquisition. These were the familiars of the Holy Office. The affiliation was valuable for many reasons; above all it gave added power and relative security.
Don Francisco cleared his throat. "Yes, I remember hearing that you are an intimate of the Inquisitor's."
Suddenly de Silva's restless eyes, forever mocking and probing, stopped as if a new thought had occurred to him. He half-closed them and nodded. "A great privilege. By the way, sir, it seems strange to me that a man of your name and fame should not be one of us. All good Christians ought to unite in defense of the Faith."
"I'm not a theologian," snapped the other.
"Nor am I. It's an honor merely to serve the Cause as a humble soldier."
De Vargas said nothing.
"Of course I regret that the Holy Office must at times use severity," de Silva went on. "But what would you have? If bloodletting and dosing are often necessary to save the body, one cannot object to medicine that saves the soul. The reverend fathers are heavenly physicians. It is wonderful, sir, to watch their patience and skill in discovering and treating the devilish disease of heresy—the worst of diseases, as you must admit. They trace the slightest symptom to its
roots until the cancer is laid bare. I take it, you have not attended an examination?"
"No," grunted de Vargas.
The other leaned back reminiscently with the tips of his long fingers together.
"It's a valuable experience. I recall the last examination I had the privilege of watching. It was of a woman, Maria Oqueda. Note how alert the reverend fathers are. It was brought to their attention that she did not eat pork and that she bathed on Saturday. You and I would have made nothing of this, but not so the learned friars. They scented disease; the woman was arrested. Before the tribunal, she maintained, of course, that pork disagreed with her and that she bathed for reasons of cleanliness. Such excuses did not hoodwink the Inquisitor. She was stripped bare as my hand—"
"Remember that there are ladies here," de Vargas growled.
"No offense, my good sir. In the treatment of this ailment, the patients are stripped—a plain fact. She was then placed on the ladder, and the cords were tightened. What an outcry, senor! You'd hardly have thought it human. But obstinate? My word! Except for screams and babble, they could get nothing from her. I spare you details which may offend the ladies. This lasted more than an hour. She was then moved to the bench and given the water torment, a curious operation. Time passed, but the zeal of the reverend fathers did not slacken. For the sake of this woman's soul, they even postponed their dinner."
Dona Maria was white to the lips, and Mercedes, getting up, had hidden her face against her mother's shoulder. Pedro, disgusted, glanced at his father, whose sallow cheeks were flushed.
"They got results in the end," de Silva continued easily. "The woman confessed everything they suspected. She admitted practising Jewish-ness in secret. No one would have imagined such a crime, for she was born Christian. You can see by that the astuteness and patience of the Inquisitor, whom God must have inspired. The woman's goods were confiscated, and you may recall that she was burned in the last auto-da-fe. God forgive her sins!"
There was a bleak silence. De Silva suppressed a smile.
"And one can never tell," he added, "at what age the disease will strike. I remember the examination of a boy of twelve. He refused to bear witness in the case of his parents and was hoisted on the strappado. They then—"
"One moment, sir," interrupted de Vargas, lisping ominously. "We have had enough of this talk. It is unpleasant."
De Silva looked amazed. "Unpleasant to know that there are champions of the Faith who spend themselves to uproot the detestable sin of heresy? Don't you approve of the methods of the Holy Office?"
"I told you that I wasn't a theologian, and I have never been a hangman's valet. It ought to be unnecessary to point out that certain things aren't discussed in mixed company—details of the lazaret, the Jakes, or the torture room."
"Pretty squeamish for an old soldier," de Silva sneered. "I didn't think you were so lily-livered. I'm sure the ladies enjoy it—don't you, Dona Maria? As for the Holy Office, it hardly seems to me that you are overrespectful."
The dike burst. Francisco de Vargas straightened up in his chair, his nose Like a beak, his mouth grim, and the light of battle in his eyes. But in contrast, when he spoke, his voice was very gentle.
"Look you, sir, I'm not used to being reproved by young popinjays. Lily-livered? Before you were born, I was fighting the Moors.
I have given more blood for the Faith than you have in your body. But I have fought men. I haven't stood slavering in a jail over the torture of women and children. Humble soldier of the Holy Office, indeed! As to manners, you seem to forget where you are and who I am. Do I make myself plain?"
Doiia Maria tried to speak, but could not get a word out. Pedro leaned forward, intent and prepared. But de Silva seemed unimpressed, though his black eyes danced.
He got up carelessly. "Not quite plain, Don Francisco. Later perhaps we can clear matters up. For instance, I'm not sure why you wish to pick a quarrel with me. Though injured by this young ruffian of a son of yours, I came here peaceably and alone. It was a mistake. I should have brought witnesses."
"Injured?" exclaimed de Vargas. "Injured?"
"If I attacked two of your servants, opened the face of one and broke the arm of another, wouldn't you call it injury?"
Don Francisco stared. "What do you mean, por Dios?''
Pedro's time had come. He stood up a little flustered, but with his eyes level on de Silva. "Add that your men set their dogs on a girl and then assaulted her. It makes a difference."
"Oho!" interjected his father.
De Silva nodded. "Yes, I forgot. The rogues were amusing themselves with your son's sweetheart, a tavern slut from the Rosario, a notable whore named Perez. Call it assaulting if you like. She lives by assaults."
"It's a lie." Pedro drew closer with his fists clenched.
"And having ridden down my men, he fondles the strumpet, puts her on his horse, and so back with them embracing to the privacy of the Rosario. Is that a lie too? Or did my fellow see wrong? At least the town will be amused to hear about it."
In the stricken quiet of the pavilion, Pedro was aware of his father's glazed look, his mother's distress, the pumping of his own heart. He remembered the scene with Catana at church, and how that clinched matters against him.
"So you didn't know of it?" de Silva went on. "I suppose he gave you to understand that he was hunting my slave. A fine story! I wish I knew the real truth of that part of it. And yet he calls me a liar!"
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