He was dressed in a plain tunic and hose, knee-high riding boots and a short cloak spattered with dirt and dust from the road. Only the fine sword at his hip gave a clue that he might be a nobleman’s son, and he didn’t stand on ceremony, allowing the dogs to leap at him, licking his face and further muddying his clothes.
“Down, you hounds of Hell,” he cried, pretending to lash the animals away with his riding crop, “you fiends, you curs! Obey your master! Let me alone, for pity’s sake!”
“I’ve rarely seen them so excited,” said Eleanor, folding her arms and leaning against a wall as she watched the show, “usually they skulk about in the yard, gnawing on kitchen scraps and growling at anyone who comes near.”
Startled by her voice, Felipe looked up. “Lady,” he gulped, getting his cloak and scabbard tangled as he attempted a clumsy bow, “forgive me, I didn’t know you were there.”
Eleanor shrugged. He was not much older than her, she judged, but about half her age in terms of maturity. “There is nothing to forgive. A man can play with his dogs if he likes. Your parents, however, may think otherwise.”
“My parents…” Don Felipe’s voice trailed away as he suddenly realized who this slender, confident young girl must be. He swallowed, and groped for words, but was rescued by the appearance of Doña Adelina.
The mistress of the household stood framed in the doorway, a burly and intimidating figure, bristling with aggression. There was no sign of her husband.
“Felipe,” she said in a voice dripping with quiet menace, “what in the name of God are you doing here? You were not sent for.”
The young man’s naturally ruddy complexion paled a little, but he stood up straight to face her. Adelina’s presence dampened the joyful spirit of the dogs. They retreated to the yard with flattened ears and tails tucked between their legs, clearly mindful of their mistress’s temper.
“I came home because I was deadly bored in the country, mother,” he replied with a note of defiance in his voice that pleased Eleanor, “cousin Rodrigo is a bore, and farming is a bore. I also came because I wished to see this bride that was picked out for me so many years ago.”
His mother flashed a dark glance at Eleanor. “There she stands,” she said, “and I wish you joy of her. God knows she has brought none to this house. Both of you are dead to propriety, it seems, so at least you have something in common.”
Eleanor was surprised. This was pretty tame stuff from Adelina, whom she had expected to erupt upon seeing Eleanor escaped from her room and talking to her betrothed before the wedding day. Despite her disapproving words, the unexpected return of her son seemed to have softened her, and an awkward silence descended.
Felipe broke first. “I would like to see father, if he is here.”
“He is in his study, as always. I should have thought the howling of those foolish dogs was enough to rouse even him, but apparently not. Come through to the hall and I will send a servant to summon him.”
Felipe moved towards the doorway, and remembered Eleanor. Blushing again, he half-turned and gave another awkward little bow, before hurrying away, a chick fleeing to its mother. Adelina caught him in a fierce embrace, kissed him on both cheeks and then glared over his shoulder with pure malice in her little eyes.
This is my son, madam, the glare seemed to say, you are not worthy of him, and we both know it. Tread carefully.
Knowing it was foolish, but unable to resist, Eleanor grinned back at her.
The second unexpected twist stemmed from Don Fernandez. On the morning after his son’s return, Eleanor heard a key turning in the lock on her bedroom door (Doña Adelina had banished her back there, and placed a better guard on the door) and that serious old gentleman entered.
“Doña Eleanor,” he said, pausing in the doorway, “I trust I am not disturbing you.”
Eleanor had been sitting on the window seat and gazing listlessly out into the little garden below, where there was a little pool and a grove of orange and lemon trees. She stood up and smoothed her dress.
“Not at all, sir,” she replied, bracing herself for a dull conversation, “and I welcome your company. One soon grows tired of one’s own.”
He nodded and paced carefully into the room, quietly pushing the door shut behind him. He made a little coughing noise, folded his hands behind his back, and frowned at the floor.
“You don’t wish,” he said, seeming to choose his words carefully, “to marry my son.”
A chill passed through Eleanor. It was impossible to gauge the old man’s mood, but she was suddenly aware that her future depended on what she said next.
