Captain from Castile

by Samuel Shellabarger; Internet Archive

  Pedro felt a hand on his shoulder: he had forgotten the Marquis.

  "But, my boy," quavered Carvajal, "you're not following that devil with but seven men. I told you he had fifteen. Stay here till morning and raise help from the Knights of St. John. They have a commandery here."

  "Yes, and let the fellow put more space between us! No. He'll halt at Herencia, but he may not stop there. The mountains begin at that point. If we miss him at Herencia, we may lose track of him. Have no fear, Your Grace, a surprise adds numbers to the attack, as General Cortes used to say."

  "And what of me?" Carvajal demanded. "Is this courtesy to leave an old man, abandoned by his servants, in an evil hostel, when the reason I am here is to be of service to you?"

  Davila clanked up with Pedro's armor. Pedro lifted his arms to facilitate the fitting of the cuirass.

  "Service to me?"

  "Of course. As soon as I could drag myself from bed, I set out to lend you my help at court. My word is ever my bond. It is to insure the continuance of your good fortune that I have undertaken this grievous journey. With my constant presence, protection, and advice, you will secure even higher honors than His Majesty has already conferred. Instead of knighthood, perhaps even a marquisate or a county. You have wealth. By skillful management, a proper sum to the proper person—"

  "Tighten the gorget, Cipriano," de Vargas directed. "Never take chances on the throat. A lucky thrust there, and the game's up."

  "You're not listening," snapped the Marquis.

  "On the contrary. Your Grace, I'm all attention. You were saying a bribe here and a tip there under your direction might get me a condado or a marquesado?"

  "Yes, we must not stop with knighthood. You should manage your

  cards at court to the best advantage. You need a councilor of experience like me. Ah, if it had not been for the cursed gout, I should have been with you sooner, and your affairs would have taken an even better turn."

  "No doubt. . . . The pauldrons, good Cipriano."

  "Therefore, surely," Carvajal persisted, "you will give me your company this evening. And we shall consider matters: whether I should continue on to Valladolid and there await your return, or whether I shall go back to Jaen under your escort."

  "The vambraces, Cipriano."

  Carvajal drew himself up. "I am not accustomed to inattention. When you are at leisure, I shall expect to have your ear."

  The Marquis reseated himself with great dignity on the bench. The arming proceeded until finally nothing remained to put on but the casque.

  "Now have one of the men help you, friend Davila," said Pedro, "and look well to the joints in your harness. We may have hot work, if God gives us luck."

  Then, with his casque under one arm, he turned to the Marquis. Actually, so far as Carvajal was concerned, he had reached the breaking point. Did the old timeserver take him for an idiot? Any fool could see through his present maneuver.

  Perhaps if Pedro had not been absorbed by the thought of de Silva, he would have been less direct. But the need for haste set him on tenter-i hooks. He had no time for flourishes.

  "Well?" he said.

  "My boy, as one who is soon to occupy the position of a second father to you, I have the right to demand your deference and command your attendance. I have explained why you should remain here this evening." The Marquis added a hint of the direst threat he could imagine. "Your union with my daughter is not yet consummated. I should be loath to have anything arise which might affect it. As you see, I have made a considerable sacrifice in your behalf."

  "Then, sir," returned Pedro, "I shall be frank. I value your sacrifice as it deserves: at the weight of a counterfeit hlanca, or perhaps at the weight of your daughter's prayers, which are the only help I have had from your house. Go to Valladolid or return to Jaen as you please. I have more pressing matters to consider. But do not ever again, my lord, treat me as an imbecile who accepts false money for good coin and is grateful. In short, sir, you command neither my deference, my attendance, nor anything else of mine."

  Amazement and shock struck Carvajal dumb. He could only stare back at Pedro. It was not until the latter had slipped the casque over his head and was on the point of turning away that the Marquis found his tongue again.

  "Indeed, sir? And the betrothal? Do you think that vows once taken can be dafFed aside on a whim? That my daughter can be insulted and disgraced at your pleasure, ha? The law will have something to say to that."

  Davila entered. "We're ready, Your Excellency."

