It was only by luck that de Vargas, glancing at the door a moment later, observed that the wicket had been once more slid back. But why should the man want to spy on him while he was eating? He could have remained inside and watched for all Pedro cared.
Then, as if from nowhere, a shadow of suspicion crossed de Vargas's mind. It was queer about the Alicante: men of the jailer's stripe were not apt to turn down a good drink. The fellow had made a point of praising the wine. It was still queerer about the wicket. Pedro remembered his father's estimate of the turnkey. Why not put it to the test?
Carelessly raising the cup in full view of the door, Pedro pretended to drink, tilted the tankard higher, set it down at last and smacked his lips, then returned to his food. When he glanced again, the wicket was closed.
Without wasting a second, he now carried the wine flagon across the room, emptied his water ewer into the basin, and replaced its contents with the Alicante. There was no use wasting good wine in case his suspicions were wrong.
Then he returned to table and finished supper, taking care to sag a little and to yawn repeatedly. He had to make a choice of symptoms; but if the drink had been tampered with at all, an opiate seemed more likely than violent poison. Finally he slumped over on the table, head
on arms but with his face turned enough for a view of things through his eyelashes.
A half hour passed. Finally he heard the faint click of the wicket, and immediately afterward the turnkey came in. But this time the man's face did not wear its former unctuousness; it was alert and professional.
Having shuffled his feet and coughed, the turnkey gave a satisfied nod. Then he drew from behind him an object which he had been holding in his left hand. It was a thin leather strap attached to a handle, and at the sight of it Pedro's scalp prickled.
It was a strangling thong, a garrote.
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When he had assured himself of de Vargas's unconsciousness by looking into the empty flagon and rubbing a pudgy hand over the prisoner's hair, the turnkey set about work with veteran deliberation. He even hummed a gentle tune to himself. First, he took a sheet from the bed, twisted it into a rough rope, and made a noose at the end. Then he threw this over the crossbar of the bed, which held the canopy, tested the strength of it, and tied the other end of the rope sheet to the bedpost.
So that was the way of it, thought Pedro. First the garrote, then the noose. In the morning, another suicide would be reported from the tower room. Unable to face the charges against him, the prisoner had hanged himself, thus confirming the indictment of the prosecution as well as saving trouble and closing the case. Perhaps this explained the turnkey's accounts of other gentlemen who had been found strung up there.
Still humming, the fellow now took time to run through Pedro's saddlebags and to appropriate a pouch of gold which his charge would no longer have use for. This done, he hitched up his sleeves and, taking the leather thong, slipped it deftly from behind around de Vargas's neck, drawing the handle at one end through the loop at the other. When adjusted, the torque of the handle would be sufficient to snap the spine and crush the windpipe in a wrench or two.
But the wrench never came. Pedro's arms, outstretched on the table, suddenly locked behind the head of the turnkey, who was bending over him. Then, turning slightly so as to avoid the table and using the old
wrestling heave, de Vargas brought the man catapuhing over his head. He now was behind the turnkey with one arm half-throttling him. A moment later, he found the proper spot on the man's jaw with his free fist and put him asleep for the time being.
When the jailer came to himself several minutes afterwards, he discovered that he was in a chair, a gag in his mouth, the sheet rope around his body, and the garrote in place about his own throat.
"So!" said de Vargas. "Now we can talk. But first let me point out that a man like you wouldn't live long in New Spain. Not clever enough. You'd be fair sport for the comrades. . . . Well? Feeling better?"
A stifled muttering filtered through the gag.
Pedro, stepping behind him, gave a slight twist to the thong, which made the man's eyes pop.
"You see, my friend, what the situation is."
Then he relaxed the garrote and, moving back in front, drew up another chair.
"I hope," he continued, "that you won't make the mistake of considering me a milksop. Hombre, I've killed a number of men in the past four years and all of them better men than you. If I can get what I want out of you, perhaps you'll live. Otherwise, please don't think I'm tenderhearted."