“With respect, you are wrong, sir,” she replied politely, “I wish for nothing else in the world.”
“Lying to me will do you no good. Try again.”
Eleanor lost patience. “Very well. I have no objection to Don Felipe, since I have only seen him once and he seems personable enough. But I have no wish to marry a man I don’t know, I have no wish to live a life that has been pre-determined for me, and I have no wish to be treated like a brood mare and die young of boredom or in childbed, as seems to be the fate Doña Adelina wishes on me.”
He remained gazing at the floor, though his frown deepened and a few more lines appeared in his hollow-cheeked face.
“You speak your mind too readily,” he remarked, pulling at his nether lip, “that is a worry, but perhaps something that can be worked on. Is it worth the effort, though?”
Eleanor felt unbalanced, and had no idea what he was talking about. She said nothing, waiting for him to make his meaning clear.
Now he did look up, and something like a smile twitched at the corners of his shrivelled mouth. “However, you do know when to keep quiet. That is something. Doña Eleanor, I am not a cruel man, and have no wish to inflict a joyless life on someone so young, and with such a rare independence of character. In return for you making my son happy, and his mother, I will offer you something.”
For a ghastly moment Eleanor thought he was about to proposition her. Visions rose in her mind of his dry, emaciated body crawling all over her in bed, and the bile rose in her throat.
“I want you to meet someone,” he said, making no move towards her, “someone important. Very important. He can help you live the life you want, and serve Castile at the same time. It will mean journeying to Seville.”
A wave of relief flooded through Eleanor, drowning her natural caution. “Please,” she said with more eagerness than she intended, “tell me more.”
6.
We have already met Don Juan Alonso de Albuquerque, in his younger days as Ensign to King Alfonso. He had not been idle in the years following Alfonso’s victory at Rio Salado, but continued to claw his way up the rungs of power in Castile. By the time of Alfonso’s death from plague, Albuquerque counted among the truly great ones in the land. As capable as he was ambitious, he had become the King’s right-hand man, Prime Minister and Grand Chancellor, as well as lord of many castles and estates in Portugal and Castile.
The death of his master threw the kingdom into a state of flux, and Albuquerque was quickest to snatch up the threads of power that had suddenly torn loose. From his power base at Seville, the capital of Castile, he wove webs, forged and broke alliances, and did all he could to hold on to power.
Above all, he laboured to maintain his influence over the new King of Castile, Pedro, son of the late King by his neglected wife, Maria of Portugal. Pedro was young, only sixteen years old, and not yet alive to the possibilities and temptations of kingship.
In his private quarters in the upper levels of the Moors’ Palace in Seville, the official royal residence, Albuquerque sat and ran his shrewd grey eye over his latest potential agent.
“This one is very young,” he remarked after a long moment of silent scrutiny, “and I do not normally entrust work to striplings. Why do you have such confidence in her, Don Fernandez?”
The knight of Toledo, who was standing by Eleanor’s side, swallowed hard before r
eplying. Usually such a composed, self-contained man, he was nervous in his master’s presence.
Eleanor could appreciate why. The short, dapper man behind his enormous desk of dark polished wood radiated authority. Elegantly but simply dressed in black robes and floppy black hat, a close look at Albuquerque was enough to indicate that here was a man not to be trifled with. There was an odd youthfulness about him, though he was in his late forties, his plain, unremarkable face shaved as smooth as glass, his grey hair neatly cropped. His power was all in the eyes, steely blue orbs that judged and condemned and never showed any trace of human feeling. He also had a habit of tapping the tips of his long white fingers that Eleanor imagined must drive his wife mad, assuming he had one.
“She has an iron will, a certain independence of mind, and a fine education,” Don Fernandez replied in his deep, sombre voice, “true, she is also headstrong and inclined to speak her mind, but these are the vices of youth. I believe she has the makings of someone who could be useful to your lordship.”
Albuquerque sniffed, and tilted his head to one side. “How is your father, girl?” he asked, ignoring Don Fernandez.