  An odd gleam showed in de Vargas's eyes. He knew that the Marquis would be open to a financial proposal; but he was damned if he would make one. Instead, a hankering which had beset him for a long time seemed on the point of fulfillment.

  "The betrothal stands, if you please," he returned. "That's your affair."

  And, reaching out, he indulged himself by pulling the Marquis de Carvajal's beard.

  "Take note of that, Davila. And now, by God, we'll spur."

  LXXXV

  III luck attended the pursuers from the outset. They had not covered the nine miles to Herencia when Gampeador cast a shoe and another of the horses went lame. An autumn drizzle set in, which made the going no better; so that it was at a shamble that the little troop entered the outskirts of the village. Here Pedro called a halt, while one of the men went forward to reconnoiter the inn. He returned to report that a party of cahalleros had indeed stopped for a drink an hour and a half ago, but had then turned up into the mountains.

  Gonfronted by an impossibility, de Vargas was forced to give in. Fatigue, night, weather, and unknown roads were all against him. He reasoned that de Silva, who had probably been hiding in one of the mountain ranges south of Valladolid—perhaps even in the near-by Montes de Toledo—had fresh horses as compared with his own, and that Tito el Fiero was enough in touch with other bandit leaders to insure a safe passage for their party through the sierras. Probably they would not hit the main road again until they had crossed the Sierra Morena and were in sight of Jaen. This meant that, while Pedro followed the highway, de Silva was taking short cuts which would increase

  his lead. The one chance was that, not knowing himself to be pursued, he would ride at a more leisurely pace. But one could not count on that, and the cost of failure to reach Jaen before him came too high to think of calmly.

  "Why is de Silva breaking cover just now?" Davila wondered that evening, as they talked things over in the wretched little tavern. "He's had over a month to get clear."

  Pedro shook his head. "Man, I hate the fellow as I hate hell; but, to do him justice, he has the wits of fox, wolf, and snake in one. Go to earth until the hue and cry dies down, then make a dash for it. He has a better chance that way than when the hunt was hot."

  Two long, anxious days followed. For the sake of speed, a selection was made from the available mounts; but even so, the party seemed to Pedro to crawl. And though he inquired at each crossroads, he got no news of de Silva's troop.

  It was only at Linares, fifteen miles from Jaen, that they once more picked up the scent. Yes, a company of armed horsemen from the mountains had passed through two hours since. They had taken the Jaen road.

  Two hours since and fifteen miles to go and darkness again falling. Pedro and his squire took council together under the eaves of the tavern yard. No fresh horses could be procured except at a prohibitive cost of time. The servants, less well mounted than de Vargas and Davila, had to be left behind.

  "Well then, amigo" de Vargas concluded, "I'm riding on. You can come if you please, but I advise against it. Two against fifteen was considered big odds even in the company. I'll not think the less of you— in fact, you'll be showing sense—and it's not your quarrel."

  The squire's answer was a laugh. "I thought Your Excellency knew that my name is Davila."

  Pedro clapped him on the shoulder. "I apologize. I ought to know that men of your house never stay behind."

  Having bid farewell to the servants, de Vargas
swung into his saddle. "So then, Gipriano, adelante"

  The rain had stopped, and the sky had broken into scattered clouds with a silvering of moon between. But the road was dark, so that the riders kept alert for any stumble on its uneven surface. They leaned well forward on the horses' shoulders to ease them of the weight of the armor as much as possible.

  It was ten o'clock when the walls and towers of Jaen showed vaguely

  to the right, and for a moment Pedro hesitated. Should he add another half-mile to the distance from the Rosario by riding to the city gate, rousing the watchmen, and calling for reinforcements? That would mean not only farther to go, when ever)' furlong made a difference to the jaded horses, but it meant a loss of precious time. So, deciding against it, he kept straight on along the mountain road.

  At this point, Campeador and Davila's horse showed signs of collapse. They had covered three hundred miles from Valladolid in five days of poor weather and hard roads. They had been under saddle today since before dawn. Faced now by a steep climb, they came to a jog, then to a stiff walk.