A moan through the gag and the terror in the fellow's eyes answered.
"Good," Pedro nodded. "It pays to be intelligent. There are various ways I can deal with you. For instance, I could strangle you and carr)' your body downstairs some place. Then who's to know who did it? Or I could make you drink the Alicante, which I've saved, and let them find you asleep here with me in the morning. I don't believe your employer would like that, or the governor of the prison. You would hang judicially. Also it would help me at my trial to have the facts published. So you see, friend rat, that you are in a bad place and that I have nothing to lose by dealing'with you one way or another. You do see that, eh?"
The turnkey groaned and shut his eyes to escape the grim countenance in front of him.
"Now," said Pedro, returning to the handle of the garrote behind the man's neck, "I'm going to untie your mouth. But keep your voice low. You wouldn't think of talking too loud, much less calling for help. Then you'll answer some questions. Remember, I'll know if you lie, and that would be painful for you."
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He pulled loose the knots of the gag and at the same time tightened the strangling thong.
"There you are. First question. Who paid you for this?"
Pedro could feel the movement of the man's Adam's apple, but the answer came. "The lord de Silva."
"How much?"
"A hundred pesos."
"You were to make it easy for anyone to visit me, I suppose, and you were to listen at the door?"
"Yes."
"What other instructions?"
"I was to look for papers."
Pedro congratulated himself on the forethought of leaving his papers with Don Francisco. Then he remembered the letter from Jaen. It would have been a help to de Silva to know about that.
"Have you heard when my trial is to come off?"
"Tomorrow." The turnkey winced at the sudden tightening of the thong. "It's the truth," he squeaked. "I can't help the truth, can I?"
Tomorrow! There would be no time for gathering help. If tonight's plot failed, de Silva had at least made sure of the trial.
"Now, listen, rogue. And this is the most important of all. If you help me in this, you live; if not, you die. Tell me what you know about de Silva. He works underground, and you underground rats will have sniffed something. I want a hold on him, understand? Come, speak out."
The man faltered, "I don't know anything. . . . Ay de fni" he croaked, as the leather tightened, "how can I tell what I don't know?"
"Think. I'll give you a half-minute."
Streaks of sweat showed on the turnkey's jaws.
"Ten seconds," said Pedro.
"Wait, Your Grace! Wait! I know who killed the messenger from Seville. They threw his body into the river. It was Tito el Fiero and his men. De Silva hired them."
"And this man Tito—where does he live?"
"On the Calle del Salvador near the market. But, my lord, if it came out that I—"
"It wdll not come out. If you know it, others of your kind know it. Tell me more of de Silva. What other rogue does he frequent or pay besides Tito?"
"Your Grace, I know of none."
"Think."
In an effort to say something, the wretch was probably fabUng, but he said hesitantly, "One night I saw him come out of the house of Pablo Stuiiiga."
"Who's he?"
"A rich merchant from the south, from Malaga. A moneylend
er. They say he's a converted Jew or a Morisco. But gentlemen only call on such a man when they're in trouble."
This might mean something or nothing. Don Francisco had spoken of the style maintained by de Silva, and moneylenders fitted into that pattern. But you have to have assets to raise money. Pedro had learned in Jaen that de Silva's fortune had been sunk in the American venture. Indeed, that had been the burden of the Marquis de Carvajal's grievance against him. Still, in the case of Stuniga, his court influence might be an asset.
Feeling that he had now got all he could from the turnkey and that some of it, notably the part relating to the murder of the messenger, might be usable, Pedro considered his next step. Evidently the carcelero was for sale to the highest bidder. If he could now be turned into a witness against de Silva, he would be of more use living than dead.
"You know," remarked Pedro, "that I am the kinsman and friend of Don Juan Alonso de Guzman, Duke of Medina Sidonia, and that the Duke has a long arm. He will not let the killing of his servant go unpunished, whoever is guilty. Also the Duke de Be jar backs General Cortes, whose representative I am. These are bigger men than Diego de Silva; they make safer patrons. Let us discuss matters."
