“I do not know, Don Vicente,” I told him. “My family were Irish and they were destroyed in the wars.”
He looked at me gravely. “To be without family is bad. How then did you live?”
“As best I could,” I replied. “I had thought to be a soldier and win a way to command.”
“But is it not your custom to buy your commands?”
“It is. But sometimes—”
“Ah,” he exclaimed suddenly. “You are Irish! I know an Irishman! He is a general among us. General Hugo O’Connor!”
Startled, I looked up. “But I know him! And he knows me. Is it possible to see him then?”
“But of course! He is my very good friend, and a most able man. Come! We will go to him!”
On the way Don Vicente related several stories about the general. He had long lived in Spain, was much admired there, and was no longer thought of as other than Spanish. He had done well at the wars and lived in the finest style, and he was much trusted by the King.
The house itself was Moorish, undoubtedly one of those taken over from the Moors when they were driven out. The walls were stark and plain, with only a few high, barred windows, looking out upon the street.
The houses were largely square, with a central patio in which grew flowers and vines, usually around a fountain. The ground floor rooms opened upon the patio, and the upper story possessed a continuous balcony offering access to all the upper rooms. In summer, when the heat was great, the patio was cooled by water sprinkled on its pavement.
We pulled a cord that sounded a bell inside. After a short wait we were admitted to a dark, cool passage, the floor of tile in an interesting pattern, the walls covered with religious paintings. We were shown to a drawing room on the first floor, its walls adorned with tapestries. As the weather was cool, a fire burned on the hearth.
Several braziers were standing about also, containing olive stones which burned with very little odor.
We had scarcely entered when the door at the other side of the room opened and the general stepped in. He was a tall, powerfully made man thickening slightly about the waist, but a man of commanding presence. He was dark and swarthy, Black Irish, as I was in most of my ancestry. He wore a pointed beard, carefully trimmed, and mustaches. He was dressed now in black with a heavy gold chain around his neck and a gold-hilted sword.
He glanced first at me, then started to speak to Don Vicente. Then he paused, looking back at me. “Do I not know you?”
“Don Hugo,” Don Vicente said, “I wish you to meet Captain Tatton Chantry. He was taken by me from a British ship. He has said that he knows you.”
For a moment I was in a quandary. The name Tatton Chantry would mean nothing to this man, yet he had seemed to recognize me.
“Do not be surprised at the name,” I spoke in Gaelic, “it is one I have chosen to wear. He who owned it is now dead. He died at our house, in fact, long ago.”
Hugo O’Connor studied me carefully. “It cannot be that you are…? No, no, they are all killed.”
“My father was killed. I escaped. I was advised, General, to tell my name to no one, but I must assume that it is known to you. Do you remember Ballycarbery?”
“It was near there, was it?” He spoke in Gaelic and looked at me again. “Aye, you have the look of them, great fighters all, and strong men, but thoughtful men, too! Aye…but how did you escape?”
“The story is over long for the telling here,” I said, also in Gaelic. “I am Don Vicente’s prisoner, and he has spoken of ransom. I have no money, and no friends. I have lived by trade and a little by writing. I have some ventures now at sea, but unless I return to England—”
“To England? You are daft, lad. If they find you it is the headsman’s axe or hanging.”
“Nonetheless, I intend to buy back the land that was mine, or a part of it. I wish to live again where we did when you came to visit us, when you hunted upon the moors with my father. It is my home, and I long for the view of the sea there, the rocky shores and the high meadows. I will have it again, General.”
“Aye,” he said gloomily, “I miss it myself. But come! We cannot carry on in Gaelic and leave our friend standing.”
He turned to Don Vicente. “I do know him, and I cannot thank you enough for behaving toward him as you have done. You have been gracious and considerate.”
He paused. “It is a delicate matter, Don Vicente. This man is no ordinary seafaring man, nor even a soldier. He is of the blood royal, although a man without domains.”
Don Vicente shrugged. “I guessed as much. He has the manner.”
We seated ourselves and our talk was in Spanish, and pleasant enough it was. General O’Connor I found to be an urbane and charming gentleman, a skillful politician as well as a military man. To have survived and advanced himself to his present status in a foreign country was proof enough of that.
“We must talk again,” he said finally. “Do you come when you can.” To Don Vicente he said, “We can certainly reach some understanding.”
Two days later we met again. “You must have a care,” O’Connor warned me, “for there are spies about.”
“Spies for the Inquisition?”
“Yes. You are Irish. If they suspect who you are, you will be murdered. There are also those in Spain who are spies for England. They suspect all Irishmen of plotting against England, so all are suspect.”
“I am not thought to be Irish, but from the Hebrides.”
“Ah? A nice thought, that. It may help. In the meanwhile, what is it you wish to do?”
“To return to England. I have my ventures there.”
“I am afraid that will be impossible. Ransom can be arranged, I think, and luckily for you, Don Vicente is your friend. However, even he is powerless against the Inquisition. And no matter what your beliefs, they will wish to question you if you should draw attention to yourself. There are those among them who do not take kindly to any foreigner in their land. Even we who fight for Spain are suspect.”