  "We'll hold up a moment," Pedro said desperately. "After that, if we kill them, they'll have to make it."

  Reaching back to the cantle of his saddle, he unhooked a flask of aguardiente. "Here, Davila, pour this into them. It may do the trick." And while the squire, forcing open the jaws of the horses, emptied the flask, Pedro sat on edge with impatience.

  "Friend Cipriano," he went on, "in what lies ahead (that is, if we're not too late) we must use our wits as much as our steel. Unless they're idiots, a troop like that, bent on such work, will have outposts to ward off surprise. I look for a couple before we reach the inn."

  Fired by the brandy, the horses could now be worked up again to a labored gallop. Breathing like bellows, they got within a half-mile of the Rosario, when suddenly three riders, edging out from the blackest side of the road, seemed undetermined whether to challenge or to head toward the inn.

  "Ha, homhres!" Pedro hailed. "The Sefior de Silva and Seiior Tito, are they at the appointed place?"

  "Who are you?" returned one of the fellows.

  Pedro and Davila rode up. "Friends from Valladolid, and a damned hard chase we've had. We've good news for the gentlemen. That dog de Vargas has got his. Our friend did for him."

  "Fernando, you mean?"

  "Aye."

  They were now close together, knee to knee. Pedro had loosened his mace from his saddlebow.

  "You'll be welcome," said the other. "There're lively doings at the inn. I'm surprised the place isn't on fire yet. Cursed luck that I'm missing—"

  "A ellos!" shouted Pedro, swinging his mace sideways just under the man's steel cap. At the same moment, he spurred Campeador, lifting

  him to his haunches and bringing him down on another rider, who sank with his horse to be trampled under the war steed's hoofs. Davila had buried his poniard in the third fellow's face.

  "Bravo!" said de Vargas. They spurred on, leaving the wreckage behind. "We'll see how that trick works in the tavern courtyard. No doubt there's someone on guard there."

  Pedro's heart was in his mouth as he neared the Rosario. It looked to him curiously dead and sinister under the broken clouds. Drawing close, he thought that he heard a commotion inside; but he was evidently mistaken, for a moment later the place seemed wrapped in silence. Then with a mutter, half-oath, half-prayer, he turned through the archway into the courtyard.

  It contained a number of horses tethered under the eaves of the surrounding sheds, but he could see no attendant until, glancing toward the lighted windows of the common room, he noticed a figure peering in. So absorbed was the man that he did not turn to look when Pedro and Davila dismounted. Evidently he assumed that they were a couple of the outposts. When he did turn, it was too late. Davila's heavy sword nearly severed his neck.

  A muffled cry, followed by an outburst of oaths and laughter, broke the stillness inside the tavern. Paying no attention to the sprawling body of the man whom Davila had dispatched, Pedro and the squire in their turn now peered through the window.

  Beyond a tangle of overturned or broken benches and tables, which, together with a couple of outstretched forms on the floor, bore witness to the desperate fight that had just taken place, de Vargas's eyes fixed themselves on a center of light, where a roaring fire swept up the chimney of the great hearth. In front of it, forming a semicircle, Pedro could see the backs of some ten men seated or standing; but instantly his attention was drawn to two dangling figures that evidently absorbed the group of onlookers.

  Swung up, each by their wrists, to a beam that crossed the projecting canopy of the hearth, a couple of men hung just beyond the reach of the flames. Since their feet did not quite touch the floor, the involuntary writhing of their scorched legs gave the impression of a grotesque dance that excited the merriment of their tormentors.

  "Go it, Sancho!" sounded a rough voice from the circle. "Lift up your heels! By God, for a fat man, I'll say you're nimble!"

  Obviously de Silva was making good the threat that Carvajal had

  overheard of burning the innkeeper at a slow fire. The clothes of the

  J. victims had not yet caught but were already smoking. As Pedro looked,

  one of the bodies swung around, and he recognized dimly the features of Sancho Lopez. The huge broad-shouldered figure who hung beside him was unmistakable. In the next instant, a deep voice of helpless rage brought Pedro's heart into his throat.

  Juan Garcia!