Leaving his position behind the turnkey, Pedro once more drew up a chair.
"I take it," he went on, "that you are a poor, industrious man, with no special affection for de Silva beyond the money he pays you?"
"Yes, Your Grace. I have a large family."
"No doubt. Every rascal has a large family. Well, it happens that I am much richer than de Silva and, when it comes to my neck, I could perhaps use your services. Suppose tomorrow you should tell him the truth: that I did not drink the wine and remained up all night, so that with the best will in the world you were unable to murder me. You would lose nothing by that, eh?—except a mere one hundred pesos, especially as I would pay you double."
For the first time, the man's face relaxed; his eyes lighted up; he beamed.
"Ah, Your Grace makes a new man of me. I kiss your noble feet. I would let myself be cut into small pieces for the sake of your lordship."
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"Gracias. But now in addition, if you were assured of pardon and patronage, it might be worth your head's weight in gold to give testimony regarding tonight's attempt."
The turnkey pondered. "What assurance have I— "
''My word of honor. Think, homhre, if it came to the point, I could denounce you and have you put to the question."
The other nodded. "Captain de Vargas, I am your servant."
"And you will give testimony against this Tito el Fiero?"
"Not that, Your Grace. I might as well die now as later, for death would be certain. But I will point out others who could be forced to confess."
"A kindly thought," murmured de Vargas, fighting down his nausea at the fellow. "As for other testimony regarding the man Stufiiga—"
"Anything," agreed the turnkey, "anything Your Grace desires. I have a lively fancy."
"Restrain it, Seiior Carcelero. Keep to the truth if I call on you."
The fellow grinned. "Yes, your lordship, but I shall not understate it."
When Pedro released him from the chair, he kneeled and fawned over his new patron's hand. "Your Grace can count on me."
In reply, de Vargas lifted the pouch of gold which he had recovered from the turnkey and counted him out fifty pesos.
"A hundred and fifty more if you know what side your bread's buttered on. If you don't know, it will go hard with you."
"I have learned that. Your Magnificence."
Pedro saw him out with relief. Then, having made a pile of various articles in front of the door, so arranged that if anyone entered the noise would awake him, he stretched out on the bed.
But for a long time he remained open-eyed. Disgust at the assassin he had been dealing with mingled with the dread of tomorrow. He lay mapping out his defense, but suddenly another thought struck him. Not defense; he had nothing to defend. Everything turned on de Silva. It was not a matter of principle, but of personality. Expose him, and he had won. But the exposure had to be complete, immediately convincing, and final. Had he enough evidence at his disposal for this? No, not obvious, crushing evidence. Perhaps by luck, perhaps if he took a gambler's chance . . .
All at once he awoke to find sunlight in the room. The ordeal was close. Tomorrow had become today.
In the combination dining and audience hall of the palace, Charles of Austria that day followed the custom of the time by dining in public. He sat before an ample table with various covered dishes before him. At his back stood the table staff, which comprised two doctors of medicine, a court buffoon, and an assortment of pages under the direction of a steward. In front of him and around, at a respectful distance, lining the walls, was ranged the court, a mingling of Spaniards, Flemings, and Germans, whose deferential eyes rested on the plume of the Emperor's hat and on every movement of his jaws.
Businesslike in everything, Charles paid no attention at all to these onlookers. Dinner was a serious matter, to be got through efficiently and without small talk. The buffoon stood behind him as an article of court furniture, a depressed buffoon whose services were seldom called on.
The Emperor, having taken his place, cut a slice of bread into squares, each large enough for one bite. The pages removed the covers from one dish after the other (they all contained meat, fish, or fowl) and His Majesty nodded or shook his head as the whim of appetite directed. When he nodded, the pages stepped back, while the Emperor drew the dish towards him, stuck in his knife for what carving was necessary, then, raising the dish beneath his chin, used his fingers to eat with.
By God, whispered the court, it was marvelous how cleanly His Caesarean Majesty managed his victuals.