“Where then should I go? What should I do?”
“I would suggest the Lowlands. I am taking a detachment of troops to join the Duke of Parma there. You will volunteer. That will take you away from their eyes to where much can be done.”
“You are very kind.”
“Kind? No, not kind. We Irish serving abroad have learned we must stand together. You are one of us, even though what your family was they will never be again—not in the lifetime of any who now live, at least.”
We talked the hours away, and planned the steps that must be taken. If I were to volunteer to serve in the Spanish army no thought of ransom would remain, although a small indemnity might have to be paid. I knew naught of such matters and left negotiations in the hands of General O’Connor, who had much experience.
In the meanwhile, I fenced each day and rode with Don Vicente over his estates in the country. By night I read much in the admirable library Don Vicente possessed. I say possessed, but this was all he did with the books. For I discovered with some surprise that he could not read, disdaining the practice as not befitting a gentleman. The library had been in the home when it was taken by his grandfather from the Moors. Some of the books were in Arabic, of which I knew nothing, but most were in Latin, at which I was proficient.
Yet every day and every night I bethought me of ways by which I might escape once I had reached the Lowlands, for my only wish was to return to England and my ventures, such as they might be. And each day in Spain I must walk with care, for I was free only upon a whim of circumstance and might at any time be imprisoned.
Carefully, I had avoided women. In England those I met were not the sort who appealed to me. Those I was meeting in Spain were ladies of great houses and ladies of the court. To give attention to such women even if they wished for it was to incur trouble from some other less favored man. And
true it was that with Don Vicente and General O’Connor I constantly met women, many of whom were lovely.
Although I was permitted to move about with seeming freedom I knew I was not free, that I was under observation most if not all the time. My movements, comments, and actions were subject to scrutiny.
Meanwhile I was learning a good deal about the Spanish army from General O’Connor. “Many Germans and Irish serve with us,” he explained. “Young Spanish men of good family wish to avoid service, as do many of the others. A few years ago volunteers thronged to serve, but now they grow fewer. Yet it is a good army, and the men are well trained.”
“How long,” I asked him, “will it remain so if the citizens themselves do not wish to serve? In ancient Rome the mercenaries soon controlled the government, and I hear it has been so in other places as well.”
The general shrugged. “I ask only to serve. When we lack for government or army of our own, some of us must needs find careers where we can. I am loyal to Spain because it is Spain that gave me opportunity to be so. But you are right. Those who do not wish to be bothered with service to their country soon find there are others only too willing to occupy the places they shun. Those who shunned service soon become the servants rather than the masters.”
Suddenly I was restless. Too long had I remained inactive and I wished to be about my business. I was never one who could spend my days in social activity, no matter how pleasant. I said as much.
“Soon,” O’Connor said. “We are preparing now to send men to the Lowlands. I shall see that you are among the first to go.” He paused then, walking to the window that overlooked the narrow street. “You know,” he suggested, “there are worse lives than this. You have started well. You have made a place for yourself here.
“Don Vicente likes you. You are important to him as evidence of his first success, but he obviously likes you personally, as does his family. They have great power here, and I am sure your every success would be considered a success of their own.”
“That may be as you suggest,” I replied, “but my future must be elsewhere. I must return to my own country.”
“Sooner or later they would find you out.”
“That may be, but there I must go. I will serve with you, and serve you well, but sooner or later I must return to Ireland.”
“Very well.” He buckled his sword. “It is time for me to go. You are meeting Don Vicente?”
“I am. We are going to some races. I—”
“A moment!” O’Connor lifted a hand. “I have been meaning to warn you. There are family feuds here in Spain as well as in Ireland, and Don Vicente and his family have enemies. Only last night one of my people informed me that Don Vicente is in grave danger.
“He is fiercely proud, as are all hidalgos. His enemies intend to destroy him, and with him the pride of his family. For as you know, he is an only child.”
“Destroy him? How?”
“One of their number is Don Fernand Sarmiento. He is one of the finest swordsmen in Spain, and lately returned to Spain from France, where I understand he killed two men in duels. For one reason or another, he is desperate to establish a pretext for challenging Don Vicente.”
“You are sure of this?”
“I am. One of the principal ways of remaining secure in a country not your own is to be aware, to know where the power lies, and what moves are being made. Long ago I established my own lines of communication. Believe me, my information is reliable.”
I considered what General O’Connor had said and debated what best I might do.
Warn my friend? That would do no good, for his pride was such that he would not flee from danger, or even try to avoid it. In fact, to warn him might only precipitate the situation I would be trying to avoid.
I had fenced much with Don Vicente, and held my skill from sight, careful not to seem too proficient, but to let him have the better of me at times. After all, he was my friend, and what had I to gain by proving myself better than he? With a skillful swordsman for an enemy, Don Vicente would have no chance at all.
The place we had elected to start out for the races could scarcely have been worse. It was at the top of the Calle Mayor where stood the church of San Felipe el Real, where people of the arts—writers, painters, dramatists, and others of the theater—were wont to meet. Mingled with them were young gallants of the town, soldiers home from the wars—and many another who called himself soldier but who avoided any battle other than those found in taverns or boudoirs.