  Then de Vargas caught sight of another form slumped over a table, which had apparently served as a barricade. The face was hidden, but he could see the dark hair and limp hands.

  Catana!

  His guess had been right, but he had come too late.

  An icy madness possessed him. It sharpened all his faculties and focused them. He stepped back from the window.

  "Look, Davila," he said tonelessly, "there're two doors to the room. You take that one; I'll go in here. And, mind you, raise a yell as if you were ten men, when you open the door. Put the fear of God into the bastards. Whatever happens, remember de Silva—he mustn't get away. Now, then, both together!"

  Fascinated by their pastime and a little drunk, the toughs in front of the fire were caught unprepared when the two doors crashed open at the same instant.

  ''Santiago y a ellos!"

  Instinctively Pedro gave the shout of the company. A second later he had crossed the room, converging with Davila upon the startled group before it had time to face around.

  "Santiagor

  De Vargas had been reckoned a great swordsman even among the swordsmen of Cortes, but tonight passion turned him into something more. His broad battle blade—ax and sword in one—rose, wheeled and sank, as if it had been no more than a rapier. Two men went down in the first moment. He hammered the clenched steel gauntlet of his free hand on the head of another. His sword crashed through a fourth man's pauldron, through flesh and bone. Reaching Garcia and Lopez, he cut them free with quick jerks of his dagger, paused an instant over the motionless form of Catana, then turned again upon the panic-stricken ruffians, who were scuttling toward the doors.

  But where was de Silva? Had he somehow slipped past? Had he been out of the room? Where was Davila?

  Emerging from beyond the threshold, a couple, locked together, reeled back toward the center of the room; and Pedro saw his squire grappling with a tall figure in light harness. One steel arm was about the other's waist, but de Silva's grip immobilized Davila's sword hand,

  while the former's dagger could find no mark on the squire's cuirass. Then, with a trip and a twist, de Silva got his opponent off his feet and fell on top of him, his knife poised above the young man's vizor slit.

  Pedro sprang forward with a shout. But the blow never fell. Instead, a bench hurled by someone from behind caught de Silva on the side of the head, throwing him off balance for a second; and in that second Davila, rolling over like a cat, locked his gauntlets around de Silva's throat.
>
  Pedro was dimly aware of Garcia, followed by Sancho Lopez, hurtling past him and out through the door in pursuit of the remaining bandits. The vizor of his helmet, which had been cut loose during the fight, slanted in front of his eyes, and he paused in exasperation to tear off his helmet, calling at the same time, "Hold, Cipriano! You've won the reward, but leave the dog to me!" And prying loose Davila's grip, he hauled de Silva to his feet.

  For an instant, the two foes stood facing each other, the years of hatred and treachery between them, between them too the consciousness of Catana's motionless body at the near-by table.

  "Remember," said Pedro half under his breath, "when I made you renounce God in order to save your pitiful life? Eh? Remember? I thought I had paid you then for my sister. But you lived to run up the score. I wanted you to roast in hell then. I suppose if I set you to roast before that fire now, I could make you curse God again. It's well for you that I've taken a foolish vow. So now pray for your soul if you have one. I tell you pray."

  De Silva's white face seemed impassive. Then a sudden grimace convulsed it. "Pray yourself, you obscenity!" he snarled and, leaping forward, plunged his knife point down on Pedro's bare head.

  The steel bit in, but a backward jerk turned the blow into only a gash across the forehead. Though half-blinded by the rush of blood, de Vargas could still see well enough to swing his sword with every ounce of strength behind it against the angle of his opponent's neck and shoulder.

  De Silva staggered, sank to his knees, then plunged forward. It took an instant to free the blade from the already lifeless body.

  "God's justice," said de Vargas. "You've witnessed an execution, friend Davila."

  Pedro sheathed his sword and stood looking down at de Silva, but at the moment he did not think of him. He thought of Catana. Vengeance and, indeed, everything else seemed unimportant.

  "Seiior!"

  Startled, Pedro turned and, hardly believing his eyes, saw Catana supporting herself with one hand on the table edge. Her lips were parted, her cheeks white. He gazed at her as if she were a vision.