“He is well, thank you, lordship.” Her voice sounded thin and hollow to her ears, swallowed up in the musty semi-darkness of Albuquerque’s study. Outside the streets of Seville baked in brilliant sunshine, but he had ordered lattices to be set up over the windows to block out the light.
“I remember him at Rio Salado. He was very brave. I made a promise to him that I would find a good husband for his daughter. I don’t like breaking promises, least of all to a kinsman.”
Don Fernandez stepped in hurriedly. “There is no question of breaking the marriage contract. My wife wanted Eleanor out of Toledo until the wedding, which was a perfect excuse to bring her to Seville. I can see no reason, barring pregnancy, why Eleanor could not continue to serve you even after she is married.”
“Do you not? Surely your son will want his wife to stay at home?”
“Felipe will want what he is told to want, lordship.”
It seemed to Eleanor that Don Felipe’s parents made a lot of assumptions about their son. “He did not appear so weak-willed to me,” she said frankly.
Albuquerque looked at her in surprise, though his eyes remained dead and expressionless.
“Independence of character, indeed,” he said dryly. “There are not many who would dare to speak so openly in front of me. I may have work for you. There is an element of danger, but if you are careful and curb that tongue of yours, you should come to no harm.”
He looked slyly at Don Fernandez. “I feel sure your guardian here will raise no objection to what I have in mind. Were you to fail, and be killed, he would be free to marry his son into a more noble family.”
The old knight stiffened, but said nothing. Eleanor despised his cowardice. “What work, lordship?” she said, “I am not afraid.”
“You may be aware that our young King has two half-brothers, Fadrique and Enrique, the sons of his father’s mistress, Leonor. Both have decided to be thorns in my side. Don Enrique in particular considers that he has an equally valid claim to the throne, and secretly married a lady for whom I had other plans. That is by the way. What concerns you is that he is currently in the town of Algeciras, attempting to stir up rebellion. Algeciras is a valuable port, and cannot be lost to the pretender.”
He leaned forward and laced his fingers together. “I need someone to enter the town undetected, sound out the burghers about their loyalties, and then bring a report back to me. Don Enrique and his supporters are suffered to lodge inside Algeciras, but the extent of their support is unclear. The situation calls for someone no-one would suspect of being a royal envoy.”
He looked her up and down again. “Such as, for instance, a fourteen-year old girl. Well, madam, what do you say? Are you up to the task?”
Eleanor now realized that both men regarded her as interesting but expendable. She was learning fast, however, and refrained from saying so.
“Absolutely, lord,” she replied.
Albuquerque was a ruthless man, but not ruthless enough to dispatch an untried young girl on a dangerous mission without protection. He assigned her a bodyguard, a tall, comely, fair-haired young man with eyes like two chips of ice.
Don Fernandez introduced her to Martin the morning after the interview with the Chancellor. They met in Fernandez’s suite of rooms high in the palace, a large but windowless chamber, secure against prying eyes and ears.
“Martin here will look after you,” Fernandez assured her, “he may be young, but he is a lethal swordsman, and has many kills to his name. You will be safe in his hands.”
“Although,” he added, swinging around to address the young man himself, who was leaning against a wall with his arms folded and a lazy smile on his handsome face, “you are to take that as a figure of speech, nothing more, do you hear me? Eleanor is my son’s fiancée and I want her returned as pure and uncorrupted as she is now.”
Martin stifled a yawn and stretched out his long, vigorous limbs, putting Eleanor in mind of a great cat. “Her purity is safe with me,” he said in a soft, musical voice, “and I shall endeavour to shield her from corruption. Never fear, old man. I am aware of my excesses, but keep them on a tight leash.”
Don Fernandez scowled, clearly not convinced. “See that you do,” he mumbled, and turned back to study Eleanor’s disguise for the journey. Albuquerque had decreed that she should travel dressed as a Carmelite nun, which would reduce the likelihood of her being molested on the road. Martin would travel as her servant, and if questioned would say that he was a soldier employed by Eleanor’s convent to see that his young mistress reached Algeciras safely, where she had a message for a sister convent.