Standing there, awaiting Don Vicente’s arrival, I listened to the talk and laughter, the witticisms and attempts at such with only a piece of my mind. Rather, I wondered what it was I should do.
Don Vicente’s conduct toward me had been most courteous. Without his influence I should have been in prison or pulling an oar in a galley.
Suddenly I heard a strange voice behind me. “Luís? This is my friend Don Fernand Sarmiento.”
“A pleasure, señor!” said the man named Luís. “You are to be in Madrid for long?”
“A few days only. I regret, but it is true. A small mission here, and then I shall return to Málaga.”
Another voice broke in. “Quiet now! He comes.”
And indeed I saw Don Vicente approaching. They must have known of his coming, and been awaiting him here. He must often come this way…that might be it. But there might also be a spy in his household, someone in Vicente’s own establishment. Yet the servants whom I knew were fiercely loyal, or seemed to be.
Don Vicente came up the steps. “Tatt! You are here before me! I am sorry, for I would not have you wait.”
“Think nothing of it,” I said. “Down the street there is a place—”
Don Fernand had turned sharply, bumping into Don Vicente. Instantly, I stepped between them. “Señor!” I spoke sharply. “You are rude!”
For a moment he hesitated, his eyes going from Don Vicente to me. It was Vicente with whom he wanted to quarrel, not I.
He was a narrow-visaged man with piercing black eyes and a face somewhat pocked, a lean and savage man. “Out of my way!” he said. “I have no business with you!”
“But you do, señor. And you have a sword with which to conduct it.”
Trapped, he glared at me. Dropping his hand to the hilt of his sword, he spoke in what he meant to be a menacing tone. “Once more, señor, I command you. Step aside! I do not wish to kill you!”
CHAPTER 25
“HAVE NO WORRIES, señor. It will be my pleasure to see that you do not.”
He frowned, furious, yet hesitant. It was Don Vicente whom he intended to kill. Who in God’s name was I, this interloper, this stranger?
“Who are you?” he said. “I know you not!”
“Captain Tatton Chantry, señor. At your service, if you are not a coward?”
“A coward? For that I’ll—!”
“But not on the steps of a church, señor. There must be a secluded corner where we can enjoy the festivities.”
“In the alleyway then, and I’ll slit your gullet.”
“What has come over you?” Don Vicente was astonished. “He sought to evade the quarrel!”
Another man, a slim and handsome fellow with red mustaches, had come to stand beside us. “It was you, señor,” he said to Vicente, “it was you I believe he wanted. The man is a famous matón, a killer for hire.”
Don Vicente’s lips tightened. “If it was I he sought, then it is I who must fight him.”
“I am sorry, my friend,” I said gently. “It may have been you he intended to fight, but it is I who named him a coward. Therefore, I must give him satisfaction.”
“That is the way of it,” our new friend said, and then he added, “I am Tomás O’Crowley, an officer in His Spanish Majesty’s service.” He bowed slightly. “I have heard your name spoken, Captain Chantry. We are to be
brother officers in the Lowlands, I believe. If you please, I should like to be your second in this affair.”
“I accept the offer. Shall we go? I have no wish to keep them waiting.” Turning to Vicente, I said quietly, “Keep your back to the wall. It is you they wished to kill, and he may have others with him.”
The alley was a cool and quiet place, and secluded. As I approached, Don Fernand Sarmiento had drawn his sword and was waiting.
“Come! Let us have done with this!” he exclaimed impatiently. “You, Señor Whoever-You-Are! On guard!”
I was young, and he who faced me older. It was his mistake that he coupled my youth with the assumption that I must also be inexperienced and therefore impetuous. He was cool, adept, and disdainful. My whole intent had one purpose: to catch him out of time, for timing is of the greatest importance.
My opponent was a killer, hired for the task, yet I was not his prey. Therefore he wished to be rid of me quickly. In several brief exchanges he seemed to have the better of me, yet I had learned to trust to my subconscious instinct for the proper moment of attack. When it came…he lunged. His recovery was a little slow, but my riposte was not. My cut was for the cheek but my point was a bit low—or perhaps he shifted his head at just the wrong instant. My point struck his jawbone and was deflected downward. He took four inches of my blade through his neck.
My withdrawal was instantaneous but already he was choking on his own blood. I stepped back, blade still on guard. And it was well that I kept it so, for in one wild, vicious effort he swung the edge of his sword at me with a wide cut, in a desperate effort to take me with him.
My blade caught his and deflected it, although the power of the cut was staggering.
He stumbled forward, his own point striking the pavement as he fell. Then he rolled over, face upward, his ruff stained red with blood, his eyes already glazing.
“I think,” O’Crowley suggested, “we had best be away from here.”
“Just one thing more,” I said, my naked blade still in my hand. “You, who came with him. Tell your master there is to be no more of this. If other matónes are sent to do his bloody work, tell him that I shall seek him out, and he shall pay, not such as this.” I gestured toward Sarmiento.
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