When he was thirsty, a motion of his hand brought one of the doctors with a silver flagon and a crystal cup. Charles then emptied the cup without stopping, but he restricted himself to three in the course of a meal.
The fine tapestries on the walls, and the still finer tapestry of satins, jewels, and brocades furnished by the courtiers, made a brilliant setting. Silence reigned except for the movement of the pages and now and then the cracking of a bone or a chicken wing.
Sometimes, though rarely, Charles's absorbed gaze wandered from his meat, resting an instant on one person or another; but the blue eyes revealed nothing. Today he noticed a tall figure he had never seen before, an elderly, black-clad man, straight and lean as a rapier, with a scornful lower lip and a hawk nose. He was evidently someone of distinction, for he was standing by the side of Don Inigo de Velasco,
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Constable of Castile. Charles at that time did not know the Spanish nobility half so well as he knew his Flemings and Germans. After glancing once or twice at the gentleman, he beckoned a page and asked in a low voice who it was.
"Your Caesarean Majesty, I believe it is the famous knight, Don Francisco de Vargas, about whom so much is told from the Italian wars. They say he was the bosom friend of the Great Captain."
"So!" said Charles, returning to his fowl, and the page dropped back.
After dinner, quill toothpicks were presented to the Emperor, who made careful use of them. He then rose, and the table was immediately removed, so that the dining hall became an audience room.
It was noticed that when my lord Constable approached with Don Francisco, His Majesty turned aside. It was noticed too that he pointedly overlooked the Senores Montejo and Puertocarrero when they bowed before him. And on the other hand, when he had seated liimself in one of the window recesses, it was noticed that he chatted pleasantly with the Bishop of Burgos and Diego de Silva.
"We'll be meeting soon, gentlemen," said Charles. "I believe we're to have the pleasure of inspecting this young pirate, de Vargas, eh? Au revoir!"
Shrewd courtiers gravitated toward the happy recipients of the imperial smile. Although superficially trifling, these were important events. The warfare o
f years, the future of New Spain, might depend on them.
Today Charles cut short the usual hour of audience and of hearing petitions. Being informed by the Grand Chancellor Gattinara that a certain prisoner summoned by His Majesty was being held at his orders outside, the Emperor rose from the window seat and took his purposeful way out between lines of bowing gentlemen.
"You'll admit my lord de Burgos and Senor de Silva to the cabinet," he told Gattinara. "Have the prisoner brought in."
"One word, sire," the other cautioned.
"Yes?"
"Keep an open mind. Much depends on it."
"Indeed, Monseigneur?" returned Charles stiffly. "What depends on it?"
"Justice, Your Majesty—and perhaps an empire."
As an indication that he was a prisoner rather than for any practical reason, Pedro wore light arm fetters when he was introduced into the imperial cabinet. The two halberdiers in front of him stood aside, and
he saw for the first time the King in whose service he had spent the past four years. The sight was not disillusioning, for Charles looked royal. At the moment the Emperor's eyes were cold as blue granite.
Then Pedro saw the lithe, poised figure of de Silva on the Emperor's left, and it took him an instant to overcome the convulsive tenseness that passed through him. The burly, truculent-looking churchman in purple, whom he rightly conjectured to be the Bishop of Burgos, interested him less, as did the lord who stood at the Emperor's right.
The halberdiers retired to the door; Pedro dropped to one knee.
"You may advance, Pedro de Vargas," said Charles, and when the prisoner stood in front of him, he added, "It is not our custom to examine rebels before their trial—we leave them to their judges—but in this case I could not resist looking at a man who has involved himself in so many crimes."
Though Pedro kept his eyes carefully turned away, he was still aware of de Silva's triumphant smile. But he answered levelly, "If my crimes have procured me the attention of Your gracious Majestv', I cannot regret them, all the more as they were committed for Your Majesty's service."
"God bless me!" Charles exclaimed. "You do not disappoint us. You steal a shipload of gold supposedly addressed to us and have the brass to claim that the theft was for our service."
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