Eleanor felt cumbersome and ridiculous in the heavy brown robes and wimple of a nun, but did not complain. She was a quick learner, and realised the importance of curbing her tongue and learning the part of a demure, unworldly novice.
“Good,” said Fernandez after he had inspected her, “most convincing. Remember to keep your eyes downcast and speak seldom. If you must speak, let your words be few and courteous.”
“She looks like a whore in a nun’s outfit,” said Martin in a sneering tone. “I know her type. There’s something wanton about the eyes. You can’t mask it.”
Don Fernandez’s long face suffused with rage, and he spun around, clapping a hand to the sword at his hip. For a long moment the two men eyeballed each other. Martin was all smirking insouciance, his lithe body flowing perfectly into a fencer’s stance, while the old Caballero stood trembling and uncertain. He had barely drawn his sword an inch, and just a glimmer of steel was visible above the silver-mounted scabbard.
“Are you going to draw on me, then?” Martin mocked, “I would love to see you try, you old corpse.”
Eleanor wondered if she should intervene. She carried a blade of her own, a slender poniard tucked discreetly inside her skirts. Her father and brother had taught her how to defend herself with a knife, reasoning that it may come in useful in such an unstable, lawless realm as Castile. Her long brown fingers curled about the smooth wooden grip.
Stupid, she chided herself, what good can you do? Are you going to step between them and knock up their blades?
In the event, such a course wasn’t necessary. Fernandez’s hand fell away from his sword and he stepped back, the angry red spots on his sallow cheeks fading. Martin made a contemptuous noise and whisked his blades back into their scabbards.
“Now that mummer’s farce is over,” he said, suddenly all briskness, “we should be about our work. Since you can no longer play the part of a knight, Fernandez, play that of a groom and go prepare the horses.”
Eleanor’s hand gripped her poniard again. Surely the old man wouldn’t swallow a second insult?
There was no spark of defiance this time. Wordlessly, Fernandez shuffled away in the direction of the stairs, his head bowed and tears sparkling in his eyes.
“Well, he was crushed easily enough,” Martin said, winking at her, “if only they were all so spineless.”
Eleanor wondered at his meaning, but her new-found caution forbade her to ask.
5.
The journey from Seville to Algeciras was largely uneventful, thanks in no small measure to Martin’s intimidating presence. More than one youthful Hidalgo or troop of ballesteros passed them on the dusty road, and made lustful eyes at the pretty young novice perched side-saddle on her plodding mule. Martin discouraged any further advances by lightly touching one of the butcher’s tools hanging from his saddle. He added to his air of menace by wearing a white hood that concealed much of his face, save for his neatly-trimmed golden beard and white teeth that flashed in a dangerous grin.
The port town of Algeciras lay on the tip of the southern coast of Spain, less than fifty miles south-east from Seville. Martin was mounted on a strong, high-spirited gelding, and horse and rider chafed at the slow pace set by Eleanor’s mule.
“We could reach Algeciras inside a few hours, were it not for that sorry creature,” he complained. The mule’s head drooped further, as if in silent apology.
Eleanor shrugged. “There’s no rush,” she replied, “and I need the time to ponder Albuquerque’s instructions.”
Martin snorted, and galloped away up the road. Just when Eleanor thought he was about to disappear over the horizon, he savagely yanked on his reins, forcing his beast to slide to a halt in a cloud of dust.
Ignoring her bodyguard’s theatrics, Eleanor laid her hand on the saddlebag containing the precious letter to the burghers of Algeciras, written and signed by King Pedro himself.
“You should reach the town by tomorrow morning,” Albuquerque had told her, “and I recommend you wait until dusk before entering via the north gate under cover of darkness. Once inside, you will make your way to the mercantile quarter to the house indicated on the map, and beg an audience with the owner of the house, a Jew named Simuel Levi. Levi is in my service. He is a capable man and has contacts with the burghers. Pass the letter I will give you onto him, and he will show it to the relevant parties. Wait for his return and their response, and then hurry back to Seville. Here is the letter.”
The Half-Hanged Man Page 11